Irritate a wrestler at your own risk

While at the Statesman Newspaper in Boise, I was assigned boxing and covered a single pro wrestling event.

The promoter of both boxing and wrestling in Boise was Al Berra, who operated a tavern in the downtown area.

Al was constantly finding ways to build the gate for his events, and of course filling his pockets at the same time.

He had built a stable of pretty good boxers, with two of them ending in the top 10 in their weight division.

I was at ringside for all the boxing events and remember once getting splattered with blood, ruining a new coat I had just purchased.

I was sent to Sacramento to cover a fight between Berra’s boxer and a highly rated one from that city.

The crowd got rowdy after hearing the decision, and fights broke out and a few chairs were tossed.

It didn’t take me long to know I better do something fast, so I ducked under the ring and was soon joined by one of the fighters.

However, it was pro wrestling that nearly did me in.

Berra kept pressing me to write something on pro wrestling, and I finally caved in. I thought it was phoney then, and I haven’t changed my opinion.

I sat at ringside and took a lot of notes on the various matches, disgusted all the while that I agreed to be there.

I got back to my desk about 9:30, and tore into the story.

The Statesman was a morning paper, and I normally came to work about 5 p.m., and got off after the first issues came off the press. We were all given a page or two for a final proofread before leaving for the night.  Usually, we ended up at some all-night diner for breakfast.

Anyway, I was pretty angry and blasted the wrestlers, telling how phoney I thought they were, names and everything. It was a cleansing experience.

The next day I was at my desk when the operator downstairs called me and said that there was a very angry wrestler down there and he was on the way up.

Our newsroom was on the second floor, and the newsroom was served by stairs and an elevator.

Not knowing which the angry wrestler was using, I chose to duck into the typesetting room, which was off limits because of the union.

Anyway, the wrestler came out of the elevator and yelled my name.

The editor walked over to him to calm him down. Now, my editor had a little crook in his nose and didn’t suffer fools.

After a brief discussion, the wrestler was persuaded to leave.

When I returned to the newsroom, the editor said, “Lucas, when you go into the swamp, you usually will run into alligators.”

Berra never asked me to cover wrestling again, and I stayed clear of the place.

He greeted me the next time I saw him with a few choice words he no doubt picked up in his tavern.