This post should probably be filed under an “Embarassing Admission” header, but over the years I’ve accepted this part of my past as something not to be ashamed of. Ok, here goes: between the ages of birth and 12, I was a die-hard professional wrestling fan. I know, crickets (chirp, chirp). But I’ve come to realize that my much-anticipated trips out to the Greenwood Civic Center to see the “wrasslin” were extremely important formative experiences. Now this was mostly back in the 80s, before professional wrestling became the high-drama, steroidal super-sport it is today—it was still a simple (but violent) story of the triumph of good over evil. For instance, the crowd’s chanting “USA, USA, USA!” at the entrance of the “Russian Nightmare” Nikita Koloff became a strange first introduction to late Cold War-era American nationalism.
My first and best memory of going to wrestling is of my Ma Hughes. My great-grandmother on my father’s side is one of the most supremely loving and gentle women I have ever known. She has given me lessons both grand and small, on unconditional kindness and humility, how to smile in sunshine and rain, or what it means to love a pug dog. She has lived on Second Street with my Granny since the 70s, when my Pa Hughes died of lung cancer. Granny happily shared her modest home in a small mill village with both Ma Hughes and her adult son, Barry, who is mentally retarded.
My grandmothers are relatively young—they were 40 and 60 respectively when I was born—and though they were nothing if not protective and even doting, they would practically let me get away with murder compared to my parents. I rode my bike in the road, stayed up late watching Freddy Kreuger films on the weekends (rated R!), and ate Food Lion Neapolitan ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I also owe to them my penchant for television game shows. Countless hours of Chuck Woolery’s Scrabble must have improved my standardized test scores somehow. Anyway, their youthfulness and leniency went a long way in creating a tight-knit relationship with me. I spent as many weekends and summer days with them as my parents would allow. So when wrestling came to town, we would all four pile into the car, probably stop for dinner at Ryan's buffet, then head out to the Civic Center.
On one of the first trips I can remember, I jokingly dared Ma Hughes, who was then in her mid- to late-sixties, to race me across the parking lot. To my surprise, without another thought she took off like someone had fired a starting pistol. Now, believe it or not, I used to be pretty quick and nimble myself, but there was no catching up to her that night. She laughed and laughed and gave me this big hug when we reached the door. I don’t know why that story sticks in my mind so, or why it always, always makes me smile, but it does. These were folks of little means, but they gave me more treasures than I will be able to count in my lifetime. We will celebrate Ma Hughes’s 90th birthday on New Year’s Day next year. In a way I know that she and I are still racing, and that she will still beat me to the finish line, but we’ll both be laughing the whole way.
More on wrestling in a future post.
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