Below is a transcript of an article written about the wrestling tapings at the WRAL-5 studio in Raleigh, NC. It includes the expected condescension toward wrestling fans that was the norm when ever an article appeared about wrestling in a mainstream publication in those days. But we were thrilled to see a photo from inside the studio, as seen above.
Thanks to Peggy Lathan for transcribing the article for us, and to Carroll Hall for providing the article.
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Professional Wrestling:
America the Beautiful
The Tar Heel – June 10, 1976
By Phred Vultee, Staff Writer
The people standing restlessly in line have come here
tonight to see America. Not the version they see through the windows of their
GMC pickups, the world of shifty-eyed politicos, forced busing and brazen
hippies, but America – where clean living and hard work pay off in the end,
where idle boasters are quickly chastened, where all Negroes have hard heads
and all Japs are inscrutable karate masters. They have come to watch the
wrestlers.
Professional wrestling is videotaped every Wednesday for
local airing on Saturday night. The yellow tickets (free on request from the
studio) say, “must be in studio at 6:30.” By seven, the line stretches well
beyond the two glass doors, burbling with a hundred conversations. Weathered
farmers reeking of Vitalis huddle about the entrance and smoke Luckies while
their heirs run up and down brandishing posters of Chief Wahoo McDaniel or Mr. Wrestling
Tim Woods. A pack of Cub Scouts steadily raises the blood pressure of its
leader. Beehive hairdos bob and weave like disembodied steel wool. Idle
thought: Which of the old boys in Red
Camel coveralls is carrying a knife, ready to leap out and stab a despised
wrestler like the 82 year old chap in South Carolina last week? No time to wonder, for the doors are opened
and the supplicants herded in.
There is a scramble for the bleachers, the prime seats in
full view of the main camera, and those too passive to struggle are packed into
folding chairs on the floor. The announcers wander about, greeting the
regulars. In the second row of folding chairs, a young fellow drapes his arm
over his girlfriend. Like a shot, a door man in a white shirt is standing over
them. “Save your lovin’ till you’re outside,” he snaps, waiting to see that his
order is obeyed before turning away.
The huge lights above the ring snap on, adding to the heat
produced by hundreds of sardine-like bodies. An announcer climbs into the ring,
milking a reaction from the crowd. He exhorts them to make as much noise as
possible, “but remember, no profanity, please.” The crowd is ready for action.
Three types of wrestlers will soon fight it out on this thin
square of canvas. There are the good guys, Wheatie-eaters to a man, competent,
modest and clean living. Opposite them
in the pantheon stand the minions of evil, those boastful ones who have a knack
for concealing foreign objects in their elbow pads. In between lie the cannon
fodder, who pit their inadequate strength between the mighty week after week to
whet the crowd’s appetite for gore. Cannon fodder are usually fat (the crowd
loves to watch Ken Patera, the World’s Strongest Wrestler, lift Jerry
Blackwell, the World’s Fattest Wrestler), long haired (the old boys get a
vicarious kick out of seeing Paul Jones grab a handful of Steve Strong’s
locks), or both.
Most character development takes place in the interviews,
filmed between matches in a far corner of the studio. They are much better seen
on television, where a fan can catch the fine points of the Missouri Mauler’s
logic or discern the subtle difference between “kill” and “maim” in the dialect
of the Mongols. A typical one might feature Nature Boy Ric Flair casting
aspersions on the physical and socio-intellectual abilities of Rufus R. Jones,
King of Wrestling. Rufus, clad in a purple gown and a crown that would do
justice to an Imperial Margarine ad, responds by offering to put “fiss and shoe
in Flair’s big mouf.”
The crowd has been whipped to a seething frenzy by the
announcers, a pre-match interview and the occasional opening of the dressing
room door. The wrestlers are ready.
Waves of cheering and booing collide as two wrestlers enter
the ring to be introduced. Paul Jones, self-proclaimed People’s Champion,
modestly acknowledges the acclaims of the crowd, while Doug Somers, cannon
fodder, stares at the camera through a storm of disapproval. As always, the
less popular wrestler is placed nearest the bleachers. Three bovine young
things bellow in chorus, “you’re UGLY Somers!” barely managing to finish before
collapsing in laughter. The match begins.
Somers comes out strong, laying into the People’s Champ with
healthy forearm smashes, but Paul soon hits his stride and begins to punish the
upstart. This is what everybody came to see. “One minute, Paul,” hollers a
sagging customer on the front row. “Show him who’s boss.” “Pull on that h’ar of
his,” adds a deep voice from the bleachers. Then Somers finds an opening and
slams the champion into the Solid Steel Turnbuckle at the corner of the ring
(inspection shows it to be solid cotton). A father pokes his son to life, “Paul
left himself wide open. You watch now.” The Cub Scouts howls for blood.
The tables turn on the canvas. Paul slams the hapless Somers
to the mat, applying the Indian Death Lock, which he learned from his old
partner, Chief Wahoo. It works. The match is over.
Rufus R. Freight Train Jones doffs his purple robe and
glares across the ring at a frightened Doug Gilbert. The crowd loves the
ambling, flamboyant Rufus, possessed with the Hardest Head in Wrestling. He is
trustworthy. He is upstanding. He doesn’t cast eyes at white women. The bell
signals the beginning of his hour upon the stage and he moves warily to the
center of the ring.
There is little hope for Gilbert. Aside from his girth and
his propensity for wearing his outfit backwards, he is indistinguishable from a
host of other hopefuls. Like these mortals, he is susceptible to the power of
the King. Rufus cranks up the Freight Train, a ponderously loose-limbed form of
head on mayhem, and runs it over Gilbert twice. He then applies the Head-Butt,
consisting of slamming his concrete cranium into that of his opponent. No white
wrestler in the circuit can manage a proper Head-Butt, but it’s no problem to
Rufus. Gilbert collapses to the mat and Rufus falls atop him for the three
count.
The taping goes on for two hours, satiating the crowd with
violence, stereotyping and the American Way. The Indian Death Lock, the
Head-Butt and the Tommyhawk Chop win out again over double-teaming and foreign
objects in the pads. Does anybody take
it all seriously? Ask the man who took a knife to Ole Anderson of the Minnesota
Wrecking Crew. Better still, ask Ole.
“It’ll take more than a knife to keep me out of wrestling,”
he growls into the camera. “You’ll have to get up in the ring to stop me.”
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Editor's note: Based on the reflections of the (rather snobby) writer and the date of the article, these are a collection of memories and observations over a period of time from 1975 and 1976. The author was Phred Vultee, a staff writer for the Tar Heel at that time, and a bit of a jack-wagon who, at least as evidenced here, made himself feel superior by looking down his nose at wrestling fans.