Reality is a powerful thing. Sooner or later even those who for whatever reason(s) suspend their disbelief in the unlikely or the impossible will get jarred back to it.
Last week brought the news that much-beloved professional wrestler Chief Jay Strongbow had died at age 83. But his obituary bore some information which had to be shocking to some: the headdress-wearing, war-whooping Native American who for decades was billed as the pride of Pawhuska, Oklahoma was in reality a Philadelphian named Joe Scarpa.
Anyone surprised that the "Chief" was more Italian-American than American Indian shouldn't have been; his two most famous tag team partners were faux Native Americans as well. "Billy White Wolf," who paired with Strongbow to win the World tag-team championship in 1976, was actually Adnan Al-Kaissy, a native of Baghdad, Iraq. And "Jules Strongbow," Chief Jay's purported brother, was in reality a fellow named Frank Hill.
Professional wrestling wasn't always peopled by steroid-addled behemoths and run by aspiring U.S. Senators. But its business plan hasn't changed since the days it aired Saturday mornings on black and white TVs. Its success requires an avid fan base to both individually and collectively suspend all rational thought processes week after week. In the 1960s and 1970s cauliflower-eared grapplers like Gorilla Monsoon (real name: Gino Marella), George "The Animal" Steele (William Myers), Greg "The Hammer" Valentine (John Wisniski, Jr.), Professor Tanaka (Charles Kalani, Jr.), and Bruno Sammartino (actual name: Bruno Sammartino!) put on choreographed weekly performances during which they twisted one another into pretzels when they weren't pounding each other with fists and/or whatever foreign objects they could get their hands on. Then as now, true believers ate it up.
The willing suspension of disbelief is nothing new. British poet/philosopher Samuel Taylor Coleridge suggested that if an author could somehow infuse "human interest and a semblance of truth" into an otherwise less-than-plausible story, eager-to-believe readers would consciously or subconsciously choose to ignore certain dubious aspects of the tale.
Early American folklorists relied on that sort of cognitive estrangement when concocting embellished tales of real-life men like Daniel Boone, or of fictional ones like Paul Bunyan. Twentieth century yarn-spinners became even more adept at utilizing the proclivity of readers (and later listeners and viewers) to believe what they want to. An October 30, 1938 radio broadcast was one such example. Directed and narrated by Orson Welles, the program, a dramatization of H.G. Wells's science fiction novel War of the Worlds, described Earth getting overrun by Martian invaders. It initially caused panic amongst a significant number of listeners, and later prompted outrage in them once they realized they'd been duped.
Most rational thinkers realize that no real person (or strange visitor from another planet) can stop speeding bullets or leap over skyscrapers, any more than such an individual would be able to hide his identity by simply donning a pair of glasses. Yet the timeless popularity of Superman in comic books, on television, and in the movies indicates there are times when readers and viewers willingly send reality on a holiday. Moe Howard's continual eye-poking, face-slapping, and stomach-punching of Larry and Curly was no more realistic than a talking Prairie Wolf running off a cliff, plunging deep into a canyon, and emerging seconds later none the worse for wear, yet generations of children of all ages laughed as hard at the absurd mayhem of the Three Stooges as they did at the animated violence of Wile E. Coyote and his Looney Tune friends.
Contemporary society abounds with examples of humanity's willingness to collectively ignore reality. Witness the wide appeal of stories with vampires as central characters, the Harry Potter books and movies, and certain politicians and infotainers whose fiercely loyal followers willingly and inexplicably take anything which comes out of a demonstrated liar's mouth as gospel.
Reading of Joe Scarpa's demise undoubtedly saddened some. Subsequently learning of the deceptions that were rife in professional wrestling even before the proliferation of steroids, sellout crowds at gigantic arenas, and glitzy, overhyped, pay-per-view specials ruined the "sport" for thousands of otherwise rational individuals was likely depressing to many as well. Introspective types still capable of independent thought may wonder which other "facts" in their lives are actually no more than products of their decision(s) to ignore what to others is readily apparent.
But optional escapes from inconvenient truths are never far away. Sunday morning marked, in many homes, a visit from another character whose authenticity has been questioned by non-believers, the Easter Bunny. His appearance should temporarily quell any creeping gloom that had been threatening to envelope in a shroud of skepticism (or outright cynicism) those who prefer to occupy more ideal, if selective, realities.
And for bereaved wrestling fans mourning Chief Jay Strongbow's passing, consider this: can someone who never truly existed ever really die?
Andy YoungReturn to main page
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