Note---This week's column is dedicated to James C Melby , a great friend and wrestling historian who is battling many odds. He is to undergo surgery to correct a problem. Jim our hearts and thoughts are out to you and you will be in our prayers for a speedy recovery. If you would care to drop him a card his address is 1018 E. Rose Ave. St.Paul, Minnesota 55106 . Cards help heal.
Thanks,
Percival A. Friend
When last we visited, I had gone to Kansas City to resolve a problem with two men from across the big pond, Angus Campbell and Earl Black. They had a dialect that was not common to the ears of the Midwest. Their actions of nature were uncommon to the foreigners they were appearing in front of. They just were being taken advantage of. I was going to change that.
I had been up for nearly 48 hours when I was confronted by the likes of Gust Karras and his "Yes Men." I had traveled over 1500 miles during that time by car. I was in no mood for soft soap or fast talk. I had secured a manager's license as well as a participant's license from Clint Clouse, the wrestling commissioner assigned to the Kansas City, Kansas office.
I spoke to Gust Karras and was about to work out some of the fine points when Bill Kersten stuck his head in the office door and said they were about to begin television promos and for us all to come and get ready. I was not a part of the grouping and was quite upset that he placed me in a situation where I was not in command.
As I entered the studio section built for the local television for the Thursday night festivities, I was met by huge-muscled men like Ronnie Etchison, Danny Little Bear, former World Champion Pat O'Connor, Bob Geigel, Bobby Whitlock, Steve Bolus, Omar Atlas, Rufus R. Jones, and a host of others that compromised the bulk of the opponents that Angus would be doing war with in the next two years.
Not many impressed me as I began to comment on them in front of a live mike with Bill Kersten doing his best to encourage the opponents' actions against the huge Scot, Black Angus. He was astounded by the material I was spewing at our hopeless opponents coming up on huge cards in the area. I even made Pat O'Connor very mad at me by calling him FAT PAT; He was a fitness freak that kept himself in pretty good shape. I leveled things at others like Geigel by calling him a momma's boy and a Gust Karras wanna-be. I nearly had the back stage in a complete turmoil by the time the promos closed. Not many liked me, but a few took off their hats and came over and shook my hand and welcomed me to the big top.
Harley Race was especially fond of my mike talk and dubbed me "The Epitome of Wrestling Managers." I thanked him and accepted his hand in friendship, never thinking that it would last over a quarter of a century.
As the bell rang for the third event, I took my stead by the arm and led my way to the ringside area where I was met with a barrage of boos, catcalls, cuss words, and thrown paper cups. I stopped and just peered and sneered at the over flow audience that filled the auditorium. I reminded them of who was in charge.... ME!
Bobby Whitlock from Alabama stood across the ring and was signing autographs for a few children and ring flies and ring rats that hung on to anything that had a pair of tights on. They certainly were not women of culture, and they never approached me.
The match began with Whitlock charging at Angus and taking the huge grappler off his feet for just a moment in an amateur move that amazed even me. I hollered at Angus to get upright again and grab that pair of spindly legs that were holding Whitlock up and take him down to the mat and put some real wrestling strategy to work.
In the blink of an eye, Angus grabbed him and spun him to the mat near where he was. I stood to applaud the greatness of my champion-to-be, and a huge old pig farmer from the locals grabbed my arm and forced me back to my chair. I turned to defend myself, but a bigger man grabbed the intruder by the scruff of the neck and held him up off the floor at arm's length.
That man was on the Kansas City, Kansas city police force and rode a three-wheeled Harley Davidson every day because he had a big problem getting behind the wheel or getting out of the passenger side of the cruisers. He wore a size 66 sport coat, and he became my best friend in Kansas City.
As I turned back to the attention of action in the ring, I noticed that Bill Kersten, seated at ringside and doing the commentary, had made some remarks about my actions. I yelled back to his side of the ring loud enough that he heard me, "Keep your comments to your self, you little wheat farmer!" Little did I realize that this man I was shouting at would be a big nemesis of mine in the years that followed.
Bobby Whitlock was being thrown from pillar to post and beat up by Angus, and I figured that he had enough treatment and misuse. I stood up and gave Angus a high sign that he no longer needed to beat on this hopeless creature and for him to put the suplex on him. Angus picked Whitlock up from the mat and, with one mighty move, wrapped his huge arm around the front of Whitlock and picked his 240-pound frame into the air by one arm and slammed him to the mat in a side salto and pinned him for the three count.
I jumped into the ring and proceeded to put a couple of boots to the chest of the fallen creature. In a flash, we had three ringsiders in the ring starting to come at me. Angus, of course, cleaned house of the three, and they were taken into custody and arrested. We fought our way back to the dressing room, where I was met by Gust Karras and was informed that my actions would not be tolerated at ringside, and he gave me a one-week suspension.
I left the building with Angus and returned to my hotel. I packed my suitcase very upset and jumped back into my car and headed back east to be in Detroit a couple of nights later. I returned to Kansas City the following week and continued my winning ways in the ring and my upsetting of fans at ringside.
Angus and I now had the respect that we deserve by my actions and management qualities. We went on to many wars and battles throughout the Midwest over the next two years.
Percival A. Friend, Retired
The Epitome of Wrestling Managers
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