http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/26/sports/26wrestler.html
By MIKE TIERNEY
STOCKBRIDGE, Ga. - Abdullah the Butcher hobbles into a middle school
gymnasium, where a few hundred patrons await a night of professional
wrestling's choreographed mayhem.
A sturdy cane supports the 400-something pounds that fill out his
cartoonish 73-year-old (or is it 69-year-old?) body, which is badly in
need of a new hip, among other repairs.
It's another night on the job for Abdullah, wrestling's legendary
bloodletting brute, who competed as the card's headliner. He can no
longer split open opponents' heads with a swinging chair or stalk them
across the ring; in fact, he rarely even enters the ring anymore.
But the Butcher can still mete out embellished punishment with forearms,
fists and his signature prop: a dinner fork, which he removes from his
costume and stabs away, drawing opponents' blood.
Abdullah, after all, has a reputation to maintain as the man who
popularized, if not instigated, what is known as hard-core wrestling.
When he is not appearing before crowds at middle school gyms like this
one outside Atlanta, he is big in Japan, performing before thousands.
Just as the blood keeps trickling down from the four ribbony scars on
his bald pate, the revenue keeps trickling in from appearance fees,
signed photos, DVD's - even the fork he tries to sell after the show.
"Ten bucks," he says. "I love this business."
Wrestling's Methuselah was born Larry Shreve, a Canadian of African
descent, some seven decades ago. (Fudging on age is a common wrestling
practice.) He has endured in the game for a half-century, give or take a
year or three. No one knows how many times his act has enthralled or
enraged audiences.
"Abdullah the Butcher, as a character, is one of the most memorable in
history by far," the wrestling historian Greg Oliver said. "He lived the
character. He didn't want to be called Larry. He carried that fork with
him everywhere.
"He was all about the violence. He brought a lust for blood that hadn't
been popularized. His mass and his look made it easy for him to be
scared of."
How large is Abdullah's legacy? His stage name has its own stage name,
the Madman From Sudan, and the affectionate abbreviation Abi. The
respectful refer to him as Mr. Abi.
By any fake name, he has ridden through wrestling's peaks and valleys,
becoming a hit in far-flung places. Closer to his Atlanta base, the
Southeast circuit once offered him up to 10 gigs a week.
But he endures, and on this June night, Abdullah is, as usual, the
oldest person in the building, the Charlie Watts at the Rolling Stones
concert.
Scattered about the audience are children, brought by fathers, just as
they have done for generations. ("Son, I remember when Abi. ...") In
character, he dresses like a shirtless shepherd, with a ragged head
cover and baggy trousers that rise to his chest, exposing rolls of
blubber.
There are some codgers in the crowd. One rises from his wheelchair,
steadies himself on the nub of a right leg lost to diabetes and shakes
his fist at Abdullah.
As Abdullah and his 53-year-old opponent, Tommy Rich, lock arms and slow
dance away from the ring, a middle-aged man predicts gleefully to two
youngsters in his care, "This one's headed to the parking lot, boys."
Not quite. Soon after the ring announcer, on cue, describes Rich's mug
as "a crimson mask" of blood, Abdullah disappears. The referee, whom
both wrestlers whaled on when they took a break from each other, has
recovered enough to declare an old-fashioned double disqualification.
Rich was a teenager, fresh out of Nashville, when first pitted against
Abdullah in Atlanta.
"He beat me in 30 seconds," Rich remembered, implying that Abdullah went
against script with a quick, though agonizing, match. "I got back to the
locker room and said, 'I'm headed back to Tennessee.' "
Three years later, Rich was body-slammed by the Butcher like never
before, or since.
"That whole building went whomp," Rich says. "It ain't easy going
against Abdullah. He's a big ol' man."
About the notion of Rich's wrestling in 20 years, when he reaches
Abdullah's current age, Rich says, "I hope I'm still alive."
After the double disqualification, Abdullah sits on an overwhelmed bench
in the dressing room and dispenses wisdom to a small, rapt audience. He
is their Buddha, the triple-plus-size version.
"Get your hands up! Look mean!" he scolds some Generation Y rasslers.
Their poses for the cameras are not menacing enough to suit him. They
passively clench and raise their fists, eliciting a stare that drips
concern about wrestling's next generation.
He motions to a 20-something masked man from Japan - stage name Tiger -
to step forward for consultation.
Later, Tiger explains through an interpreter that his matches in Japan
are bloodless, with less show business. The interpreter speculates that
Tiger might incorporate shtick in which some baddie cuts off the mask
with a knife. Perhaps leaving a scar.
The next night, at a no-frills restaurant on Atlanta's southwest side,
Abdullah explains what motivates him. "Money," he says. Then, for
emphasis: "Money."
Currency is a constant in his conversations. Another wrestler, who has
relied on Abdullah for promotional duty, says: "Everything's business to
him. He charges for everything. Doesn't need the money, either."
When first approached for an interview, Abdullah demands payment.
"Everything has a price," he says. "I've got to make a living."
On the night of his match, before an interview is mentioned, Abdullah's
first words are, "Where's my money?" When reminded that he will receive
no compensation, he points to a stack of autographed photographs that
sell for $10 apiece and says, "Buy one of these."
A $9 dinner at Abdullah the Butcher House of Ribs and Chinese Food in
Atlanta, which he founded and operates, loosens his tongue somewhat. He
cuts short most answers, reminding himself not to disclose too much
before the imminent release of a DVD that unspools his life story.
Each visit to Japan, he says, is worth $10,000 for a series of matches.
The middle school gig paid him $1,500.
"For what, two minutes?" he says, exaggerating to point out that the
workload is not taxing.
While most wrestlers peddle bric-a-brac, like action figures an masks,
to supplement their ring income, only Abdullah would think of marketing
the fork with which he jabs his foe.
His cellphone rings. His son conveys Father's Day wishes. Abdullah says
he will call more often if the son sends him money.
Then he imitates his own father by opening a greeting card and shaking
it, wishing that dollars would fall out. The big apple has not fallen
far.
The fourth of seven children, Abdullah says his father never attended a
match, his mother once. "They thought it was vicious," he said.
He does not disagree.
Wrestlers have acted out enough violent images that the only remaining
line in the sand, he says, is "to kill somebody."
That will not happen with World Wrestling Entertainment, the dominant
organization that presents shows without the gore. Abdullah does not
need W.W.E. or any other powerful group; he prefers to operate
independently so he can control his finances and his fate, setting his
own story lines.
"If you look around wrestling, there's not many guys like me," he says.
A diner wishes him a happy Father's Day.
"It'd be a great Father's Day," comes the response, "if you gave me a
hundred-dollar bill."
It is an act, rooted in the truth. With wrestlers, illusion mixes with
reality, resulting in a fuzzy picture. Portraits of President Obama hang
from the restaurant walls amid dozens of wrestling snapshots, but
Abdullah is an avid listener of conservative talk radio. Though he
craves money, he donates to causes, including a local youth recreation
center.
Charity is one of many off-limits topics - after all, he is a villain.
Another is the toll wrestling has taken on his body, though he
acknowledges the need for hip replacement. He does open his shirt to
reveal a burn mark beneath the left shoulder, a remnant of an unscripted
wrestling bit involving a flame device gone awry.
"If I hadn't turned my head, I'd be blind," he said.
As if wearing blinders that block out reminders of his septuagenarian
state, Abdullah vows to continue wrestling "until I die."
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