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In the front room of a row house
in Hollis, NY a black and white television flickered
in the upstairs window and a loud shout carried out
to the street. "Carlshon!" Came a woman's call from
the kitchen. The wrestling fan was Charles G. Feil,
but his wife Christina called him affectionately by
the name Carlshon. When she became too concerned about
his overreaction to wrestling, he retired to the guest
bedroom upstairs and watched the matches on the portable
television kept there for guests.. Quite often she would
come out of the kitchen, because of his outbursts and
in return he'd say: "nicht sprechen, Ich mochte gern.
I'd like to watch this," he'd say typically combining
German and English. German was thrown into conversations
when he got excited. Although it was his first language,
he spoke English with his family. He used only an occasional
German phrase. She had brought him another bottle of
Rheingold beer and rye bread spread with liverwurst,
hoping it would calm him. These were times when she
would most likely remind him that if he didn't calm
down, she was going to "have to call Pastor Mills,"
or "bring the smelling salts". He waited in breathless
anticipation as the less fortunate wrestler was thrown
repeatedly against the ropes and continually rebounded
all the way across the ring, until he fell under the
ropes onto a table occupied by eight cigar smoking reporters
who grabbed their notepads and cameras and scattered
as the table smashed under them. Carl Feil held his
breath and waited, watching as the poor fellow actually
got up off the broken table and, all wet with coffee
and beer, climbed back into the ring to be at the mercy
of the bigger Bronco character again! What followed
was a flapjack spinebuster, a high-angle spinebuster
where Bronco placed his head under the the smaller man's
arm, then stood up, holding onto his legs and throwing
him back-first onto the mat. Carl hoped that the refs
saw the extra knee jab that he'd thrown in at the last
minute before going to commercial break. "Shwine Hund!!!"
Carl yelled, with a noticeable German accent, while
on television a new electric razor moved slowly and
easily across the stubble of hair on a man's face. In
response to this outburst, Tina rushed in to where he
was standing, with his fists clenched, face red with
fury. "Don't you think you're overreacting Carl, these
men are only-" "I've never seen anything like it. Completely
unfair and they didn't stop it either!" "You're going
to end up in the hospital with that wrestler if you
don't calm down," she told him. "I won't either!" Tina
smiled. Wrestling was on every week along with boxing
and roller derby, all of which could get a rise from
him. But none affected him like wrestling. When he watched
wrestling, he was more an active participant. "Why don't
you watch some nice baseball. I don't see you getting
excited during that?" Tom: remembered I was very little
and I'd be upstairs in the bedroom and Grandpa on Saturday
nights used to watch wrestling on tv in the same room.
He'd be sitting there and he'd get all upset with the
bad guy and he'd be yelling at the tv: "No, don't do
that! Don't do that! " And I'd be trying to sleep right
in the bed next to him! He'd be sitting right at the
end of the bed where my feet would be. I can still see
his silluette. Grandma was probably watching something
on the main tv downstairs, she didn't want to watch
wrestling or maybe he didn't even wan't her to know
he was watching it. The little wrestler was back in
the ring pounding his chest in a gesture of defiance
and then ran across the stage to where he could get
into position for taking his opponent down by jumping
on his back. And Carl was back in the game again. Too
bad Big Bronco didn't go down, but with a dramatic shake
of the head, neatly spun around, latched one hand atop
the short wrestlers crew cut head and proceeded to slam
that head against the ropes about ten or twelve times.
After three vigorous body slams, the little man went
limp and next shot the televsion showed was him being
dragged out of the ring by two men in white coveralls.
Because the referee didn't bother to stop this abuse,
Carl Feil jumped up from his seat, said something in
German: "Und der Haifisch, der hat Zahne. C'mon Ref,
stop this match. Do your job and stop this match." Another
little wrestler(called The Nameless Contender, one of
a long series of human punching bags) took over for
the last one. You could see how much the bigger man
towered above him unfairly. But it didn't matter. With
his characteristic war whoop he went to work on the
big guy, punching again and again , letting loose like
he'd been held back for too long and now the fury was
escaping like steam from a kettle. "I'm going to go
outside for a few minutes to cool down," he said, not
giving her a chance to explain what his daughters already
had, that it was all an act; that no ref would let a
legitimate match go on where one wrestler did all the
giving and the other, all the receiving. Tina followed
him back to the kitchen, to turn off a boiling kettle
. Carl headed through a swinging door, through the kitchen
and out to the garage where there was heard some banging
around and loud talking in German for a few minutes.
He walked around the back of the house just as the Wilsons
arrived in their green 1948 Chevrolet. John Wlson smoked
White Owls. He always had a cigar in his mouth. John
liked the "Ponies", meaning the horseraces. It's a bet
that 90% of all horse betters lose money. But it was
a lifestyle for John. There were lots of others out
there who liked to be there and be part of it. Even
when he lost at the horse races, which he inevitably
would, he lit a cigar. People asked him why he would
light a cigar when he'd just lost every wager that he'd
placed that day and he mentioned his wife. To celebrate
his beautiful wife Marge, he said. She was always glad
to have him no matter what. His cigars were the strongest.
They were the big White Owls with the little paper bands
on them that served well as play rings for kids. He
found that to be a simple way to be liked by all the
kids, to remember them with the paper rings instead
of tossing them away. He puffed away at such a continual
rate that you knew he was there before he actually came
into a room, for the smoke proceded him. He once said
that his reputation was as good as the latest cigar
he was smoking. Of course, If there wasn't cigar smoke
surrounding him, it wouldn't have been the same. It
seemed to insulate him from raw experience. Cigar smoke
would linger throughout the house, depite the windows
and fans. "Where's Carl?" He asked, looking around and
seeing the television off. "I sent him outside to cool
off during the commerical break," Tina said. While the
Pep Boys sang about their auto parts on the radio, he
meandered in to the kitchen, where he saw Carl's head
pass by the back window. He took a puff on his cigar,
opened the back door and stepped out on the stoop. He
was just in time to find out why Carl had gone to the
backyard in the first place. The butzer was actually
loud enough to echo off the nearby buildings, loud enough
to motivate some bird activity and the ensuing laughter
caused him to come back inside red faced with embarressment.
The laughter of children several houses down carried
over. John cleared his throat and took another puff
of his cigar. Carl was a proud man who didn't like to
but when he was embarressed, you could see it in his
face, as when after futzing with a camera for a while,
it went off accidently capturing a special moment of
mirth. This was one that John wished he had a camera
for. You should have seen Carl's face, he told Marge
and Tina later so Carl could have another opportunity
to be embarrassed all over again. "As I said Carl. I'm
glad I have the cigar. You want one?" "Are they White
Owls?" "Yes," "Yes, danke."
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