A simply fantastic article by Frank Gotch. He talks about the state of wrestling, what he thinks of the Greco-Roman style, why he dislikes wrestling in the French quarters of Canada, thoughts on Leo Pardello and Charley Olson, he talks of his mentor Farmer Burns and the one vice that the Farmer has thats so strong he skipped a match to take part in, his ideals of prize fighting, and he shares his thoughts on the best wrestlers in the world. Washington Evening Star - March 17, 1907 FRANK GOTCHS WRESTLING STORIES Interesting Anecdotes of Athletic Life Told by the Champion. Whistle Didnt Blow-Lively Times With French Canadians as Pardello Saw It. By Frank A. Gotch Americas Champion Wrestler As all rules of sport are continually being tinkered with, so we often find critics complaining of the freedom given the athlete in the gripe of catch-as-catch-can wrestling. Personally, I believe that the American catch-as-catch-can rules, as established by the Police Gazette, are the best in the world. I detest brutality on the mat as much as anyone else; I do not believe in injuring or maiming a man unnecessarily. The Japanese warriors, in their great battles, always, it is said, plan to leave a single avenue of retreat open to the besieged. So in wrestling a hold should always lead to a fall, not to simple brutality. A man should always be given the opportunity of yielding. My toe-catch combination has often been severely criticised. And yes, it is not unfair in catch-as-catch-can wrestling, and I have never employed it without leaving my opponent free to turn his shoulders to the mat, if he doesnt like it. Graeco-Roman wrestling I abhor. It confines holds above the waist and in this country has come to be a refuge for the big men who cant wrestle, but who are strong. We dont see Graeco-Roman wrestlers in America nowadays like Billy Muldoon, Ernest Roeber, Charley Wittmer, men who studied and practiced the science of that branch of the sport, although of course, Hjalmar Linden, the Swede, is a capital man at the style. When the Whistle Didnt Blow. Talking of Graeco-Roman wrestling brings to my mind the style of rules which they follow in the Canadian cities. I wrestled a great deal in Canada during the season of 1905-6, and I had my work cut out winning the great International tournament at Montreal, Ottawa and Quebec, in which over fifty of the best heavyweights in the world participated. Over in Canada, the French-Canadians want Graeco-Roman wrestling in preference to catch-as-catch-can. They have created a set of rules, styled the French Graeco-Roman rules, which constitute a weird code. With only holds above the waist permitted, they bar the strangle, the hammerlock and about everything else, so that a man is almost powerless to do anything. They they blow a whistle every few minutes and the contestants take a rest. I have observed that about the time the Frenchman is getting tired the whistle generally blows. The first time I tried these rules they confronted me with a mass of humanity that weight about 300 pounds. I wrestled him down to the mat with body holds in five minutes and had him safely Nelsoned, when the whistle blew. We rested. Again I had him close to the floor and the whistle blew. Five times I came exasperatingly near securing a fall, but each time the whistle blew. Once the Frenchman got me in a bad spot and the whistle hung fire for twenty minutes. Finally, I got my man locked hard and fast, and although anticipating a blast from the tin horn every second, I got his shoulders to the mat. Then I looked up. The referee, a Frenchman, was red in the face still struggling with the whistle. Someone had stuffed a bit of paper in it, and it wouldnt blow. Wherell I Put Him? On one occasion in Ottawa for half an hour they kept my opponent from defeat by insisting that we wrestle only on the mat, which was a handkerchief affair about a yard square in the center of the stage. The referee was very friendly to the home man, and desperate measures had to be employed. The next time I armlocked him I slapped on a hard half Nelson and crotch hold and lifted him clean off the mat. Then I turned to the referee. Wherell I put him? I asked. That brought the house down and broke the match right then and there. Canadian Sports But I will say for the French Canadians that they are great sports, and Montreal is a great sporting town. Theyll bet you deaf, dumb and blind on every proposition, from roulette to the direction in which the wind will blow tomorrow. If you dont believe it go up and witness the winter sport carnival on the ice some January or February. As Pardello Saw It. During my career on the mat I have wrestled with men of many nationalities, among others Italians, whom I have always found pretty stubborn customers. One of the best of these I found to be Leo Pardello, the Italian champion, whose defeat by me in Chicago put all the push-cart men out of business for a week. Pardello is a big, burly fellow and we had a hard bout, in which he got quite badly hurt and was compelled to use a crutch for a few days. The day after the match a friend of mine met Pardello, hobbling about the streets. What do you think of Gotch now? He asked him. Gotcha? Said Pardello. Oh, Gotcha, he very fina da fell. We get ona the mata and go tos da wrestle. Gotcha, he cracks da joke. One fina da joke. I stoppa to laugh, he catcha my foota and twist him upa da back. Oh, yes, Gotcha, he very fina da fell. Old Klondike Days. There was lots of fun in the Klondike in the old days when I was there. The railroads hadnt begun to run into the country and Dawson City was practically isolated for months at a time. The place was a good reproduction of the California mining camps in the early 40s. The gambling halls and the dance halls held sway, you can bet, and they were liberally patronized at extravagant prices, for everybody had money and everybody spent it. Girls, and respectable girls, too, came out of the states with passage paid and received salaries from $100 a month up to frequent the dance halls. Each dance cost the dancing miner $1. The girl got that and she also got half the money her escort spent in drinks. It was better than mining for the women and many a dressmaking establishment has been floated in later years with this dance-hall capital. Drinks ran at terrific rates and champagne was seldom less that $10 a quart. I remember once there was a shortage of grape juice. A steamer came in with a consignment of wine, bottled in pints. IT went like hot cakes at $10 a pint. One man got a terrible bat and went about buying wine at that price. He had nothing but $20 bills and every time he bought a pint he tore a gold certificate in two. It went all right until the jag began to spread out. For days afterward they were busy piecing $20 bills together. This chaps end was sudden and humorous. Everybody sat around and took advantage of his liberality, public officials and all. All went well while his money lasted, but when the roll was exhausted the government inspectors arrested him for mutilating currency. That was in Canada. I never took Canada money after that-unless I wrestled in Canada. Prize Ring Prospects. Somebody asked me about the prize ring the other day. I have always had the fighting bee. Ive had it stronger than ever since they began to give $50,000 purses out in Nevada. All wrestlers have it, they say. I guess it has stung me good and hard. I once challenged Jeffries. Fact, I shudder to think what would have happened if he had said yes. He didnt. He said no. You neednt laugh. Ive fought a battle or two. My first fight was a ripper. After I had wrestled them all down in the Klondike they dug up Paddy Slavin and staked me to him in a ten-round glove bout. It was a slaughter-house affair. The police stopped it in the seventh round. At least, thats what they told me afterward. Say, during those seven rounds Slavin hit at me 300 times, and I dont believe he missed me once. All the same, joking aside, I dont know whether Im entirely through with the ring yet or not. Dont be surprised if you find me trying to annex that other American championship some fine day. Gad Snipes! Farmer Burns. I should hate to leave the subject of wrestling at any time without saying a good word for my old tutor, Martin better known as Farmer Burns, one of the greatest grapplers America has ever produced, and yet probably, a man less appreciated at his true worth than any other in the business today. I really place Burns right up to the edge of the first rank of men on the mat, and but a few pounds of weight have partitioned him off from the championship. The name of Farmer Burns was an heirloom to the sport when I first came out. Yet here he is today. His rivals of the mat of other years have faded and gone, and yet, approaching his fiftieth milestone, the old Farmer is hale and husky, and, seemingly, the strength and stamina which have made him a mat artist in the highest state of perfection have remained unimpaired. Ask the Farmer how he has maintained such a state of physical excellence despite advancing years, and he will say, Avoid dissipation, boy. The Farmer never smoked nor chewed, nor has he indulged in intoxicating drink: in fact, he carries his care in diet so far that he does not touch coffee or tea, his sole beverage being water and milk. Of course, Burns must have been splendidly endowed by nature for the racking trials of the mat. In many ways he is one of the most remarkably developed men I have ever seen. For instance, you cannot employ a strangle hold on the Farmer with success. They have tried in vain to choke the old chap. In fact, they have suspended by the hangmans noose, but the great protecting cords in his neck would start bulging out, and (Continued on Second Page) FRANK GOTCHS WRESTLING STORIES (Continued from First Page.) the Farmer would smile as he swung dangling at the end of the rope. Then, Burns has always saved his strength. He believes in letting the other fellow do the work in a match. Some of em start in like two-year-old colts, says the Farmer, and we have to give em a chance to work off superfluous steam. But the time comes when their grip relaxes, and we find they are looking for a breathing spell themselves. Then we say, Now the old Farmerll wrestle a bit, and, gad snipes, you know what happens next. If Burns has a vice, and I dont know that you would call it a vice, it is his fondness for the dance. Out in Big Rock, Iowa-Burns home-the population consists of sixty-eight and one-half souls: the half is a widow, and a better half, too, they say. Well, the Farmer is high card monte at the Big Rock socials, and no one could put up a more gallant front than the old scout, as he weaves about the hall with some buxom partner on his arm, to the strains of the Blue Danube. They do say that Farmer was once asked to choose between a $1,000 purse for a Chicago wrestling match and the privilege of leading the grand march at the New Year ball in Big Rock. When the bells rang out that first of January, the had some other man in the ring in Chicago and the Farmer was tilting up and down the polished boards in the Big Rock town hall. One of the Good Uns, Charley Olson. And then just another word for another good wrestler, who is just coming to be appreciated in America-Charley Olson of St. Louis, a man whose weight may keep him out of the first rank, but, who is destined to make an emphatic impression on the public before whom he appears. Olson is another physical marvel. He weights not much over 170 pounds, if that, is built tall and thing and angular. They generally laugh at Olson when he strips for a match. They dont laugh after the match is over. I esteem Olson one of the most dangerous men on the American canvas. Those long thin arms of his possess a wonderful natural strength, he has unusual powers of endurance, is game to the core, and he has mastered well the tricks of the sport. If Olson dont get to the top in the future hell come pretty close to it. I dont notice that he is losing many matches these days, and he is turning down no challengers. The deceiving physique of Olson has led to many ludicrous incidents, in which he has played the star part. In Kansas City not long ago about half the wrestlers of the continent were congregated for a tournament. A boisterous strong man in one of the hotel cafes got to drink a bit, and loudly boasted that outside of Gotch I can throw any man in Kansas City. They brought Olson in and the strong man laughed at the boy of meager frame. Five times a minute for you! he roared. Five times an hour for you! retorted Olson, quietly. They put up $200 a side on that last proposition and stripped right there and then, in the billiard room. When they picked the strong man up after the fourth fall, which happened in about eight minutes, he was quite a sober man. Nuff! he ejaculated, guess Ive made a mistake. Theres one other man besides Gothc I cant throw, and this poles the man. Worlds Greatest Wrestlers. I was asked the other day whom I considered the greatest wrestlers. Undoubtedly the gigantic Turks, Nouroulah, Yousouf-chaps like them. No white man can hope to cope with those 400-pounds hulks, unless he can get back of them and work on their feet. Ive been looking for some one to show me how to get back of them. Dont let anybody tell you any white man ever beat Nouroulah, for he didnt. In America we have had a gallant array of wrestlers-Whistler, Joe Acton, Strangler Lewis, Tom Jenkins, Farmer Burns, Dan McLeod, Charley Olson. Theres a splendid seven, and then today we have Freddy Beell, a man but a notch above middleweight and yet one of the greatest on the mat. It is something to hold a championship title in the face of such competition as exists in the country of the Stars and Stripes today, and I hope I am not egotistical when I say, I am proud to have won my right to defend the American Championship.
Posted on: Sat, 18 Jan 2014 22:27:16 +0000
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