If you wanna wrestle, learn to speak the language. This was a lesson learned the hard way by a worker back in the early 1970's.
Around 1974 or so, we booked Bobo Mongol (Bull Johnson) in Seattle, where we planned to use him well as one of the top bad boys. His first night in the territory was for a match at the Armory in Spokane in the opener against Jay Clintstock (Jerry Parquette), one of the more popular authentic Native Americans ever to work this or any other area.
I remember being in the Spokane dressing room prior to the start of the first match. Clintstock approached another wrestler who knew Bobo Mongol well. "I've never worked with Bull before," Jay said to Paddy Ryan (Earl Freeman), who knew him well. "Is there anything I should know about him?"
Bull was a short fire hydrant type build of a man who with his bald head except for a pony tail, bushy eyebrows, and his scarred up face, was really intimidating appearing, but the most unusual aspect about him were the size of his hands. His hands were nearly the size of Andre the Giant's.
Ryan advised Clintstock to go talk to Johnson, because Bull could be devastating if he threw a chop at you coming off the ropes. Clintstock disappeared for a few minutes, presumably to the other dressing room, and returned with a satisfied look on his face after his meeting.
The opener went on and I went to collect the gate receipts and returned to the safety of the dressing room to count the totals. My work was abruptly halted about ten minutes later when Clintstock barged into the dressing room, sweaty and teary-eyed, and in much pain. I immediately saw his serious injury. Smack dab in the middle of his chest was the imprint of a hand. The flesh around the handprint had already begun to swell and the red area in the center looked like it was on fire. It was so embedded into his body, it looked like someone had taken a paint brush and etched a hand imprint on his chest. But no, this wasn't the case. It was the real thing. He had been hit so hard you almost expected to see an exit wound in his back. It was obvious he would suffer a bruised chest for several months and there was a good chance the injury would never ever heal entirely.
If Clintstock hadn't been in so much pain and agony, he would have been a lot angrier, but believe me, he was angry. He was fuming, and I thought he was going to risk his life and everyone else's by attacking Johnson when he returned from the ring. I held my breath when the dressing room door opened, but it was only the referee. A temporary calm before the inevitable occurred. So many thoughts flashed through my mind. "What have I done? Did I book a monster? Was he a shill for the opposition sent here to really destroy my talent? Would he turn on me?"
But referee Johnny Dupree, who also was obviously shook up, set my mind at ease just a little. The ref whispered to me as he walked past, "It's the Indian's fault. I heard Mongol tell him to duck. He just didn't duck." You think Clintstock was mad. Seconds, later, Bobo Mongol crashed through the dressing room door swearing, fuming, and arms flailing every which way. He stormed right over to Clintstock, got nose-to-nose with him, and screamed, "What's wrong with you? I told you to d-iz-uk!" In a flash, Clintstock realized what had happened, and he responded with a line that none of us there will ever forget ... "And I told you, I don't speak carney."
