The Punk and the Professor. Billy Lawrence

Russell were so bent on being successful business owners that they just about wrecked their lives over it with debt. From baked desserts to a karaoke studio, they finally settled on dry cleaning.

      What were they all really trying to clean up though? What did Andre bring out in these fellows? Or was it simply that his two stepdaughters had selected men who aspired to be something like Andre? Who could blame them? Both Don and Russell had suddenly given up stable nine-to-five jobs for a life that was independent, but at least Andre was the real deal— the real successful businessman— and he had worked hard for it from the ground up. My stepfather and uncle both began to superficially flaunt money they didn’t have and the debts mounted. Were they actually competing with Andre? Did Don really think a collector’s car and a few watches were going to match up to a million dollar house on the water? His finances were so bad one year that he picked off all my birthday cards in the mail from my aunts one year, signed the twenty-five dollar checks and deposited them. We only found out when Aunt Judy called to see why we hadn’t thanked her. And did my uncle Russell really think going out to dinner several times a week to some cheap chain restaurant would match up to the fine dining my grandmother experienced? It was all probably just to make them feel better about themselves.

      Don was goofy at times, but he stayed polite and tried to be social. I could tell my aunts and uncles wanted nothing to do with him. When Don would go off about this or that, some would get up and walk away. He talked too much for them. Judy would roll her eyes at him whenever he would start in. This was a tough crowd, especially if they thought he wasn’t being good enough to their own, my mother.

      After five or so hours, we said our goodbyes and got into my mother’s Dodge to drive home. On the way, Don decided to pull off the main road and head down a side street toward the water. This was another well-to-do town miles away from my grandmother and only a couple of towns away from where we lived. Long Island was very much like my family Christmas party— A socioeconomic soup. You’d drive through one run down, scary town with bums and boozed up beggars on the street and boom— you’re suddenly in a ritzy village decorated with cheerful lights with Mercedes and BMWs lined up along the cobblestone curb.

      Don did a u-turn and parked along the side of the street. He rolled his window down and stuck his hand out to point across the street.

      “What are we doing?” my mother asked.

      “Look, everyone, that’s where Captain Bob lives. You know, Captain Kangaroo!” Don announced.

      I remembered the morning TV show.

      A tennis court was in the front yard. Tall shrubs blocked most of the great big white house. We sat there for a minute or so staring at the house. What was Don thinking? Was he looking to show us that my mother’s family members weren’t the only ones with wealth? There was more of it out there.

      “Look, there he is bouncing in the bushes!” Don exclaimed like a little boy. I looked but no one was there.

      We laughed and my mother told him to get going.

      9

      HE WAS THE NEW KID at school with the pudgy face, dark skin, black curly hair, and big fierce eyes. I found Gene Muraco in the elementary school hallway crying his eyes out. He sat on the floor against the wall with his legs crouched up against him like a shield. The boy was hysterical. The boys had been picking on him for some time since he had arrived at our school, just as they had done to me when I had moved to the town. They had put me through hell— making me do pushups, chasing me around, having their older sisters wait outside, but unlike Gene, I never broke down, at least in front of them. I fought them with a vengeance or escaped out the back door. I had made it through, with the help of Steven, of course. Gene, though, was having a rough time on the road to respect, and so I had great empathy for him. This would be the foundation of our friendship.

      Kneeling down next to him I assured him.

      “Don’t worry, it’s going to be all right. They’re just messin’ around. They did it to me too when I moved here. They’ll stop soon.”

      I told Gene to be strong and not to worry. I told him his frizzy hair could use a trim, but that it didn’t matter too much, even though I knew my new spiked haircut had made a world of a difference. I told him it was all right to me that he looked different. His dad was half Italian and half Hawaiian, his mom was Latino, so his skin was naturally a bit darker than what everyone was used to. He stuck out as the odd guy, but maybe we needed that. I told him I thought it was cool. I told him not to fret.

      Months later, Gene was feeling more at home. He was wearing gel in his hair. I had told him about a cool barber I went to up the road and he started to go. He even started to attend my backyard wrestling tournaments, which were a huge confidence builder for him. These wrestling matches had also aided me on my road to popularity. All the kids liked a place to hang.

      A group of us would gather in my backyard on Saturday and Sundays to battle it out. Sometimes we had as many as twenty kids in my backyard. Steven, who was the biggest and strongest, was the world champion, of course. The other big kid in our grade never showed up. Evan Klaus didn’t want the confrontation with Steven.

      Battle royals were wild. A good twelve of us would rumble it out until there was one person left standing. All you had to do was stay within the boundaries and push everyone else over the line. I always eliminated kids with the use of foreign weapons: a 2x4, bulky snow boots, sand in the face, a TV remote control, a telephone cord, a folded steel chair. See any of those come out and you’re going to take a step back, right over the line of elimination. There were a few times I thought they were going to kill me after these stunts.

      There were two boys who always lost. They were the equivalent of the washed-up guys on TV who never won a single match in their entire careers. They called them the jobbers because they enhanced the talent of the real superstars. We would dominate these boys— pulling their hair, hoisting them into the air, slamming them on their backs. We often sent them home crying, but they always came back for more. You have to respect their determination.

      Gene Muraco was not one of the losers. He was big and could hold his own in the ring with the majority of us. Wrestling with the other guys in the neighborhood was a way of proving ourselves, and Gene did it well. He would punish the two losers with sheer enjoyment. There was one memorable day when he held one of the losers straight up in the air in an upside down suplex for a whole fifteen minutes before dropping the sick screaming boy on his back. We honestly all got roughed up from time to time; I remember seeing stars a few times while wrestling Steven. We’re lucky no one broke their neck.

      Gene began to take on some of the other popular boys and began to make his mark on the scene. I took him on as a tag-team partner, and we went straight to the tag championship and dominated the scene for a while. Gene fought just as dirty as I did: choking, using weapons, holding opponent’s pants in pins. We both did anything we could to win our matches and enjoyed being the “villains.” Sometimes we would hurt someone so bad he couldn’t get back up. Then we’d double-team their partner until the match was ours. Sometimes Gene and I would come out with war make-up on our faces looking like the lunatics we were; this frightened the hell out of them.

      Through time, Gene and I would come to battle each other in practice matches, always non-titled of course, and private so no one would ever know the outcome. Gene and I competed during the week in his backyard, since all of the other boys were off doing basketball or baseball. Some days he got the best of me and used his weight to his advantage. Some days I used my speed and skill to outmaneuver him. There were many draws where we both lost due to time expiration or double knock out. We’d lay there exhausted, sweaty, laughing at the sky.

      One day during one of our private matches in Gene’s backyard, he did the unthinkable for a heavier wrestler. He perched the second ropes, which was actually a picnic bench, and he prepared to deliver a crushing elbow smash. As he leapt through the air, his big torso seemed to go into slow motion and freeze for a moment, hanging over me as I lay on the grass waiting to be crushed. Up went my foot, as wrestlers on television often do when they see a devastating elbow on the way. Gene flew at me through the air and came crashing down face first into my foot. But it wasn’t his