Marco and Victor, the Wrestling Bear

 

                                                                                      

     Everything was big in the sixties, major advertising and promotions for movies, restaurants, and supermarket openings, like when the new Lilywhite Market, which later became Westward Ho and today is a Whole Foods, had its grand opening, complete with local rock bands, kiddie rides, and exhibitions, even the attention-grabbing, “Victor, the Wrestling Bear.”

     Victor wasn’t a full-sized bear, not like a grizzly, or anything like that, but tall enough on his hind legs to almost reach six-foot. With declawed paws and a muzzled snout to avoid his sharp teeth, Victor did have space enough to breathe comfortably, slobber, and stick out his long, wet tongue.

     Victor, like many California black bears, didn’t look particularly ferocious, but looks, as they say, can be deceiving. His handler offered to pay anybody who could pin Victor $10.00. Of course, you had to pony up a few “bucks” just to step into the caged enclosure with him.

     None of us, teenagers, wanted to challenge Victor, our reason dominating our fear. Eventually, though, some knucklehead would cave to the peer pressure, usually an older teenager, the guy who thought himself the toughest kid in the neighborhood. It took some taunting, though. 

     Of course, the first kid didn’t last more than a few seconds before you’d see him flying through air. After that, it was the same with any new combers taking up the challenge, Victor’s handler walking away with the profits tucked into his purse, a sure bet. You know, just like in Vegas, “The house always wins.”

     When we first arrived at the Lillywhite Market, at the corner of Barrington and National, a few miles from the shores of the beautiful Pacific on L.A.'s Westside, it was my friend Marco who spotted Victor tussling his opponents then tossing across the ring. "Hey, man, a wrestling bear!" Marco said we should all go and watch, just for the kicks of seeing a bear "kick ass." So, we did, and the gang of us laughed as each of Victor’s opponents bit the dust, or I should say the mat. It wasn't long before we were challenging each another to get into the arena with Victor. None of us was game, until Marco said he’d go into the cage. "Ain't no bear gonna kick my ass."

      Marco was no slouch. Built like a bear himself, he was strong, and tough. Losing his mother when he was barely twelve, his father working all day and playing guitar in a Mexican conjunto at night, and his three older brothers giving him a licking nearly every day, as a way to teach him to survive life on the streets, Marco itched to get in there with Victor.

     Marco had whipped some of the toughest guys in town, at least the ones his age, height and weight class, from junior high to high school, and a few of the older guys, too, but Marco, like his dad, was a musician, an unlikely romantic, music his first love, and the reason we were all there at the Lilywhite Market’s opening celebration, to see our friend, Joe Ramirez’s band, the Mojo Dave’s, perform in the parking lot turned street fair.

     Marco didn’t go out looking for trouble, but he wouldn’t back down if trouble came calling. By seventeen, he was like one of those old gunslingers in the television Westerns. He’d built a reputation with his fists, and he reached a point where the younger gunslingers wanted to see if he was as “bad” as everyone said, so they had started to come around to test him. He was still in his prime. That’s why, my friends razzed him about getting into the cage with Victor, the wrestling bear. The omnivore’s name, alone, should have been an omen.

     Marco was game from the start, but only hesitant, not from fear but from embarrassing himself in front of the hometown crowd. Not a wild brawler, if anything, Marco was strategic, even back then, as a kid, he loved history, lost himself in the Encyclopedia Britanica, and could tell you the war plans of Attila the Hun, Alexaner the Great, and Genghis Khan. Marco was also analytical, he played the odds, like if no guy could pin Victor the wrestling bear, so far, what had he done wrong? Marco realized they had no plan of attack. They were like Jake La Motta, all muscle and no brains.

     So, Marco accepted the challenge and strutted into the cage, eyeing Victor, ironically the same name as his dad and one older brother. Victor had a few inches on Marco, but Marco had gone against taller opponents before, except, the thing was, when he looked into Victor’s eyes to intimidate him, Marco saw the animal showed no emotion, just a black nothingness, no white around the eyeballs, at all.

      From Marco's shrewd analysis, Victor’s victims had all fallen like rag dolls because they tried wrestling Victor by pinning his arms and taking him down, little by little, like in a regular wrestling match. Victor’s arms, or upper legs, were way too strong, and his short legs gave him a strong center of gravity, so he didn’t go down easily. Within seconds, Victor had his adversaries flying across the ring, where he waited to sit on them and lick their faces, slobbering all over them, a way to add insult to injury.

     Marco’s strategy was to rush Victor, get under his arms, and ram into his chest, like a fullback crashing into a linebacker, get Victor onto the mat, wrap him up, and pin him to the mat before he knew what hit him. So, before anyone could say anything, Marco flew into the enclosure, like metal to magnet, he hit Victor and dropped him, not only surprising Victor but surprising himself. 

     Marco hung on, tight, a barnacle to a boat's hull, so tight, the bear couldn’t wiggle loose or get at Marco who had his arms wrapped about the bear’s strong upper body. After a minute, Marco could feel victory, that is, until the bear’s short legs, made their way under Marco’s stomach, and, the next thing he knew, he was catapulted up high as if shot from a medieval contraption, an old school WMD. Marco watched the mat under him fall away, his body rising, an astronaut leaving the earth's atmosphere. 

     All he could hear were Victor’s triumphant growls. When Marco hit the ground, the first one to greet him was Victor, his long, wet tongue licking Marco's face. "My gawd, I think he likes ya," said Victor's handler.

     With no coaxing from anyone, Marco paid his fee and went at Victor again, this time thinking he had the wily champ figured out, just beware of the short, powerful legs. Marco stuck to his plan of attack. He crashed into Victor's upper body, took down the bear, again, and had him on the mat, Marco’s face buried in a thick, furry blanket. He’d lasted longer than any of Victor’s other adversaries. Marco thought he had the bear this time. He reminded himself to stay clear of the short, muscular legs.

     Marco’s confidence soared, past human achievements flickering through his mind, a strong, bulky, right guard in football, a baseball catcher, a junior lifeguard, and water polo player, Marco had stamina. Victor appeared confused. Marco could feel the bear going limp, all he had to do was grip the bear’s hide, flip him to the right, and pin his massive upper body to the mat, except, Marco sensed something wasn’t right. Marco could feel Victor's powerful chest muscles as he began to pin the bear to the mat. Victor's hairy hide began to shift, like Victor was wearing a coat. That didn't seem right.

     Marco readjusted his arms and hands, and, again, Victor's fur rolled. Marco couldn't get a good grip. Then Marco could feel Victor’s short legs slide under his belly, and again, before he realized, Marco was sailing, looking down at his friends, and Victor standing and growling victoriously.  When Marco landed, Victor was the first to greet him, licking Marco like a tasty popsicle. Marco cursed, telling the handler to get the bear off him.

     Of course, all of us, Marco's friends, had a great laugh, the deep belly kind of laugh. When he dusted himself off, metaphorically speaking, Marco tried explaining the damn bear’s hide rolled like it had wheels, but none of us listened, not to the details, anyway. Marco said, “The guy should warn people about that.” Since none of us had the courage to go into the enclosure and fight the bear, Marco's stock rose a little more in our eyes.

     At least, Marco outlasted all the others who dared enter the bear’s den. Still, it all must mean something, or why would we all, now in our seventies, still be telling the tale of Marco and Victor, the Wrestling Bear? I guess some stories, and people, are like that. You can't get enough of them.