King Leary

All Sports, Summer, 1943

Wherein we introduce the wrestler of the ages, the champ who practiced on alligators, and set him up against a rubber man!

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OW AND THEN - mostly then rassling managers have dreams that come through. During the last twenty years I have managed everybody but Doug MacArthur and Winnie Churchill. Not that those babies are rasslers, but maybe

Hirohito and that Berlin Bum wished they were. Well, just to surprise everybody, I will start at the beginning and work toward the end, according to a book I have just plowed through entitled How to Write a Story That

All Sports Will Make Editors Faint. Anyway, if you ain’t too busy buying war bonds or slapping the Japs, make yourself comfortable and I will give you the very amazing and startling facts about King Leary, the half-Indian, half-Irish alligator mauler. Me and Droopy Drennan, one of my best trained and uneducated rasslers, decide to take a trip up the Miami River to a tourist trap called the Tropical Indian Village. I have heard a lot about the joint, seeing that Droopy can read a little, and got his beak stuck in a advertising folder giving the lowdown on a guy who actually rassles alligators—and five times a day, at that. “Hey, listen,” says Droopy. “Here’s a guy what toys with real live monsters. How can you frame a bout with alligators? The guy must be nuts!” “They probably live and sleep together, same as we do,” I says. “D’yer mean to say them alligators kin speak English?” “Just as plain as we do, no doubt,” I retorts. We hie aboard a sight-seeing yacht and within an hour we are in the Indian trap. With us are a flock of other tourists and they are greatly interested in the Injun trinkets for sale by the squaws. They are all home made-with the slight assistance of the mail order house they was bought from. Soon a little quarter-pint Irishman, with tobacco-stained whiskers, makes the following broadcast: “Step this way, ladeez and gentlemun— to the great alligator contest! ‘Tis a great sight to see the broth of a boy down the great and fee-rochus saurian.” Droopy Drennan jerks my arm. “What is a saurian?” “Something with the brains of a Jap and Nazi, with a touch of a salami sandwich,” I guess. The little Irishman enters a walled arena and in it are no less than twenty alligators.

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They look as tough as the Marines at Guadalcanal. Most of them look as dead as Hitler’s conscience, not moving a muscle or even a tail. They just lie flat in the sun and enjoy the Florida climate. “Yuh mean to tell me some dope gets in there and rassles with them brutes?” demands Droopy. “You read it in the book, didn’t you?” “I’d rather sleep with Mussolini!” says Droopy. Shortly a well-bronzed lad, a lightweight, comes out into the arena, and does he look in the pink! More, he has a figure that all them Hollywood male stars would give their upper plates for. Although he has the skin and most of the features of a true-blue—I mean, red—Indian, his nose is Irish-pug, whilst his eyes are Belfast blue. “Introducin’,” bellers the little fellow, “the one and only King Leary!” “Leary, hey?” sniffs Drennan. “What kind of redskin is that? Besides, my old man never told me about no Injuns in Ireland!” The little announcer holds up both hands and goes on, “King Leary will now risk his life and limb by tacklin’ the fee-rowchus beasts yuh see before yuh!”

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IDST subdued applause from the tourists, King Leary bows very soberly. Then, like a falling bomb, he drops onto the back of the nearest alligator. The ‘gator opens his puss—Vassar for face— like he was about to partake some tasty, unrationed hamburger. “Who’s refereein’ the bout?” yells Droopy. “The poor guy will get kilt!” “I hope it’s Hitler,” I says. King Leary grabs the upper and lower parts of the ‘gator’s snout—and is that a snout!—and begins to press on a muglock—or whatever you’d call it. The ‘gator rolls over and I think the Leary lad is going to be pulverized. He is out of that in a flash and leaps to his feet. The ‘gator wags his

King Leary big tail like he is very irked, indeed. Next, he begins to open and shut his mouth like it was Friday, and he is due for a swell fish dinner. King Leary makes a swan-dive onto the back of his tail and begins to yank it toward the snout. The ‘gator turns speedily and Leary lands on his fanny-wanny. The ‘gator opens and closes his trap in a few wellsatisfied smacks. Leary begins to look mad and walks around his playmate. “Give ‘im a tailspin!” advises Droopy. “With all that tail?” I asks. Leary makes another leap onto the tail and goes to work on it. I guess they call that a tail-hold, huh? Anyway, the ‘gator snorts and indicates that he is not entirely pleased with the situation. Well, to reduce the Battle of Kharkov to Bunker Hill, within the next few minutes it is all over. Leary gets a clamp on the upper and lower jaws and puts on the pressure. In a minute the ‘gator just rolls over on his back and quits. “If you ask me,” says Drennan, “I think that match was on the level, no fooling!” “Did you think the guy had a set of signals worked out with the alligator?” I inquires. “Kin alligators talk?” “Just as plain as rasslers. They grunt.” (We interrupt this program to make a special announcement, viz., the famous villain, Felony Jones, will appear shortly. Keep tuned in—he’s a mug you’ll love to hate!)

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FOLLOW King Leary into his tepee. “Who invited you in?” he demands, none too politely. “How would you like to make $100 per weekly, rassling men instead of alligators?” I asks. “I prefer ‘gators,” says Leary. “They are nice people, and rassle on the level.” “Meanin’ what?” bristles Droopy

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Drennan. “I never double-crossed nobody— except for cash.” “Look,” I goes on to Leary, “how much do you earn rassling ‘gators for the pleasure of tourists from Weakchin, Vermont, and Ape Falls, New York?” “My father is my manager,” says the King. “Besides, money is not everything. Have you tried to buy some butter and meat lately?” “Butter is that yellow stuff, ain’t it?” says Droopy. Just then Old Man Leary comes in. “Look, Pop,” I says. “Your son should be the lightweight champ of all the rasslers—and on the up-and-up.” “Sure and he should,” admits Leary, senior. “And as soon as I can find some honest manager I will give him a contract.” I stretch out my hand and remark, “Lucky I came along, instead of a guy named Felony Jones.” “Sure, and I can’t see no wings on you,” says the pater. “He sold ‘em to buy bonds—ha, ha!” cracks Droopy, who is a great wit—if you discount one half. “I will guarantee,” I continue, “that your boy will not have to toy with an alligator for the next 30 years, Eastern War Time.” “When do I see, feel and hold the first $100?” woofs the pater. “Right after his first match,” I says. “Hey, listen,” sniffs Droopy. “I rassle in a main bout last week in Tampa and all I get is $7.50. How kin I pay any income tax with that dough?” “How about a little advance?” goes on Leary, senior. I slip him two fives—and Droopy looks sick. “If he becomes champ,” goes on pater, “how much do I get?” “I may raise it to $200,” I says. “I will be glad to sign a contract to that effect. That is very good money for a champ.”

All Sports “You told me, onct,” begins Droopy— but my right foot catches him in the shins. “Come around to the tepee and meet Little Rose Petal,” says Old Man Leary. “She is Mrs. Leary and the King’s mother. Er, she don’t smile, much.” We find Little Rose Petal squatting on a mat, re-stringing some mail order beads which no doubt did not come up to her fancy. Pop Leary slings her some lingo in Indian and she looks at me as if I was a landlord, and had just chased her tribe off the reservation. “Urgh!” remarks Little Rose Petal. “Everybody grunts in this joint,” says Droopy. “We’ve been married for 20 years,” says Old Man Leary. “The boy is now 19 and looks just like me.” “Urgh!” snorts Little Rose Petal. “Heap big bum!” “Haw!” laughs senior. “The wife is a regular cut up!” Drennan walks around Little Rose Petal like she was at least two pounds of coffee. “They should of named her Little Happy Puss, if you ask me!” “It was love at first fight,” explains papa. “I was out working with the Buffalo Bill Wild West Show and Little Rose Petal was the prettiest princess with the whole outfit.” “Who drugged who?” goes on the diplomatic Droopy. “Don’t mind loose-brain,” I says. “He forgot to duck too many headlocks.”

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ELL, TO shift this essay into another gear, I arrange to have King Leary meet me at Bill Gore’s gym the next morning. And that night I look up my old pal, Fairytale Finnegan, who knows more about propaganda than Gimpy Goebbels— only Finnegan’s publicity is always good for a laugh and likewise harmless. Honest, as a press agent, Finnegan could sell

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English tea to Fatso Goering, the guy who wears a junk yard on his breast. He has put over everything but the Pyramids and the Statue of Liberty. “You mean,” says Finnegan, “that you actually have found a rassler who is halfIrish and half-Indian?” “Postive and no ersatz,” I says. “You should be able to smear him over all the sports pages in the country, huh?” “Hell, yes! Just imagine the possibilities. I’ll make him better known than Pep Comics. Just think—two of the greatest fighting races mixed up in one package. Brother, pass me that typewriter!” Within the next few days the two Miami newspapers startle the customers with some astounding salami on King Leary. Honest, the guy who wrote Mein Kampf couldn’t have done better, and if you think that joke book ain’t a fairy tale, then Churchill lives in Berlin. According to Finnegan, King Leary was born in Cork, Ireland, of Irish-Indian parents. How come any Indians happened to be in Ireland was coyly sidestepped by Brother Finnegan. Anyway, King Leary was a miracle matman who learned to rassle while in the wilds of Dublin and Belfast. (Boy, wait till De Valera hears that!) In his spare time, according to Finnegan, King Leary used to toss alligators over his head for pure joy and exercise. With both papers in my hand I go around to see Mr. Finnegan. “Look,” I says, “maybe I never studied geography at Yale or Vassar but where did Ireland get all them alligators?” “How should I know?” demands Finnegan. “The nearest I ever came to Ireland was Washboard Falls, Georgia. But it is swell publicity, what?” “You know what Felony Jones is going to say when he hears about that!” I remind Finnegan. “Speaking of Felony,” says Finnegan, “I

King Leary see where he has a new mat master named Prince Rubberola. If you ask me, I think he’s got something tasty.” “If that mug has anything but a jail record,” I says, “I will be very much amazed. He no doubt picked up some stewed bindle-stiff when he fell off a passing freight and called him Prince Rubberola when he got sober.” “That ain’t the way I heard it,” counters Finnegan. “This Prince Rubberola is considerable novelty. I understand Felony Jones found him working in a circus sideshow. He used to exhibit on a platform and entertained the customers by stretching his body a few inches, East, West, North and even South. Now, a rassler who can stretch himself—” I begin to see a modicum of light. A guy who can stretch himself should be poison to another lad who thinks he has a secure lock on him. “How can a guy like that lose?” demands Finnegan. “All he has to do is let himself out a few inches and the hold is broken. And listen, something tells me that, sooner or later, this Prince Rubberola is going to meet King Leary in mortal mat work. And that, boys and girls, should be worth seeing!” As the monkey remarked to the banyan tree, thereby hangs a tail!

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ELL, I decide to operate King Leary on the strict up-and-up, which same will be a shock to the fans but give a severe pain in the sit-spot to the rassling trust. But I figure that a guy who can knock over alligators on their rear-housings should be able to flatten anything with only two legs and no long tail. Within a week I find out many things about King Leary. I note he has moods. The moods have two speeds. One Irish, one Indian. The Irish mood is gay and happy but the Injun is dour and sombre. When he

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takes a high dive into his Indian mood everybody better look out because Big Chief Sourpuss is on the sore-path. Of course I figure out that it will be better to have him in the Injun mood when he rassles. Then I know he will knock the Rommel out of his opponent. It seems that his moods are timed. For instance, on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesdays he is all Irish and very happy. But from Thursday to Sunday he is Sitting Bull himself, with a large touch of Tecumseh. So I make his first match for Friday, whilst he is in the exact middle of his Indian mood. His first bout is a lad named the Cracker Angel, formerly the French Angel, the German Angel, the Swedish Angel, the Yiddish Angel, or what have you in the line of angels. But his right name is Clarence Mortimer Dunk and he was at one time an All-American half-back and ditto half-head. The reason that he is still rassling and not jerking Japs or kayoing Nazis is because the army says he is persona non combat on account of three flats, viz., feet, intellect and kidneys. The battle is to take place at Fort Lauderdale, eighteen miles north of Miami. King Leary and the Cracker Angel—who is now giving his home town as Topsoil, Georgia—are booked to go on in the semifinal. I forget the name of the trained tadpoles putting on the main bout, but if it isn’t in the bag, then neither is flour. The manager of the Cracker Angel is a merry moocher named Monkmap Mahoney. This bird always had larceny in his heart but his parents were honest. Just before we went up to the ring Herr Mahoney steps down into our dressing quarters for a friendly chitchat. The broadcast of Mahoney statics like this: “Which one should what and who should when and how do you want it?” For the benefit of those in the audience who can talk but one language, the translation of

All Sports Mahoney’s is as to wit: “Hey, you—who takes the dive and in what style and what time?” And in case there are any accidental ladies and gentlemen in the audience the Mahoney dialogue would be translated thus: “Is it your desire that the Cracker Angel permit King Leary to win this present contest or do you fancy it should be the other way around?” In plain Websterian—in case you were born in Berlin, Tokyo or Rome—he wants to know whether his boy should win this time or mine. In his mind, or a fair facsimile of same, the match was considered in the bag. “Listen,” I says, rising to my full dignity, “this contest between the future lightweight champ and your mat-drunk grits-and-gravy grabber is strictly the MacArthur and Eisenhower.” “You are undoubtlessly nuts,” whinnies Monkpuss. “You are very nuts, indeed. I was gonna to give that innocent infant pushover of yourn a break. I will now instruct the Angel to push his shoulder blades right through the floor. Good evening to you!”

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FTER Monkpuss departs I lose no time in telling King Leary that the Cracker Angel’s chief burden, Mahoney, has stated openly and belowboard that his man will flatten him like the RAF over Berlin. I then add a little horseradish that Monkpuss forgot to state, like this, “He also says that all Indians should be transported to Yokohama and Hamburg, not being civilized.” Brother, that last crack was an inspiration. I could tell from the new blaze in the kid’s eyes that I have started a fire that the Cracker Angel would never put out. The match is one-half hour limit, with one fall to win. And I will confess now that Niagara never had a fall like that!

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The boys clash in the center of the ring like Montgomery and Racing Rommel, the African Olympics champ. The Cracker Angel tries for a Japanese scissors, now changed to MacArthur Clipper. He misses like Uncle Jake’s tobacco and the cuspidor. Then he tries for a body slam. He misses like Hitler aiming for Stalingrad. Next, the Angel devotes his great talents toward securing a headlock. He misses like Hirohito and Chungking. And what is King Leary doing all this time? Not a thing. He just keeps glaring at the heaving Angel as if the lad has just swiped his tights. “Get that bum on the mat—but quick!” whoops Monkpuss from the corner. “We got important business to attend to and no time for amachoors!” King Leary divides a part of his glare with Monkpuss. A second later there is a double commotion. One is in the ring and the other is in the vicinity of Monkpuss Mahoney. I don’t know what happens exactly in either place, but when I look in the ring I note, with assorted pleasure, that the Cracker Angel is flat on his rear view— and the guy on top is King Leary. As to the second affair, I am informed afterward— from a reliable source, as they say on the radio—that Pop Leary did not care to have anyone refer to his son as a bum. So, he merely walked around the ring and socked Monkpuss in the teeth—upper and lower plates. Now, just to show you that you can’t please everybody—especially rassling fans—the referee no more than announces that King Leary is the winner when the cash clients begin to beller that the match was a fraud. “Fake! Fake! Fake!” the hoot and chant and the bleat is accompanied by a flotilla of pop bottles and seat cushions. Pop Leary and I get our boy down to the basement in the midst of the barrage.

King Leary And the quaint part is this: The Cracker Angel-King Leary brawl is the only one on the menu that is on the level! However, rassling fans are also people—they can prove it by showing two arms, two legs, two ears—but they park their brains at the gate. En route back to Miami King Leary is in a very moody mood. I ask him what hold he used to floor the Angel with such speed and he just remarks, “Urgh!” “‘Twas marvelous!” enthuses Old Man Leary. “The boy clamps one hand on top of the Angel’s head and the other under his chin. Then he just pushes, like he does with the ‘gators. ‘Twas marvelous, it ‘twas!” I don’t get it. How can you floor a man with such a hold? “What did he use,” I asks, “electricity?” “It’s all done with the tongue,” explains Leary, senior. “The Angel’s tongue. Nobody likes to get their tongue clamped between their teeth. Sure, and you’d quit yourself!”

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ELL, fellow Americans, we will now pass over the next three reels, before you mistake it for Gone With the Wind, and tear the next three months off the calendar. During that time many things happen, including Felony Jones and Prince Rubberola. You understand that I am working King Leary on the strict up-an-up, no bag stuff at all. The best man wins and the King is the very best man, ask the gents he flattens! This enrages the rassling trust so much that they are trying to spray arsenic on my pancakes. They do all they can to upset my apple jeep but Fairytale Finnegan gets the sports writers on my side and that’s that. When King Leary has attained national fame—even getting more publicity than Felony Jones’ Prince Rubberola—Felony becomes peeved, irked and altogether annoyed. He writes to all the newspapers— getting someone to spell out the words for

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him, no doubt—and informs them that King Leary is neither Irish nor Indian but a Nazi who is sent by Hitler to blow up the Gulf Stream and the Statue of Liberty. The sports writers fill their baskets with that goo and all Felony gets out of it is some grade-A fits. Then Finnegan starts a ballyhoo for a match between King Leary and Prince Rubberola. It spreads like a grass fire in a Hula dress shop. “It should be the match of the century and should revive wrestling,” writes one sports editor. And if the sport does not need some reviving, then you can’t find a Jap in Tokyo!” I ask Finnegan what he thinks of such a bout and he speaks as follows: “I thought it was a very good idea,” he says. “That is why I suggested it to the sports writers.” Prof. Finnegan thinks of everything— specially a cut in on the profits. “Look,” I remark. “This Prince Rubberola squash or maybe egg-plant is a tough tadpole. He ain’t lost a decision since Joe Stalin sent a letter of love and affection to Adolf Schicklgruber. Besides and also, the King might get thumped on his rear casement and I don’t mean belly. Don’t forget that the Prince is a freak rassler and can stretch out of any hold at any time. How we going to beat a zombie like that?”

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HE KING can use his alligator Mug Hold,” says Finnegan. “Who knows, the Prince may stick out his tongue at someone he don’t like in the audience—” “Which reminds me, is that Mug Hold legal?” “I have just plowed through the book of rules and bylaws,” retorts Finnegan, “and I ain’t see that hold mentioned at all. Therefore and also whereas, it can’t be illegal, can it?” “Suppose they make up the rule whilst

All Sports the bout is in progress?” “Listen, Worrybird,” he says, “don’t fret about that. By the time the Prince gets his tongue in shape to talk we can be in Frozen Acres, Montana.” Well, my countrymen, you have no doubt seen some of the newsreel pictures of the famed King Leary-Prince Rubberola liverwurst. It is as sensational as Rommel seeing if he can walk on the Mediterranean Sea, account of not liking the climate in Tunisia. Due to the acres of publicity the brawl is staged in Madison Squarehead Garden. And the customers, knowing that the bout will be on the level, are satisfied to stand on each other’s bunions to see it. Felony Jones drops in the dressing room just before the melee. It is a very friendly visit—with a knife in one hand and a triplecross in the other. “Now listen,” he begins. “Why can’t we make this two or three bouts instead of one?” “Because,” I replies, “King Leary will upset your rubberized ersatz monkey on his tail in very jig time!” “Listen, stupid,” he says. “Don’t you know what will happen to your plaster cast punk when Prince Rubberola goes to town on him? It will be curtains, and after that he won’t even get a dime in the second class clubs. Why not play the smart game? Suppose we make this one a draw. You can win the next one or I can. Then we have the showdown bout to see who meets the champ. The final will be on the level. “This will be the final,” I says. “And when it is over, you will be under.” “Well, don’t say I didn’t give you a chance to play smart!” “This time I am going to be stupid. And you will find the door to your left. Good evening, Mr. Jones!” “Nuts to you, flatfoot!”

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T THE ringside is Pop Leary, Little Rose Petal—the King’s mama—and Droopy Drennan. Mrs. Leary has an extry feather in her head gear or what passes in Indian social circles for a hat. The King is in a very special bad mood account I have told him that both Prince Rubberola and Felony Jones had a set of grandfathers who shot Injuns for pastime. But I am a wee bit worried. I am wondering how the Prince’s style of getting out of holds will affect the King. The King starts off by making a leap for the Prince. He grabs him by the legs. Down goes the Prince. The King gets an arm-hold and begins to twist. The Prince smiles broadly, a thing I loathe. Just when I think the pressure is going to cause the Prince considerable annoyance, the louse stretches his arm and breaks the hold. There ought to be a law! The King lets forth with a grunt of displeasure and prances around the ring. He is putting his mood into high gear and is it high! My boy tries his luck with a head scissors. He gets a firm grip, but you know the answer. The Prince treats one and all to a happy smile—and just stretches his neck out of the hold. How can you beat a mug like that? By now the King is very enraged and I would not be surprised if he began to scalp the Prince. The Prince tries a flying tackle and knocks the King flat on his left ear. Then he tries a body slam and my brat is looking a bit silly, to say the least. Next, the Prince— being in a joyful mood—picks up the King and begins to swing around-a-Rosy. Little Rose Petal does not care to see her offspring treated in such an ungentlemanly manner. She leaves her seat and begins to crawl through the ropes. In her hand she has a tomahawk and she has the noble intention of busting the Prince over the conkaroo.

King Leary “Urgh!” grunts Little Rose Petal. “Heap big bum!” Pop Leary grabs her by the rear system and yanks her back. For his pains, he gets a swat in the beakus—Princeton for nose.

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LOOK toward the ring and note that the Prince is doing unkind things to the King. He has my entry on his back and he is twisting both arms in a very vulgar and uncouth manner. But with a twist that I never knew the boy had he gets free and grunts at the Prince. The Prince looks very much surprised about the whole matter. During the next fifteen minutes the boys try all the tricks of the trade and the King is getting very sore about the Prince’s stretching abilities. Just when he thinks he has him, he doesn’t. However, I am also amazed how my boy gets out of tight holds. Tonight he is showing a brand of rassling that I never knew was in him. When the Prince—and everybody else—thinks he has him, the King jerks a leg or an arm and breaks away from his adversus. Felony Jones is so perturbed about the way in which the King gets out of the Prince’s best holds that he is thinking of yelling foul, a thing he is famous for. Suddenly, I hear a terrific yelp and note it comes from the ring. I also note that the extra large tongue is half out of his mouth and the Prince is on the mat. More, King Leary has clamped his alligator Mug Hold on the dear Prince and there is no happy smile on Felony Jones’s star athlete. Felony begins to yell foul in six languages, including the Scandinavian. “Please shut up,” bellers Droopy Drennan. “That is a very original hold and

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can the King help it if the Prince ain’t got brains enough to keep his tongue in his kisser?” Meantime, the King is working the Prince on his back. Felony continues to yell and contract double heart failure from his efforts. Soon the Prince settles down on his stomach and rolls his eyes. By now the King is beginning to enjoy his work. He even lets forth with a smile, the first in a week. Then he lets go the Prince’s head and chin and grabs him by the waist. Next, he proceeds to give him a super airplane spin—and I do mean Flying Fortress! When the King lets go, it is all over. Two bottles of smelling salts are employed. One for the Prince and the other for Felony Jones. It appears that Brother Jones is out farther than the Prince. When Felony revives he comes roaring down to our dressing room like a four-alarm fire. “That is very dirty rassling!” spouts Felony. “And I demand a return match.” “‘Twas a grand sight, it ‘twas,” says Pop Leary. “And you can have a return match when you want it. Just tell the Prince to get in a supply of tongues.” Felony is about to tell us what else he thinks when Little Rose Petal enters. She takes one look at Felony; he takes two looks at her—and Felony races out. “Look,” I says to Old Man Leary. “Did you notice the way the King got out of some of them holds? I don’t understand it.” “Think nothing of it,” replies Pop. “Didn’t you know that the King is doublejointed? Hell—even all the alligators knew that!” See you in Berlin!