The WWF is Coming to Town (Part Two)

This month the B5 Sports Channel is compiling a set of sports memories. Part One appeared on Thursday. Here Part Two.

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A match had just ended and my dad disappeared into the bowels of the ancient arena, back to where the wrestlers’ walk to the ring began. He was checking on something. He soon snuck his head out and waved for me to come over. He was with another man, the local person he knew that was involved with the WWF.

That local person was a doctor, George Zahorian, a name that might ring a bell for wrestling fans. He turned to me and asked the question any ten-year-old would want to hear, “Would you like to meet some of the wrestlers?” I squeaked out an excited yes. The doctor told us to follow him.

As we walked down the dingy corridor towards an anonymous wooden door I bristled with anticipation. Outside the door, propped against the wall’s corner stood a dirty Iranian flag. “That’s the Iron Shiek’s flag,” I thought, “this is it!”

When Dr. Zahorian opened the door I snuck a peak inside to see Jimmy Snuka in his trunks playing a card game against “Dr. D” David Schultz and Don Muraco. Don Muraco! Weren’t they mortal enemies! My world view had suddenly changed.

The first wrestler that the doctor brought out was Mr. Fuji. He asked my dad what he did and replied, “My brother is an attorney too back in Hawaii. That’s where I’m from.” Mr. Fuji wasn’t from Japan? Double gasp. We talked for a few minutes, telling us about his life and family. I couldn’t believe how nice and kind this evil, evil, man was? Hadn’t he just thrown salt in someone’s eyes?

Three more wrestlers came out to meet us: Tony Atlas, “Dr. D” David Schultz, and Muraco. They all were so sweet and so caring and so nice, especially Dr. D who, just a few months later, would attack a 20/20 reporter and get thrown out of the WWF. No. That wasn’t the Dr. D I met. I knew him as a great, giant guy who asked about my little league team and wanted to know how school was going.

My dad and I returned to Hersheypark Arena the next month when the WWF returned with an even bigger lineup but it wasn’t the same. More people were there, we didn’t go backstage, and the magic had disappeared just a little bit. These guys weren’t superheros, they were laborers with a difficult, painful jobs and good hearts. Their foreheads were full of scars, their arms and legs were full of canvas burns, they walked with limps, and they looked tired. From afar their costumes were beautiful and glamorous but up close they were torn, battered from overuse, and on their last legs.

I could never see them again with the same pre-event idolatry. My innocence was gone. They were human beings like me and my dad; they weren’t superheroes and they weren’t invincible. That second set of matches would be our last. We didn’t even return when Saturday Night’s Main Event was filmed there; we even missed a live Piper’s Pit!

I’m still a little sad that I never got to meet Superfly Snuka but that doesn’t stop my fond nostalgia and just because I saw what’s behind the curtain hasn’t spoiled my love for pro wrestling.

Pro wrestling is still fun and entertaining and exciting but it will never be as wonderful as it was before Hersheypark when I watched Jimmy Snuka jump from the top of a 15-foot steel cage and Superfly Smash Don Muraco. Nothing will ever top that.