Taking Liberty: Hulk Hogan and the boys

By Bruce Sayler
It stood probably 3 feet tall and the boys tossed it around their room when they were young.
They called it an action figure while the girls, for the sake of sibling conflict, insisted on calling it a doll. Whatever description defines accuracy, it was a Hulk Hogan likeness made of cloth and stuffed similar to the creation of teddy bears.
Imitating the pro wrestling moves and bravado in the Hulk Hogan realm, the boys flung it, punched it and kicked it – not of anger, just in performances. Almost spookily representative of the Hulk, himself, the action figure (or doll) never showed a tear, hole in its fabric or cut.
Hulk Hogan, live or a modeled toy, was tough.
Last I heard of the version in our house and after the five kids all grew, the Hulk Hogan toy left, too, fully intact and in the arms of a grandson several years ago and hasn’t yet returned. It is probably still in one piece.
The scenes were what flashed through my mind last week when I read that the real Hulk Hogan had passed away, likely of a heart attack, at home at age 71. Though a performer in a business of constant suspect for reality or substance – or substances – violence, real or feigned, the man was a giant. And, if kids liked him and it seemed he tried to deliver them good, positive messages, I didn’t mind.
We even bought his action figure.
Still, though, Hulk’s death also carried to me my own first live experience with attending a pro wrestling event.
My Grandfather Bagley (my mom’s dad) and my dad both watched pro wrestling shows regularly and in the exciting moments and clinches, you didn’t want to be in the way of an occasional punch flung out of reflex toward the living room’s center.
I loved watching with them.
Grandpa had cable, so he got two shows a week. One was out of Chicago and featured some of the bigger names of the “sport” then: Crusher Lisowski, Lou Thesz, Verne Gagne, Dick The Bruiser, Haystacks Calhoun, etc.
The other was piped in on a Spokane station to Missoula cable customers, but emanated from The Masonic Temple in Seattle and headlined the terrifying Maurice “Mad Dog” Vashon, “The Mad Russian” Soldat Gorky, Japanese villain Haru Sasaki and unbeatable good guy Shag Thomas. I was very dismayed later to learn that all these supposedly enemy foreigners were actually Americans costumed up to play on the emotions and prejudices of the time.
In 1963, we took a family vacation to Seattle where my dad had three brothers now living and my mom had an aunt. We spent a week. We all had sights we wanted to see and events to witness. No. 1 on my list was the Thursday night pro wrestling card at the Masonic Temple because, gosh, it was a big deal. It was on TV.
Uncle Don and Aunt Ruth made the arrangements.
They, my parents and I loaded into the car (can’t remember if it was ours or theirs) and headed for the arena. My brother, then only 7, stayed back with a babysitter. He was not to be allowed to witness the live violence or stay up that late.
The place was old and it was packed. It was noisy. I was astonished by how many women and girls were in attendance. Pro wrestling just didn’t seem like a girly thing to this age 11 boy growing up in the ‘60s.
Cigarette smoke dangled thick in the air over the rows of rising wooden backless bleachers that sufficed for seating. There were drinks, but I honestly don’t remember whether alcohol was served.
I got to see them.
Sasaki karate-chopped an opponent I don’t remember, but I think the shot paralyzed him, at least long enough for a pin. Vachon went berserk in the ring, rendered his opponent unconscious and decked a referee who was trying to force him to play by the rules. I think, after security forces “failed,” a contingent from the “good guys” dressing room dragged him off the helpless opponent sprawled on the canvas.
Thomas did not perform, to the chagrin of the crowd. I think I recall that the ring announcer informed that an injury prevented the popular wrestler from appearing. However, I think “Pretty Pat” Patterson used a flying dropkick and then a full nelson to render Gorky helpless and register the pin.
It was a long show, seemed like close to a dozen bouts. I was so wide-eyed I’m surprised I wasn’t permanently blinded by the overhead lights. Dad apparently stayed calm enough to not shoot a straight right into the back of my head in the heat of action, or maybe Mom had him under control.
Then, it got scary.
A young blond-haired man named Bobby Schoen, hyped to be a Lou Thesz protégé, was matched against famed Portland bad guy “Tough Tony” Borne. It was brutal. No such beating has ever been recorded in the history of man. Borne slammed him, punched him, kicked him, gouged him. I had a dislike for Borne from watching his matches on TV and knew him to be a dirty so-and-so.
Schoen was a mess. He couldn’t seem to keep his feet and seemed completely neutralized by the “illegal” tactics Borne used. The referee was completely ineffective.
I thought they should call the cops, maybe the Marines.
The horror, though, was when Borne threw Schoen into the ropes and twisted the ropes around the young guys neck, leaving him hanging like a caught gunslinger in an Eastwood spaghetti western. And then, he shook the ropes and, I swear, Schoen’s white face sped right through red, to purple, to blue. His eyes shut.
Omigod? I knew he was dying. Maybe it was too late. I was sick to my stomach, fear overcame my whole being and I might have been shaking. My folks my shoulder and arm and promised me the “suffering” wrestler would be all right.
An army of refs, other wrestlers and security got into the ring and corralled Borne, then freed Schoen from the ropes crossed in front and behind his throat. Guys looking like medical staff rushed to the ring with a stretcher. They loaded him on it and whisked him away to the back of the building where the locker rooms were located.
I never saw Borne leave the ring. I don’t know if he walked out alone or if it was like he had a security escort. I thought he should’ve been on his way to jail.’
I was so surprised at how the crowd was. It screamed plenty when Schoen was absorbing his beating, but returned to normalcy once the next bout started. Geez. A guy was almost murdered (and maybe he was) here and nobody cares? C’mon.
I was anxious for word on Bobby Schoen. Was he fighting for his life? Was he still alive? If so, what hospital did they take him to? Can we send flowers? A get well card? Is “Tough Tony” Borne in prison?
My aunt tapped me on my shoulder a half hour or so later while the pro bouts continued, ones that now didn’t holm my attention. She pointed to the end of the aisle on the floor separating two sets of bleachers.
Two attractive teenage girls stood on either side of a big, young blonde guy and giggled and google-eyed at him. He was freshly showered, dressed in a collared sport shirt and slacks. His hair was neatly combed.
It was Bobby Schoen. There wasn’t a mark on him, not even a rope burn.
Omigosh! What happened?!!
God or Oral Roberts must’ve been sitting ringside.
Aunt Ruth handed me a white envelope she dug out of a purse and a pen. She smiled at me.
As we made our way to the exit after the show, I glanced to my right and spotted a large bearded man wearing a suit and tie standing in a small group of well-to-do-looking men. They laughed over a shared joke, I presume.
“So, what do you think, Bruce?” Uncle Don, probably grinning, asked me on the car ride back to his house. “Was it real or was it fake?”
I don’t remember what I replied. I don’t think I had an answer and the events of the night swirled through my head like a pool in a whitewater run.
I’m sure, though, that somewhere in my two-story house in Butte there is a cabinet or dresser drawer or box in the basement that contains a crumpled up old white envelope with Bobby Schoen’s autograph on it.