Morgan Shannon

Chato Guerroro knows how to wrestle Olympic-style.

In San Diego, Los Angeles, and Bakersfield, while Elvis Presley was rocking and rolling and foam dice swayed inside customized Chevys, when there were sock hops and kids went steady, there was also Gorgeous George, Mister Moto, The Destroyer, and Tricky Ricky Star. For thousands they were as familiar as Dobie Gillis and Sugar Pops.

Like all wrestling characters, tag teams are either princes or goons.

Morgan Shannon

They were athletes, and they were actors. And they came into countless homes each week along with locker-room interviews, grudge matches, screaming car salesmen, mysterious death grips, and unpredictable ringside mobs politely known as fans. It was the Golden Age of professional wrestling, and Gorgeous George had the curly blond locks, bank account, and boundless ego to prove it. Wrestling as very lucrative entertainment had found a home on television.

But the superstars of televised wrestling seem to have disappeared. Overexposure and increasingly expensive air time helped to sour the milk and honey.

These former superstars may be hawking used cars themselves now, or working in the booking end of the business. They aren’t in the ring under the lights anymore. It is, by and large, a young man’s sport anyway.

Televised wrestling came to an end in San Diego last fall when XETV cancelled its Saturday re-runs of fights which originated in an old downtown arena. The San Diego Coliseum at 15th and E Streets was built in 1924 as a showcase for boxing. It has had plenty of ups and downs, and wrestling was added to the bill in an effort to boost sagging profits. It didn’t.

These days the building shows its age—peeling paint, a pane of glass missing here and there. The wooden bleachers and bare light-bulbs inside are clearly from another era. A faint odor of sweat seems to hang perpetually in the air. Despite appearances, the building is not a dusty museum piece. It manages just a spark of life each Tuesday night.

Veteran promoter Mickey Davies, who has had the wrestling concession here for three years, recently threw in the towel. He lost over $30,000 last year alone. Skyrocketing television costs have ended the broadcasts, and without the advertising it’s impossible to attract profitable crowds. So, the lease has passed to a Los Angeles promoter, Michael LaBell, who hopes to revive the declining attendance. As it is, the crowds are smaller, and the ticket prices higher. But the faithful will be there, Tuesdays, when the bell rings in another frantic night of professional wrestling.

Chato Guerroro sits in the bleachers talking about this strange way of life. At 27 he is an immensely popular wrestler and admits to being a freak of sorts in a profession full of odd characters. For one thing, he’s a college graduate. For another, he knows how to wrestle Olympic-style, having attended the University of Texas, El Paso, on an athletic scholarship. A steady stream of young fans passes him by.

“You kill him tonight, huh Chato?”

Enjoying the attention, he doesn’t seem to fit the role. He’s thoughtful, articulate, relaxed, almost gentle. In the ring in two hours, he’ll be a terror. He was born in Mexico City, the son of a much travelled and highly paid professional wrestler, Gory Guerrero. The family moved to Juarez in 1963, and the elder Guererro began to phase out his wrestling dates and concentrated on promoting, coaching young Chato at the same time. The practice paid off when the university across the Rio Grande offered him a chance at college.

A program is thrust under his nose by a little fan whose beaming father stands nearby. Chato takes a pen and scribbles his autograph for the youngster, who forgets to thank him. He’s poised and confident, and likes to count his blessings.

“Seventy percent of the wrestlers are uneducated. I’ve got an advantage. Also, I’m bilingual and that helps. The others would rather wrestle than get out with a pick and shovel. I don’t blame them.”

After college he coached high school wrestling in El Paso for three years, producing a squad of champions. On weekends he’d slip out and climb into the ring to earn some extra money and learn the trade. Last year, when he decided to forgo teaching and pursue professional wrestling, his father, three times a world champion, had some advice.

“He told me, ‘Forget completely everything you know about wrestling.’ It’s nothing like Olympic-style. You’ve got to know how to fall and roll, how to play the ropes. My father broke three ribs a couple of years ago when the ropes got him the wrong way.”

He has done a good job of forgetting, for in less than a year he’s developed a huge following in California. His booking agency in Hollywood gives him a handsome percentage of the gate receipts and as many matches as he wants. The California circuit pays him well now, but he realizes that sooner or later the fans will tire of him and he’ll be forced to move on, probably back to Texas.

In the ring his style is unusually straightforward.

“Everybody who performs under lights, boxer, actor, has got to have some kind of a show. I give the people my best moves. I’m like a cat. You toss me and I’ll always land on my feet. But I don’t need a gimmick. Others who don’t know how to wrestle can still make over $30,000 a year for a good show. People pay for a good show.”

Besides Chato, Coliseum regulars include such crowd-pleasers as Choi Sun, humble master of Oriental martial arts. There’s also Hiroshima Joe, Sir Oliver Humperdink, and The Infernos. Often there will be a traveling star like East Coast champ, Bruno Sammartino, or former San Diego Charger, Ernie Ladd. Less frequently, but with appropriate fanfare, there will be midgets, women, and once or twice a year, Andre the Great Giant (“the eighth wonder of the world”). At seven feet, five inches and 460 pounds, Andre makes relatively quick work of hapless challengers, and is guaranteed to pack the house.

They gather, these large men in tight pants, under the glare of overhead lights and ply their unusual trade to the roars of supremely loyal fans. In fact, wrestling’s equation would not be complete without the antics and enthusiasm of the crowd. Every imaginable group is represented, from infants to spirited grandparents. Among the more uninhibited are the women. It’s not uncommon to see a couple of them, wild with rage, storm the ring shouting for blood and justice. There are also the men who pride themselves on sound effects. Wherever you sit, you’re bound to be close to one who feels obligated to moan and wheeze with each bone-crunching jab.

If there is one thing common to all these people, it’s the predisposition to exercise free speech. And frequently, more than vocal chords are flexed. Although projectiles are severely frowned upon (no cans or bottles permitted inside), a particularly nasty wrestler may elicit a barrage of paper cups and crushed ice. On warm evenings large quantities of beer are sold, and there are occasions when a sporting fan, overcome with both excitement and courage, will attempt to take matters into his own hands. Roving security guards somehow anticipate such events. They’ll make their way down to the ring just as the emotional level begins to swing out of control. The overall effect—the continual surges dangerously close to riot—is exhilarating and just a little frightening.

That professional wrestling is at least as much theater as sport seems to be taken for granted. It’s difficult, though, to find anyone close to the action willing to discuss it at length. There is an obvious monetary need to be flamboyant and entertaining. But endurance, strength, and coordination are essential. Still, no one believes everything they see. A knee drop from atop the supporting post would crush a man’s neck, yet it’s done almost routinely. The real wonder is that there aren’t more injuries. There are broken ribs, twisted ankles, face lacerations, and crumpled noses; but they are almost always accidents. The wrestlers may not be chummy back in the locker room, but they generally respect each other’s right to make a living. (A physician is present at all fights just in case.)

Far more important than credibility is the aspect of drama. Though the cast of players changes somewhat from week to week, the plot remains constant. It is a morality play: the forces of good versus the forces of evil. The outcome may not always please the purists, but there is plenty of righteous indignation to cleanse the soul.

Like the adventures of Eliot Ness and The Lone Ranger, professional wrestling is composed of heroes and villains. In fact, there is virtually no middle ground, and the cultivation of a distinct image, good or evil, is very important. Nothing demonstrates this rule more clearly than a visit to the dressing room. Most auditoriums partition the area to facilitate the uneasy truce which exists off stage. In San Diego, however, the room is wide open, and the “heels” and “baby faces,” as they’re known, are forced to make do as best they can. Locker room fights are apparently not uncommon, and it’s always the good guys against the bad guys. Back there, it’s the real thing, though. Agents and promoters are especially wary of tempers rising to a boil anywhere but on the mat.

Playing the heavy can sometimes be more profitable in the long run, and many men wear hoods and masks, a sinister touch which confirms their wickedness and inflames the passions. Lest there be any confusion for the new fan, the heroes are the ones signing autographs and the villains are those dodging insults and missiles. So successfully have certain wrestlers created an aura of evil about them, they often require a wedge of police for safety.

Like the melodrama it mimics, the emotional level of the fights rises and falls all night, steadily building to a gratifying climax.

When the huge arena darkens and the announcer steps onto the bleached white mat, it doesn’t matter that the public address system garbles so it’s impossible to understand him. His presence center stage signals the beginning of festivities.

The opening matches are warmups, men who haven’t yet attained star status. They have two jobs to perform: liven up the crowd for the big guns, and wrestle themselves into a higher price bracket. There is a lot of teasing and taunting—false starts which draw the audience into the action. They may hem and haw for minutes on end until the crowd demands action.

The openers can be painfully dull, and in such situations the referee’s experience and talent can save the night. His guidance sets the pace of the early matches, all of them appetizers gobbled up in anticipation of the well publicized main course. He’s actually a director or conductor, interceding for emphasis or timing. He can end a slow, uninteresting fight by quickly slapping the mat three times when a wrestler’s shoulders are down. If it’s an especially zesty one, he’ll somehow miss that third count over and over again. He can turn the other way while a favorite is being brutal-ally victimized by an illegal hold. When the crowd, driven mad by his calculated incompetence, finally gets him to turn and inspect the action, the hold is released and the rascal on the mat pleads innocence. The ref again turns away and the deadly thumb is immediately plunged into the throat of our hero. On and on it goes, the referee orchestrating the whole affair. The show builds with a ritualistic rhythm; something between vaudeville and a fundamentalist revival.

When sufficient beer and time have been consumed, and the fans have hopefully reached that fever pitch, the stage is set for the main event. In the world of wrestling, where bigger is almost always better, the grand finale is no disappointment. It’s often a tag team match in which opposing two-man teams pay scant attention to rules or the referee. It usually brings down the house.

Like all wrestling characters, tag teams are either princes or goons. One pair, the Hollywood Blonds, have developed an utterly detestable image. Dressed in lace and adorned with delicate flowers, they swish into the ring whispering into each other’s ears. Slowly, provocatively, they remove their silky capes and garish jewelry. It’s more than any self-respecting fan can take. The hoots and curses fly with wild abandon as the Blonds turn a condescending eye to the people who have made them rich. Everyone knows, of course, the two are ruthless, cheating, depraved, mean-tempered scoundrels who will stop at nothing to annihilate their opposition.

With the rules relaxed and emotions high, the tag team match comes close to bedlam. The closer it comes, the better. After the usual preliminaries (dancing, jumping, changing partners), the wrestlers get down to business. Inevitably a favorite is tortured without mercy, the heels working him over gangster-style. He leans and stretches for his partner’s hand, seeking relief from the savage beating he’s taking. With the crowd screaming encouragement, he nearly makes the required contact, but is cruelly yanked away at the last instant. It’s absolutely maddening. When he finally does tag his partner, the villains have hell to pay. A flurry of vicious punches and incredible leaps. The wrath of the oppressed. Justice meted out to the thunderous accompaniment of the delighted multitudes.

Those final chaotic minutes approach the Marx Brothers at their best. Uninvited wrestlers from earlier matches appear out of nowhere to settle old grudges; the referee vainly, comically, tries to maintain order; the fans are on their feet; the bell clangs unheeded; the house lights come up; and the air is filled with crushed ice and paper cups.