Wrestling With Their Conscience : In the Ring at Slammers, as in Life, Cheaters Often Prosper

In one corner stood Hombre de Oro, the barefoot “Man of Gold” from Sonora, Mexico, a crowd favorite resplendent in his gilded mask. Lusty boos greeted his opponent, Beautiful Bruce Beaudine of Santa Monica. His trunks were a hot pink, with a red heart on his butt. And his hair was perfect.

The bell clanged. Inside this curious little gym in Sun Valley, Good and Evil were at war once again.

The wrestlers prowled the ring looking for an opening. Hombre de Oro was quick, but Beautiful Bruce managed to slip away, provoking catcalls from the hecklers. The zebra-clad ref ordered Bruce to wrestle.

Finally, the gladiators engaged in a tangle of arms and legs. Hombre de Oro had the advantage, but Beautiful Bruce managed to reach the turnbuckle. “Break!” the ref ordered. The Man of Gold released his grip--and then reached out and mussed Bruce’s coiffure. Fifty-odd spectators laughed and cheered.

Enraged, Beautiful Bruce counterattacked, but soon Hombre dazed him with a body slam. Then, in a remarkable display of athletic prowess, Hombre balanced on a top rope and then bounded to another, slingshotting himself into the befuddled Bruce. Then Hombre locked his legs around the pretty boy’s head.

A heckler couldn’t resist a political question. “Bruce!” he called out. “This may be a bad time, but how do feel about 187?”

Funny, but I can’t remember the result. Did Hombre de Oro defeat Beautiful Bruce fair and square? Or did Bruce cheat and triumph? My notes are unclear. Bruce, bad guy that he is, definitely cheated. It’s that way in pro wrestling. The ref gets distracted and the bad guy pulls a dirty trick. Bruce’s favorite move was to strangle Hombre with his pink towel.

Sometimes Good wins. Sometimes Evil wins. At the Slammers Wrestling Federation, as in life, cheaters often prosper--at least temporarily.

People who complain that the San Fernando Valley is a cultural wasteland may not be aware of Slammers, a unique institution tucked among the auto-salvage yards at 12165 Branford St. It’s the headquarters of Verne (The Head Slammer) Langdon’s homage to the sport, art and drama that is pro wrestling. Here, Langdon, a veteran wrestler, has created a living, breathing, grunting, groaning, sweating, bleeding diorama to one of America’s most flamboyant and enduring pastimes.

It’s a school where Langdon teaches guys off the street the tricks of the trade. It’s a venue where a card of “grudge matches” between Langdon’s students are staged on the first Sunday of each month. And it’s home to what Langdon says is the only museum in the world devoted to pro wrestling, boasting an impressive collection of memorabilia from the incomparable Gorgeous George, the champ who packed arenas in the ‘40s and ‘50s.

Langdon’s collection includes the sterling-silver flit gun that Gorgeous George’s valet would use to spray the ring with “Chanel No. 10” before each match, and several of his luxuriantly feminine robes. “Doesn’t he look like a wedding cake?” Langdon says, looking up at a giant photo of the berobed one.

Never mind that there’s no such thing as Chanel No. 10. Credibility has always been strained by pro wrestling. What began as traveling vaudeville has been a staple of television since the early days of the medium. Today, the idols are people like Hulk Hogan and Randy (Macho Man) Savage and other cartoon figures in the flesh. Langdon, who gives his age as “younger than God,” misses the old days at the Olympic Auditorium, “when Dick Lane was wrestling and Johnny (Red Shoes) Dugan was the ref.”

Those of us who were children then might recall the hypnotic hold of the black-and-white images of roller derby and pro wrestling, punctuated by Dick Lane’s trademark shouts of “Whoa, Nellie!” Back then, I cheered on such good guys as Pedro Morales, Bobo Brazil, Haystack Calhoun and Mil Mascaras. On the side of darkness were the Destroyer, Killer Karl Kox and Freddy Blassie.

Some people trace America’s loss of innocence to Nov. 22, 1963, but at least we knew that Evil had triumphed, be it in the form of a lone gunman or a grand conspiracy. I prefer to think that our moral compass went awry when Freddy Blassie, a soul beyond redemption, somehow became a good guy. Historians may try to prove me wrong, but as I recall it, Blassie’s rehabilitation began with a bunch of frat boys who attended televised matches and exhorted Blassie with chants of “Bite, Freddy, bite! Bite, Freddy, bite!”

Never before had such a dastardly villain inspired such cheers. Dick Lane was taken aback, but then other fans started cheering for Blassie, too. The only thing to do was to make him a good guy--a good guy who bit people, a good guy who cheated. It was a milestone in the sad corruption of American values.

But at Slammers, at least, it seems that the good guys still play by the rules--unless, of course, they have to pay the bad guys back in kind. And, sometimes, the bad guys are very, very bad.

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“We get muscleheads in here that think they’re going to be the next heavyweight champ, but they don’t last five minutes in the ring,” Langdon says. “They come out and say, ‘How do you guys take the pain?’

“We say you’ve got to love it. . . . We have a great respect for the sport. We’re known for wrestling the way it used to be on TV.”

At Slammers, the bad guys include Movie Star Mike, formerly known as Malicious Mike. His day job is installing windows, but he changed his wrestling name after getting a bit part wrestling in the movie “Ed Wood.” He likes to attack opponents with a metal folding chair.

Another bad guy is Dynamite D, who likes to flex in the ring and kiss his biceps. After a 16-year-old fan at ringside named Kevin Kleinrock heckled him with catcalls of “Diana!” and “Princess!” Dynamite D responded by covering one nostril and blowing his nose on the young man, much to the audience’s amusement. “It’s his favorite move,” Kevin said later.

This Sunday ended with a title match between Movie Star Mike and Jeff Lindberg, the reigning SWF champion. Lindberg is a Pierce College student and the manager of a Mail Boxes, Etc. outlet.

Movie Star Mike was indeed malicious. He cheated, of course, and beat Lindberg until blood streamed down his forehead. Verne (The Head Slammer) Langdon came to Lindberg’s rescue, wielding a metal folding chair to give the Movie Star the proverbial taste of his own medicine. After the ref found a church key in the Movie Star’s hand, he was disqualified and Lindberg was declared the winner. For a moment, all seemed right in the world.

The blood certainly looked real. The Head Slammer suggested that a taste would remove any doubt.

That, I decided, wouldn’t be necessary.

Scott Harris’ column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays.