Don’t Think Twice 07.19.08: My Back Pages, Part I

Good and bad, I defined these terms,
Quite clear, no doubt, somehow.
Oh, but I was so much older then,
I’m younger than that now.
– My Back Pages by Bob Dylan

I’ve long been fascinated with the question of how we become fans of professional wrestling, and once indoctrinated, why we continue to be fans of professional wrestling. And I think one of the reasons that I’m so intrigued by the concept of being a fan of professional wrestling is that I’ve had the chance to see just how unique it is in the broader scope of fandom. I’m Chicago born and Chicago bred, having lived there for the first eighteen years of my life, from 1979 to 1997. And when you grew up in Chicago in the 80’s and 90’s, being a fan was a way of life. You were a Bears fan in the 80’s. You were a Bulls fan in the 90’s. You were a Cubs fan each season, always waiting for the next. In fact, I’m fairly sure that it would have taken considerable work just to resist the wave of fandom that swept over the city, a high tide that could last for years at a time. Walter Payton, Mike Ditka, Michael Jordan, and Phil Jackson weren’t just athletes and coaches in Chicago. They were royalty. And so I know what it’s like when being a fan is easy. When being a fan is expected. When being a fan is the norm. And maybe that’s the one thing that has allowed me to truly appreciate how difficult it is to be a fan of professional wrestling.

Being a fan of professional wrestling is not easy. It’s not expected. It’s not the norm. You can’t become a fan of professional wrestling simply by letting the tide gently wash over you. You have to make a choice. You have to fight to defend that choice. And then you have to keep making that choice, week after week, month after month, year after year, every time that you’re assaulted with a new reason to walk away. Sometimes the assault comes from the outside, from family and friends and media who could never understand. And sometimes the assault comes from the inside, from the very industry that we love, from grown men simulating sex with mannequins and nonsensical reverse battle royals. And so as I said, I’ve long been fascinated with the question of how we first make the choice to become fans of professional wrestling and why we continue to make that choice time and time again. Of course, there is no single answer to these questions. In fact, the answer is almost certainly a bit different for every fan. But I’d still like to try to explore these questions and maybe tug at some of the common threads that run through many of our answers. And I suppose that means that it’s finally time to try and answer these questions for myself.

There is no way to tell the tale of my life as a fan of professional wresting without first saying a few words about my father and my grandfather. Like many of you, in many ways I’m a fan today because of my father and my grandfather. But the three of us never sat around watching the matches. We never went down to the local high school gym or VFW hall to catch a show. Things were a bit different in my family. Professional wrestling was forbidden. It was taboo. And so, as is often the case with such taboo subjects, I became fascinated with it.

My grandfather, Lou Slimmer, was an incredible athlete and coach. While in high school in Millville, New Jersey, he and his brothers led their varsity football team to an undefeated season. But the most impressive stat that year was the cumulative season score that was engraved on the back of the small football pendants that each player received at the end of the season. 301 – 0. They had held their opponents scoreless. The entire season. The Slimmer boys were a force to be reckoned with on the football field. My grandfather was then recruited to play football here at the University of Illinois, and during the 1923 and 1924 seasons he played alongside one of the greatest college football players of all time, Red Grange. Illinois went 8 – 0 in 1923 and was the co-national champion along with Michigan, which also went 8 – 0 that year. A year later, on October 18, 1924, Illinois and Michigan met in the first game ever held at Illinois’ new Memorial Stadium. Seventy years before the advent of the BCS, the two teams that had been undefeated and shared the national championship a year earlier met to settle the score. The game was more or less over in the first quarter. In one of the greatest performances in college football history, Red Grange scored four touchdowns in the first twelve minutes, more than Michigan had allowed in the previous two seasons combined. Red played left half back on those teams in the early 20’s, and my grandfather played left guard. He was the guy that cleared the track for the runaway train that was Red Grange. Over the years, I’ve often heard it said that Red Grange may be the greatest open field runner of all time. My grandfather often heard that as well. And every time, his reply would be the same. “Greatest open field runner of all time? Yeah, because it was my job to make sure the field was open for him.” Eighty years later, I think it’s safe to admit that most of the credit for Grange’s success should go to Grange himself. But it’s hard to fault my grandfather for staking his claim to some small piece of that glory.

After graduation, my grandfather became a high school physical education instructor. I truly believe that he was the gym teacher upon which every evil gym teacher cliché is based. Over the years, various members of my family have, from time to time, met a few of my grandfather’s former students. They all remembered him. They all remembered him very clearly. And they all remembered him in nearly the exact same way. “Lou Slimmer? He was the meanest man I ever met in my entire life.” Now to be fair, that was not the Lou Slimmer that I knew as a child. He had long been retired by the time I was born, and I remember him as a much kinder, gentler man. But the tales of his infamous days as a gym teacher have been recounted far too often and far too consistently for me to doubt their validity. I’m just glad that I was born too late for him to ever make me run laps.

My grandfather spent the majority of his career as a physical education instructor at Proviso East High School in Maywood, Illinois. Proviso East has a long and proud athletic history, having produced players such as Doc Rivers, Michael Finley, and future Illinois standout Dee Brown. My grandfather coached the football team and found sporadic success, but he did have the chance to mentor one of Proviso East’s most famous graduates. My grandfather was Ray Nitschke’s high school football coach. And let me tell you, as a young Bears fan in the 80’s, it took me quite some time to come to terms with the fact that my grandfather played a part in unleashing upon the world one of the most fearsome Green Bay Packers of all time. But while my grandfather always took pride in having coached the young Nitschke, his greatest successes would come not on the football field, but on the wrestling mat.

Lou Slimmer was one of the first high school wrestling coaches in the state of Illinois, and he played a large role in popularizing the sport across the state. He is, in many ways, the father of high school wrestling in Illinois. His wrestling team won the very first Illinois state championship in 1937, followed by six more state championships in the next eight years. The National Wrestling Hall of Fame later presented him with the Lifetime Service to Wrestling Award. For many years, my grandfather lived and breathed high school wrestling. Amateur wrestling. “Real wrestling,” as he would so often call it. Now I’m not saying that my grandfather was Dan Gable or anything like that. But he was a rather successful high school wrestling coach who gained some degree of notoriety around the state. And he was a man that truly, deeply loved wresting.

Of course, all of that happened long before I was born. My grandfather retired in 1964 and, along with my grandmother, moved to northern Wisconsin, to a little cabin on a lake just outside of Hayward. And so the Lou Slimmer that I knew was somewhat removed from those glory days on the field and the mat. But he was still an impressive man, solid and powerful, even if he was a step slower and a tad grayer than he had been in the past. I have trouble properly describing him to most people, but luckily those of you reading this column are wrestling fans. And much to my surprise, last year I saw my grandfather on a professional wrestling DVD. Or at least I saw a man who reminded me so much of my grandfather that it sent chills down my spine. Lou Slimmer was a dead ringer for a later day Fritz Von Erich. As I sat watching the incredibly powerful Heroes of World Class DVD last year, I was in awe during a particular scene in which Fritz was being interviewed at his ranch, explaining how one or more of his sons would some day be World Champion. If you want a mental image of Lou Slimmer, then use Fritz Von Erich as your template.

I’ve taken the time to explain my grandfather’s accomplishments and his impressive, nearly intimidating physical presence, so that you might glean some sense of the impact he might make upon a small boy, of the impact that he still has upon me today, more that a decade after his death. He was a man that knew wrestling. He lived it and he loved it. And when this rock, this mountain of a man, spoke of wrestling, you believed what he said. And what he said, time and time again, was that there was only one kind of wrestling. There was only one true wrestling. Amateur wrestling. “Real wrestling,” as he would so often call it.

My grandfather hated professional wrestling. But maybe hate is too strong a word. He had a great disdain for professional wrestling, and he was unflinchingly intolerant of it, but saying that he hated it would suggest a level of emotion and conviction which he was unwilling to devote to something that he regarded as so totally worthless. As a child, my parents and I spent every summer up at his cabin in Wisconsin. And during those many summers in the 80’s, as the family would gather in the small living room overlooking the bay, from time to time my grandfather would stumble upon a professional wrestling match as he roamed from channel to channel. I can’t remember the specifics of any single match, for we seldom lingered there for more than a few seconds at a time. Only long enough for my grandfather to sneer a bit, sometimes long enough for him to explain that this was not the sport that he loved. More than anything, I think he wanted me to understand that he had never been a part of what he clearly regarded as a mockery of wrestling. He never wanted me to associate him with something so cheap and tawdry.

And yet, as much as I’m sure it would upset him to no end, while researching this column I ran across a web page that filled me with wonder and pride. There is a fascinating archive of all things Chicago at www.encyclopedia.chicagohistory.org. And under the topic of wrestling, there are a mere four paragraphs detailing the history of wrestling in and around Chicago. The first paragraph focuses on the legacy of George Hackenschmidt and Frank Gotch, the two men that put professional wrestling on the map in this country, and on their famous match in front of 30,000 fans at Comisky Park. And then, mere sentences later, this web page goes on to chronicle the successful coaching career of one Lou Slimmer. To see my grandfather mentioned in the same breath as Hackenschmidt and Gotch was one of the true joys of my life as a fan of professional wrestling. And I’m sure my grandfather is rolling over in his grave.

Some twenty years after those summers by the bay, with a bit more perspective and a much greater knowledge of the industry, I deeply regret that my grandfather never gave professional wrestling a chance. Because I now truly believe that my grandfather did not have such disdain and intolerance for professional wrestling, by rather for his perception of professional wrestling. He saw professional wrestling as an underhanded attempt to profit from the degradation of the sport that he loved, and as such he never allowed himself to find out what the industry was really about. He never opened himself up to the possibility that professional wrestling was not a vile imitation of amateur wrestling, but rather something of a tribute to it. An outgrowth of it. An art form that had evolved from a sport. And to be sure, if my grandfather had ever taken the time to try and understand professional wrestling, there would certainly have been aspects of the industry that he would not have enjoyed. Lou Slimmer would never have been a fan of “Superstar” Billy Graham or Hulk Hogan. But I have a feeling that given the chance, he just might have enjoyed watching Lou Thesz. Maybe he would have appreciated the skill of Jack Brisco. Maybe he would have understood Verne Gagne’s vision of the industry. And maybe he would have seen a bit of himself in Fritz Von Erich.

But none of that was meant to be. Instead my grandfather, a man so closely linked to one aspect of wrestling, would never even allow himself to explore its more theatrical side. But perhaps the strangest part of this story is not that my grandfather never wanted me to watch professional wrestling, but rather that my father actually agreed with him. Because that may be the sole instance I can recall of those two men ever agreeing on anything. As is often the case with fathers and sons, my father and my grandfather never quite saw eye to eye on a great many subjects. I never truly asked why this was, nor was I ever given much in the way of an explanation. They got along well enough, and as I said, my parents and I spent every summer up at my grandparents’ cabin. But there was always the underlying understanding that my father and my grandfather were very different men.

Perhaps more than anywhere else, the difference between my father and my grandfather was epitomized by their views on academics and athletics. As I’ve explained, my grandfather was both a lover and a supporter of athletics. As a teacher he certainly understood the value of academics, but his heart would always be with athletics. He was instrumental in the installation of a military style obstacle course in the basement of the field house at Proviso East. He ran gym class like it was basic training. And then there was my father, who always put academics before athletics. Like his father, my father became a teacher, but he chose biology instead of physical education. And while it would be unfair to say that my father disliked athletics, he always regarded the brain as the most powerful muscle in the body. I’m not sure if my father ever saw Rocky, but if he did, then he surely agreed with Apollo Creed’s words of advice. “Stay in school and use your brain. Be a doctor, be a lawyer, carry a leather briefcase. Forget about sports as a profession. Sports make ya grunt and smell. See, be a thinker, not a stinker.” And as such, my father forbid me to watch professional wrestling.

This was a much stronger edict than any ever handed down by my grandfather. While my grandfather truly just wanted me to understand the difference between the sport that he loved and the frivolity that he saw on television, my father actually believed that there was harm to be done by watching large, muscular, sweaty men beating on each other. In essence, my grandfather didn’t want me to watch professional wrestling because it was too little like a real sport, and my father forbid me to watch professional wrestling because it was too much like a real sport. Thus, while my father and my grandfather differed even in their reasoning, they both agreed that I was not to watch professional wrestling.

And so I was raised to believe that professional wrestling was taboo. And as is so often the case with childhood taboos, I gradually grew to be fascinated by it. What was it really all about? Was it real, or was it fake? And how could two such different men both agree that it was to be avoided? Had things gone differently, I might never had the chance to find the answers to those questions. But my father died when I was only eleven years old, and my grandfather followed a few years later. I did not immediately become the die-hard fanatic that I am today, but in the years that followed I slowly began watching more and more professional wrestling. I had missed the Hogan Era and the Flair Era, but I began to become acquainted with new stars who I found even more intriguing. The Undertaker. Diesel. Razor Ramon. Bret Hart. And Shawn Michaels. These would be the men that held the door for me as I took my first tentative steps into the world of professional wrestling.

But now, all these years later, I’m left to wonder what role my father and my grandfather played in shaping my life as a fan of professional wrestling. I suppose that I must at least allow for the possibility that my love of the industry is, at its deepest roots, still a form of rebellion against my forefathers. Some sons choose sex. Some choose drugs. Some choose rock and roll. Maybe I simply chose professional wrestling as my statement of defiance. But to accept that possibility would be to say that my love of professional wrestling is somehow tainted by the fact that it was born out of spite. It would be to say that I love not the industry, but rather the statement I make by seeming to love the industry. And that is a concession that I’m simply not willing to make. Because through all of the trials and tribulations, through all of the nonsense and foolishness, through all of the bad booking and screw jobs, the one thing that I’ve never doubted is the truth of my love of this industry. So I choose to believe that while my father and my grandfather may have inadvertently sparked my curiosity in professional wrestling, it was professional wrestling itself that made me a fan. I choose to believe that I am a fan not because of spite, not because of rebelliousness, and not because of my father and grandfather. I choose to believe that I am a fan because I love professional wrestling.

At the beginning of this column I set out to find why I’m a fan of professional wrestling, but the story that I’ve told thus far has really only been of all the reasons that I was never supposed to be a fan in the first place. The story of how I became a fan, the story of how my love of G. I. Joe (a boy’s toy) introduced me to a wrestling marine and how a show stopper (a boy toy) captured my imagination, is a story for another time. So I’ll see you back here next weekend as I continue to turn my back pages.