As a kid, there was nothing I enjoyed more than professional wrestling (“rasslin’” for the uninitiated). Living in Jacksonville, my grandfather DC Duren and I always kept a keen eye on the weekly lineup for NWA Championship Wrestling in the Jacksonville Coliseum every Thursday night. 

To find out the lineup, on Saturday at noon we had to watch NWA Championship Wrestling from Florida with everyone’s favorite wrestling announcer, Gordon Solie. 

“This Thursday night, bell time 8:15, NWA Championship Wrestling returns to the Jacksonville Coliseum. This week’s main event — managed by Sir Oliver Humperdinck, the Korean Giant Pak Song faces the American Dream, Dusty Rhodes, in a Texas Bull Rope Match!”

No more needed to be said. This was a clear battle between good and evil and I had to be there. 

You see, Dusty Rhodes was “THE man” in my eyes. The son of a plumber, Dusty had climbed out of hard times to reach the pinnacle of the wrestling world as a white haired, 300-pound embodiment of the American Dream — albeit with a lisp. When he, the Master of the Bionic Elbow, spoke, like the E.F. Hutton commercials, the world stopped to listen. 

“Hard times, Gahdun Tholie,” he one time elocuted. “Hard times are when workers around this country are out of work, they got four or five kids and can’t pay their bills, can’t buy their food. Hard times are when auto workers are out of work and they tell ‘em to go home. And hard times are when a man has worked at a job for thirty years, thirty years, and they give him a watch, kick him in the butt and say ‘hey a computer took your place, daddy’ — that’s hard times! That’s hard times! We’ve all had hard times together, and, I admit, I don’t look like the athlete of the day supposed to look. My belly’s just a lil’ big, my hiney’s a lil’ big, but brother, I am bad! And they know I’m bad! There were two bad men…. One was John Wayne and he’s dead, brother, and the other’s right here!”

When he finished I stood and hollered in approval. He could’ve run for president and I would’ve voted for him if they’d just let 9-year-olds vote. 

So to the coliseum we went, arriving early to get the $2 early general admission tickets. My best friend Danny Nasir, whose family hailed from Syria and ran the neighborhood convenience store, was just as rasslin’ crazed as me and came along (we used to record ourselves on a cassette recorder doing interviews, me imitating Gordon Solie and Danny any number of wrestlers). 

Jack Briscoe (Master of The Figure 4 Leg-Lock), Tony Atlas, Terry Funk (brother of Dory Funk, Jr. Master of The Spinning Toe Hold), The Mongolian Stomper, even midgets were on the bill — but all else was mere fodder compared to that main event.

It was finally time. The Korean Giant Pak Song, The Master of the Iron Claw, and his wretched, orange-haired manager Sir Oliver Humperdinck came out under a tsunami of boos. Pak Song was a terrifying man who wore solid black trunks, clearly accenting his evilness. 

And then, clad in his trademark American flag t-shirt barely covering his much more than lil’ big belly, Dusty Rhodes made his way to the ring, the arena erupting in cheers. In his hand was the Texas bull rope, made to connect the two men so neither could run, with a large cow bell dangling from the middle. 

The match was brutal warfare. Both men clawed and elbowed each other incessantly, all the while Humperdinck bothering the referee — a small, confused man whose sole purpose in life was to keep order in the squared circle. 

Suddenly, Terry Funk emerged. He was evil incarnate because he had gone on television and called Dusty Rhodes “an egg-sucking dog” in clear ear shot of God and everybody else. Inexplicably, the referee, in trying to keep order, got blindsided by Pak Song when he hurled The American Dream into a turn buckle. 

The ref now unconscious, bedlam ensued. 

Cheater he was, Terry Funk pulled a foreign object out of his trunks — a pair of brass knuckles that he proudly showed off to the horrified crowd — and proceeded to pummel poor defenseless Dusty as Pak Song hit him repeatedly with the cowbell.  

The American Dream wilted, his face a crimson mask. 

Assisted by henchman Humperdinck, the referee came to just in time to find The Korean Giant pinning the unconscious American Dream…he counted “1, 2, 3” and it was over. To the jeers of the infuriated mob, the evil trio left the arena, mocking us with their joy. Old women cursed and spat at them, and I was glad they did. 

Beaten and bloody, Dusty Rhodes didn’t move. The Canadian Lumberjack Joe LeDuc came out to help him, but to no avail. Six men finally emerged with a stretcher, heaping Dusty’s massive carcass onto it, and carted him off. 

Sure I had just witnessed the death of The American Dream, I started to cry. “He’s dead,” I sobbed to Danny, who was already weeping. Leaning on each other’s shoulders, we left for the long ride home. Saturday came around, and I tuned in at noon to surely hear the funeral announcement for my hero. Miraculously though, there he was, bandaged but alive.  

“Gahdun Tholie,” he said with a butterfly bandaid on his forehead, “ain’t no giant Korean or egg-thuckin’ dog gonna take me down!” Through tears of joy I exclaimed: “The American Dream is still alive!” At least until the next Thursday night.