“Do we have a problem here? I didn’t think so. Clay, you need a ride?”
“Yup.”
He walked right through the crowd, and I followed behind him with renewed confidence. Although I was glad Jimbo had intervened, I worried that he was simply delaying the inevitable. I knew it would be just a matter of time before they would catch me by myself and make it worse for me because I had gotten away. This wasn’t a one-on-one fight; I was outnumbered, and the odds were stacked against me.
As we approached the school parking lot, I saw this beast of a car. It had a matte black finish, custom mag chrome wheels, and a supercharged four-speed engine. It looked like it belonged in the movies.
“What kind of car is that?”
“Clay. C’mon, dude. I will give you one guess.”
“Uh…it looks like the General Lee from The Dukes of Hazzard, but black.”
“Right on! It’s a 1969 Dodge Charger. Get in, my friend. I call her the Black Beauty.”
When he started the engine, I jumped almost out of my seat. I had never heard an engine that sounded so powerful; it was as though the car had a voice, and an angry one at that.
He turned on the CB radio and found one of his CB buddies on the net. As we drove through the gates of the school campus, I saw my dad pull in. I just waved.
* * * * *
Coach Pernelli, Jimbo’s dad, was approaching superstar status as a wrestling coach. Only one achievement stood between him and being the most successful wrestling coach in the state’s history. He had eight state wrestling crowns already; one more would tie his nemesis, Coach Pingatore from Northwestern High School. That year, he was poised to tie the record on the backs of his stellar wrestlers, particularly his star heavyweight, Richard Russell. Richard was a returning state champion who had finished his last year undefeated. He was a lock to repeat as champion.
Richard Russell was, though I hate to say it, a real nice guy. He was 6'4", 260 pounds and a triple threat. He ran cross-country in the fall, wrestled in the winter, and played baseball in the spring. He took all the college prep classes and maintained a 4.0 grade point average. The only thing flawed about Richard was that he wore too much cologne and he had a very annoying laugh. Not only did he wear too much cologne, but it was that real cheap stuff that old men in their sixties wore. His laugh amused me the first time I heard it, because it jumped at least five octaves in pitch and sounded very effeminate. It was very odd to hear such a girlish laugh come from this super jock. As far as wrestling goes, he was the perfect package. He was not only naturally athletic; he was a finesse wrestler. He did not have a signature move per se, but he was a master technician. Another factor that contributed to his success as a wrestler was his superior conditioning. By the time the cross-country season ended in late October, he was already in great condition. Most heavyweight wrestlers carried a high body-fat ratio, but Richard had a level of muscle definition you rarely saw in high school, especially at the heavyweight division.
Chapter 7
Blessed Are the Children
Jimbo had been a special child since the day he entered this world. Jimbo’s incredible strength was the result of a genetic disorder called myostatin-related muscle hypertrophy. It’s a rare condition that promotes the abnormal growth of skeletal muscles but it’s not known to affect the heart. Jimbo’s mother, a former world-class sprinter, had a mutation in one copy of the dominant myostatin-producing gene (MSTN), and she passed it on to her son in utero. It’s estimated that less than 4 percent of the human population carries the mutated gene. Jimbo’s condition gave him almost 40 percent more muscle mass than the average adult male, abnormal strength, accelerated reflexes, and almost no body fat. However, his genetic condition also carried disadvantages. In infants without normal body fat levels, the central nervous system can be impaired. Doctors say that infants need fat to help develop certain cognitive skills.
One of Jimbo’s first displays of strength was as a pre-toddler. When he was in his playpen, he could grab onto an adult’s finger and be lifted out onto the floor without losing his grip. Other kids dreamed of possessing his extraordinary strength and marked athletic abilities, but Jimbo just felt abnormal. Sometimes he resented his size and muscularity. Whenever we worked out together in the weight room, he felt self-conscious about his strength because he drew far too much attention. Hence, you would only see him lifting well below his maximum capability. He was almost like a boy genius in class deliberately giving the wrong answer to avert attention. No one knew how strong he really was, and he was content to leave it that way.
Despite his amazing physical abilities, Jimbo had dyslexia that, although mild, severely hampered his learning. His academic progress was slow, and he began lagging far behind his peers when he was about seven years old. All of his teachers recommended that he repeat the fourth grade, but his father rejected their advice and enrolled him in another school district. Officials at his new school recommended that Jimbo be placed in their special education program. At times, he would show noted aptitude when introduced to new concepts and ideas, but he was never consistent. Jimbo was also prone to memory loss and would forget things that had happened even earlier that day. Counselors concluded the memory loss was a coping mechanism he had for suppressing negative or unpleasant memories. When Jimbo was a young kid, his dad spent time trying to teach him to wrestle, but Jimbo was always able to overpower the other kids with his freakish strength. Jimbo never wanted to learn the more technical moves, because he did not need to—he was just that strong. Jimbo’s dad called him a one-trick pony. He told Jimbo that his strength would only take him so far and that he would eventually be beaten by more technically proficient wrestlers. That is true in probably ninety-nine of a hundred cases, but Jimbo was an anomaly. When Jimbo entered high school, he was almost a foot taller than most other freshmen were, and he had the muscle size and definition of a bodybuilder in training.
During his first two years at Westside High, he didn’t wrestle, but he played defensive end and defensive lineman on the varsity football team. He was a quarterback’s worst nightmare. Jimbo plowed through defenses like a screaming freight train without brakes. Most schools in our conference had designed play formations exclusively for him alone, but none ever worked. When I arrived at Westside, he was already All-State at both positions during his freshman and sophomore years. Several national sport pundits said Jimbo had the size, strength, and mental toughness to jump from high school straight to the NFL…as a junior. That precedent had been set in basketball, but in football, it was unheard of and unimaginable. During the football season, several NFL scouts had set up temporary accommodations near campus to observe Jimbo’s uncanny fusion of size, strength, and speed. Several of the opposing coaches and players accused Jimbo of taking steroids—but not to his face.
Chapter 8
A Few Good Men
Ms. Gidden, the history teacher, was my favorite. I liked her because she made her classes fun and used flashcards to help us remember material for the tests. At the end of each class, we had flash card competitions—those were so much fun. She also brought in guest speakers, which was a great way to keep us interested. I remember when we covered the Vietnam War. That class changed my life forever. I remember it as though it was yesterday.
“All right, class. Today we are going to cover the Vietnam War, and we have a guest speaker. I would like to introduce Gunnery Sergeant Irvin Seal.”
In marched a larger-than-life decorated figure in Dress Blues. His confidence, swagger, and commanding voice made a big impression on me. In a way, he reminded me of my dad. Gunnery Sergeant Seal was a member of the First Battalion, Ninth Marines, also known as “The Walking Dead.” He told an exciting story about a Viet Cong ambush during which he and his buddies played dead. The Viet Cong were aware of this tactic and used to stab the motionless bodies to ensure they were really dead. Gunnery Sergeant Seal described the anguish of having to witness the stabbing of his buddies playing dead as he laid ever so still, awa
iting certain death. However, when he was turned over to be stabbed with a bayonet, he surprised them with a fully loaded M-16. He mowed down the Viet Cong, killing seven, saving the rest of the squad. For his heroic actions, he was awarded a Silver Star.
He brought a USMC photo album that we all perused, though of course I was the first to grab it and the last to give it back. Aside from his Vietnam combat tour, Gunnery Sergeant Seal was also the light heavyweight interservice boxing champion from 1966 to 1968. He retired with a 49–0 record. At the end of his story, he said, “Any questions?”
“Do the Marines have a wrestling team?” I asked.
“Yes, we do. They train at Quantico, Virginia, and it’s their full-time job.”
“You mean they get paid to wrestle?” I blurted out.
“Yes, all over the country and sometimes overseas.”
“Where do I sign up?”
Unbeknownst to me, Staff Sergeant Gundlach, a Marine recruiter, was at the back of the class. He waved at me with a big grin on his face. He took my name down and made an appointment for me to visit him at the recruiting station. The starting pay was $419 a month! That was twice what I was earning at my after-school job as a janitor.
Later, after practice in the locker room, I was all fired up about the prospect of being a US Marine. I asked Jimbo about his aspirations.
“My dream is to own a small fleet of cabs. Be my own boss, not have to wear a tie, know how each day begins and ends…the simple life,” Jimbo said, smiling.
* * * * *
When the wrestling season began, Coach Rosenthal gave us a motivating speech about the difference between playing to win and playing not to lose. He always compared wrestling to life experience, emphasizing how our attitudes on the mat could carry over into other aspects of our lives. He always said that if we went all out in practice, we would be able to go all out in a match. I had so much respect for him; he had a no-nonsense approach to coaching, and it worked. Coach Rosenthal named Jimbo as team captain, although he had excused from practice that day. Unfortunately, that was also the day we had the team photograph taken. Coach Rosenthal was a great coach; he treated all of us just the same. He’s the kind of guy who inspires athletes to work hard. He taught us sportsmanship and grace. No matter how excited we were after winning a match, it was just as important to maintain restraint and discipline. There would be no victory dances or loud outbursts…those behaviors were typical of athletes who were not accustomed to winning.
During the next six meets, I witnessed Jimbo destroy his opponents with little effort. To be perfectly honest, I think most of his matches were won in the locker room during the weigh-in. He was menacing when he stepped up to the scale. I wouldn’t have wanted to be in his weight class, either. Jimbo had his own signature move; almost all of his pins used the highly unorthodox bear hug to a cradle. I don’t remember Coach ever teaching us that move; I think Jimbo made that sequence up himself. He would go for a double-leg takedown and work his way up the body until he had his opponent in a frontal bear hug. His lock around the waist was so powerful that he would squeeze the will to fight completely out of his opponent, then pile drive the other wrestler to the mat and cradle him into a pin. Once Jimbo locked his massive arms around someone and cemented his grip, there was no escape. If his opponent survived a first period, he was generally too exhausted and spent to compete another round. Defensively, Jimbo had one of the fastest escapes (the standup) from the bottom position I had ever seen for a guy his size. No one could hold him down, much less break him down.
Chapter 9
Intruder Alert—State of Emergency
The following Saturday, nearby Midway College was offering a one-day wrestling clinic from one to five p.m. Jimbo asked me and another teammate, Eddie Cortez, our 119-pounder, if we wanted to go. I eagerly accepted, and so did Eddie. At the last minute, Jimbo bailed out, so it was just Eddie and me attending the seminar. We hitched a ride there with a friend and arranged for Eddie’s dad to pick us up.
The seminar was held in a neighboring town not known for its hospitality toward minorities. It was a tight-knit working class town of about 69,000, and I was told that most of the residents were cordial. They were, but mostly to each other. Back in the 1920s and early 1930s, the town was run by three prominent organized crime figures who were notorious for their extreme public brutality against their rivals. Eventually, one man would reign supreme and would rise to world notoriety for his sheer acts of terror in the region. On April 24, 1930, US law enforcement officials declared him ‘Public Enemy Number One.’ In 1947, this man died after serving a prison sentence in Alcatraz and was buried in the cemetery across the street from our school. Thieves often stole his headstone as a souvenir. Under his reign of terror and for many decades beyond his death, this town was successful in resisting Black migration. Despite living under widespread police corruption and contract killings at record levels, Whites feared a ‘Black Invasion’ more. In the early 1950s, a young Black bus driver and his family moved into the all-White town. A mob of several thousand Whites chased them out of town and set fire to their furniture as police stood idly by. Many went on record to state their sentiments regarding the contentious issue.
“Why do they want to move here? We’ve spent a lot of money to make this street beautiful.”
“My car got firebombed when I first moved in. When I went to the police station to report it, they arrested me for disorderly conduct,” said a former Black resident.
“If we see a Black person walking along the street without a delivery uniform on, we call the police.” “What people fear here is not skin color,” says a local real estate salesman, “but devaluation of what they’ve worked all their lives for, a nice home.”
From the founding of the town in 1870 to 2000, the Black population in that town grew from 0% to only 1.1%. To keep Blacks from applying for municipal jobs, legislation was passed requiring applicants to have lived there for a year before they could be hired, according to press reports. Moreover, school principals would not guarantee the safety of Black children. The message was crystal clear to Black families who considered moving there: “Not welcome.”
Just after the seminar concluded, Eddie’s dad called the college and informed us that he couldn’t pick us up. Although we were exhausted from practice, we just decided to walk home. After about thirty minutes, we passed a local youth center where a baseball game was in progress. While we were walking past, Eddie and I noticed the pitcher staring at us with the ball in his mitt. This delay interrupted the game, and soon most of the team in the dugout stood up and began staring and pointing at Eddie and me, too. Within moments, both teams ceased playing and began running in our direction. It wasn’t long before we realized the angry crowd was after us. I looked at Eddie and we did what most sensible people would do in this situation: we ran like hell. But then my common sense kicked in. I was on a public street with adults in the area. How bad could it really get? I would soon find out.
Both Eddie and I ran toward nearby houses to knock on doors and ask for help, but all we got were lowered blinds and closed curtains. Finally, the hostile and angry crowd caught up to us. By this time, the crowd had multiplied in numbers and in hostility. We were quickly surrounded, and three guys about my age began to circle us like sharks before the kill. I kept trying to watch my back; I knew this sneak tactic. There wasn’t much daylight left, which added to my fear. While the crowd was circling us, I said the Lord’s Prayer silently as fast as I could. I wanted to be spared, but there would be no negotiations and there would be no escape: they wanted blood, and they were going to get it. As I turned around to look over my shoulder, I was met with a fist to my face and was tackled to the ground. Eddie went down next, but I couldn’t see much because the crowd blocked my vision. We were kicked, punched, and spat on while being subjected to a tirade of ethnic slurs. This formed a spectacle, and the fight spilled onto the street.
Almost immediately, word got around that two colored kid
s were in town, and two men were dispatched to the area in a ‘special van’ to collect us. This conversation was transmitted between two CB radios in the local area. Luckily, Jimbo was CB channel surfing at the time in his car. When he realized they were talking about Eddie and me, Jimbo immediately went into pursuit mode and commenced to search for us. He was trying to find us before the van did. While searching for us, he passed a white van with black-tinted windows merging into traffic. The van pulled up behind Jimbo at a traffic light, and Jimbo sped through the red light to get a head start on the van.
When I looked up from the ground, all I saw was a sea of scowling faces. I was panicking. This wasn’t on school grounds, there were no teachers around to intervene, and it was getting darker by the minute. I was being kicked and punched from all different directions, and I tried to protect my face and my privates as best as I could. The guy who had tackled me to the ground got kicked a bunch of times by accident as we kept rotating positions while fighting on the ground.
The strange thing was how many passersby did nothing to stop the fight. However, I did see a ray of hope; I remember seeing a brown Ford Pinto make a U-turn in the middle of the street. Two men in their mid-to late fifties quickly exited the car. They forcefully made their way to the center of the crowd, where everyone stopped fighting because of their presence. I took a deep sigh of relief and began to calm down as the older-looking man wearing bifocals extended his hand to me. As I grasped his hand, I noticed his grip had become painfully tight…and then rage colored his face. He then kicked me in the stomach so hard that his glasses fell off his face; the other man kicked me in the back, but not nearly as hard. I tried to breathe, but I couldn’t. I blacked out, but it couldn’t have been for too long—maybe just seconds. My vision returned first, and then my hearing. The two men then got into their car and drove off.