Flipping channels and came across an advertisement for some upcoming professional wrestling show brought back some memories and a few observations.
When I was a kid and my biological father was trying to do his part between stints in jail or prison, I used to spend time with him, I guess every other weekend, though it got really sporadic at the end.
We would spend time at my "aunt" Norma's house who lived over by Moody Park, yes the same Moody Park of the riots over Jose Campos Torres. I happened to be there when it happened. The other house, that I remember most was his "mothers". I use "aunt" and "mother" loosely because I have no idea if either of them were who he said.
This house was over off of Lyons. This area also has some "famous" Houston streets like Jensen and Hardy and Elysian. The house was under the over pass of the East Tex freeway. I doubt it still remains but now that I'm back, I will go look one day.
When it rained the water use to flow off the overpass in a water fall right in the front yard on what was then a gravel street. It was a drafty house up on cinder blocks and was very cold in the winter and the window unit never seemed to cool enough in the summer.
There was always a big pot of refried beans on the gas stove and you just heated your own tortilla up on the burner and slapped a spoon full of beans on it.
If you were lucky, you got a quarter to go get a big dill pickle down at the local store or a popsicle when the ice cream truck rolled by.
On a really special day you went to the panaderia for panes dulces or sweet breads. We always ordered the pan de huevo or eggbread with sugar. My "cousins" use to all tell me I had to order the "blanco" because I had the lightest skin. They all were cheap and simple, yet delicious. Life was, at this level, very simple.
It was not simple from a different aspect, this was a different world for me than the suburb my mother and step dad had moved to when I was in the first grade. It was urban and I was required to look the part of hispanic heritage, my "room" had a big Mexican flag in it and I was wearing khakis and white T-shirts.
My dad had a car, I think, or he borrowed one to come get me, but we took busses quite a bit, occassionally my "uncle" Pepe ( yes, thats right Pepe) and I would hop a train and head into down town. He would say "let's go" take about three strides grab the ladder and turn an arm towards me. I would be running as fast as I could, listening to the grinding metal on metal as the wheels turned on the steel tracks. It seemed I would never get there but eventually, I would grab his hand and he would pull me up onto the ladder.
Who knows how fast we were going as we blew through intersections and people in their cars were staring. Then it seemed he always knew where the slow down was and he would just say "jump" and we would jump off. He landing on his feet like a cat, and I of course falling and rolling.
I think my mother would have died if she had known what I was up to. Hell, I'd be scared to hop a train now, but we did it back then with no second thought. Seems we always ended up at some "head shop" in Market Square, just across from the old Pink Pussycat. Pepe would always tell me that one day he woould "sneak me in there."
Once I hit 18, I drove from my suburb and went there on my own accord, just because I had no idea where Pepe or my dad was at this time. The building , business and dancers were all a bit of a disappoinment, downtown was not the destination spot it is now.
On the really good weekends, either he or my dad, my dad went if he was not shooting up heroin, would take me to the Sam Houston Coliseum to watch professional wrestling. I loved wrestling! The Colisuem was dark, dank and musty and our seats where always near the top where the sweet smell of cannibus filled the air, no one up there gave two shits and since smoking was legal, it was just another glowing ember in the cheap seats where all the smoke gathered. Pepe and my dad would toke it up and pass the joint to whoever was to their left and right. The whole scene was just total disregard for any concept of right and wrong, certainly not the envrionment back in Alief.
I liked the white redneck type wrestlers, the Funk Brothers, Dusty Rhodes and the Von Erichs. Chief Wahoo Mcdaniel was awesome as was the champ at the time Jack Briscoe who had a sweet figure 4 leglock.
I liked the promoter from Houston as well Paul Bosch, he was a legendary old timer with cauliflower ears, sometimes he put his trunks back on and silenced the young kids.
Since the crowd in the cheap seats was mostly hispanic I had to root for Jose Lothario, supposedly a champion boxer from mexico with a nasty right hook and the original Luche Libre / masked wrestler from Mexico, the high flying Mil Mascaras.
Wrestling has its own unique languange. A shoot is something that was real, it was always rumored that if during an interview something unscripted happened that it was a "shoot" or real. A work was typically something that happened in the ring. The "script" if you will of the event in the ring, so if someone gets clubbed and knocked out in the ring it was a "work" or not real.
We spent much time during the matches and after debating what was a work or what was a shoot.
There are also names for the roles of wrestlers. A face or babyface is the good guy, the one the crowd roars and cheers for and they typcially have the largest following.
A tweener is someone who can do bad things but then baby face to the crowd and they still like him or a babyface who does wrong but for whatever reason the fans still like him.
Then there is the heel. The heel can be a wrestler, manager, sidekick or "diva" who incites the ire of the fans, enrages everyone with despicable actions. From handing a wrestler a razor blade, to stomping on flowers that belong to a little girl, to smashing a chair on someones head,fighting with those at ringside as well, the heel is despised by all.
In a strange way, wrestling is a bit like life. I tried for most of my life to be the babyface, win the crowd, do the right thing,make everyone happy, take the hard right over the easy wrong. But there are days lately that I feel like the heel. I won't go into detail. Perhaps, if i had grown to stature and been able to follow that pre-pubescent, early puberty years dream of wrestling and got in the ring, I would have ended up a tweener.
Occassionaly, the babyface acts like the heel but its rare that a true heel becomes the babyface.
While pulling into a parking lot in an apartment complex, I hit a cadillac as the Tundra is such a big truck it becomes difficult to park. No damage to me, but a bit to the caddy. It was about 9:30, dark and rainy, no one was around. I could have pulled out and parked elsewhere, no one would have known, I contemplated it.
I left a note with my cell number on the car.
The next morning I was called by a 72 year old african american lady who was a care giver for an even more elderly woman. I asked her if she would get some estimates, I would probably just pay cash. Turns out Cadillacs are expensive to repair and currently, it was more than I could part with, so I called my insurance company with her information and had her do the same to file the claim.
I ran into her the other day, she told me that she was very thankful for what I did,that she told the insurance company how sweet I was and how helpful. She continued to thank me profusely and told me god was gonna bless me. She told stories of how her other car had been hit numerous times and no one ever said anything. I told her it was the right thing to do and that is what insurance is for.
As I was walking off, she said "Mr. Wesley, it takes a real man with a good heart to do what you did, a real man, I hope god blesses you."
Perhaps a babyface after all.
Jurena..Out
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