The Night Skandor Akbar Made Me Rich

Sign the contract, put yourself in that squared circle and prepare to get mashed, mauled and maimed, because the General is coming to town with Devastation, Incorporated! – “General” Skandor Akbar

I was 12 years old the first and only time my dad took me to the “World Famous” Sportatorium in Dallas. After having seen the World Class Championship Wrestling shows on television for so many years, and having only been to one other live wrestling event, a WCCW show at my 3rd grade gym in 1985, the idea of seeing guys like Kerry & Kevin Von Erich and “Gentleman” Chris Adams live and in person had me more than a little fired up.

I wish I could remember the exact date of the show but I do remember it was in 1989, very likely right before WCCW folded and was sold off to Jerry Jarrett and the USWA Promotion. I’d always been a huge Mid-South and World Class fan, always preferred the stiffer wrestling style to the more ‘Hollywood’ style the WWF was doing at that time, and I’d been pushing for my dad to take me to a show for years.

Walking up to the Sportatorium from the parking lot was eye-opening, to say the least, as it was nothing like how it was depicted on television. Located in the heart of Dallas, off Industrial Blvd., the legendary sports arena had fallen into a state of disrepair, a fact that did not go unnoticed by any of our travelling party. Once inside, our group, consisting of myself, my dad and a couple of his buddies (one of whom was former Texas Rangers catcher Geno Petralli) picked up a few beverages and some popcorn and took our seats about halfway up the bleachers. We also grabbed some french fries while at the concession stand, a particularly funny truth considering years later it was said that once the Sportatorium was closed and the fryers were finally emptied out, several rats were found stuck to the bottom, hidden from view by years of old, unchanged cooking oil. Regardless, those were tasty fries, and hey, I’m likely impervious to rabies!

Heatseekers In The Stands

As the matches got up and running, my dad and his buddies decided to cheer for all the heels, a decision that did not go over particularly well with the hardcore “rasslin’” fans in attendance. While I only recall a few of the wrestlers on the bill that night, I can remember quite clearly the old man sitting in front of us exclaiming, “You boys are booin’ the wrong guys. That can get you hurt around here.” This was real life to those fans; they were not playing around.

Some time passed, with all of us having a good go of it, laughing and booing and messing around with some of the other folks around us, most of whom actually proved to be good sports about the whole thing. Then Skandor Akbar walked to the ring, leading his stable, Devastation Inc.

Perhaps it was his gimmick that so incited the old school fans (and/or his penchant for throwing fireballs in the face of babyface wrestlers). Maybe it was little more than all those years he’d spent on the other side of the ring from “our boys”, The Von Erichs. Whatever it was, he was as hated as hated could be with the Dallas crowd. They legitimately despised him and he played it for all it was worth. As he stalked a path back and forth at ringside, chomping away on one of his cigars, the crowd took on an entirely different energy. It was at this moment that one of my dad’s buddies, himself a stogie chewer, said to me, “I’ll give you $50 if you’ll walk down there and hand that guy one of my cigars.” $50 was a weekend of mowing lawns in the hot Texas summer. He’d barely finished his sentence before I was on my way down the bleachers, cigar in hand.

That Was A Lot Of Food!

If you’ve never seen the layout around the ring of the old Sportatorium, there were no big, fancy barricades like what you might see at a WWE show; just a single piece of rope, strung up to separate the crowd from the wrestlers. So, I’m there by the rope trying my best to get Akbar’s attention, but of course, he’s paying me no mind because everyone else is yelling at him too. As the match continued on, Akbar began to pace back and forth, finally spotting me as he turned to say something to the crowd. When my eyes met his I held the cigar out and yelled, “It’s for you, take it.“ In one motion, he tossed away his old cigar, grabbed the one in my hand, bit a piece off the end and popped it in his mouth, before turning back around to yell at the referee in the ring.

I stood there for a moment, still shocked he’d actually taken the cigar, then turned to look up at my dad and his friends. What I saw, however, was not their smiling faces. Instead, I locked in on a very angry crowd, and they were all looking right back at me. A trickle of boos became a wave, which made me laugh, nervously. After a moment, thinking the worst had passed, I went to take a step back up the bleachers to my seat, only to find that step met with a beer shower, followed by the contents of what felt like the entire Sportatorium concession stand area. I was being pelted from all sides and I was honestly loving every second of it. There I was, a 12 year old kid, and for one night only, I had become the biggest heel in that wonderfully dilapidated old arena.

After a few seconds, the food throwing subsided and I made my way back up the bleachers to my dad and his friends. They all had a good laugh. The old man sitting in front of us had a nice laugh at my expense as well. The matches from that night have long since faded from my mind, a byproduct of time (and way too many “late nights”), but that moment with “The General” and the subsequent food bath I received for my treachery remains as fresh as any memory I hold dear.

That $50 spent pretty well, too.

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