In Texas: Wrestling with Good and Evil

The vast expanse of rolling scrub and farmland is still and dark. Dawn, when it comes, tinges the land red before a hot, white sun climbs in the sky, turning the dew to vapor that rises from the surface of the plain. This heartland, thousands of square miles, is central Texas. Bonnie and Clyde rampaged through the territory. Sam Bass, the outlaw, was gunned down in Round Rock, not far from the Santa Fe railroad. Today, Interstate 35 passes small and medium-size towns, ranches and farms. Huge trucks rumble into dusty, chalk-white depots to load crushed rock from local quarries. At intervals, as the road stretches across the land, a red, white and blue Lone-Star State flag flutters above a solitary dwelling.

When day breaks, church bells ring in Temple, Texas, founded in 1881 astride the rail line south of Waco and not far from modern-day Fort Hood, the largest military base in the free world. Temple's churches fill on Sunday, and as the white sun climbs higher, hymns are sung and sermons spoken. Down at the Frank W. Mayborn Civic and Convention Center, parishioners of Temple Bible Church finish their prayers and stream out into the noonday heat, and the bright light that bears down on the town, bleaching its low buildings against the prairie.

As the churchgoers file out, another kind of Sunday crowd lines up at the Civic Center ticket window. Men stand together quietly in their rough leather boots and clean work clothes; women, teen-agers and small children talk excitedly. A sign out front announces: LIVE WRESTLING.

Back in 1979, Temple's high school Wildcats clinched the state football title under Bob McQueen, the coach and town hero. The people of Temple do a lot of hunting in season, shooting doves with shotguns and deer with rifles. But for year-round entertainment, nothing in town beats professional wrestling.

Inside the Civic Center people are taking their places, even though wrestling won't begin until 2 o'clock. Loretta Lynn's soft voice drifts from loudspeakers embedded in the ceiling above a concrete floor set with row after row of red plastic chairs. In the middle of the arena is a blue canvas ring lit with bright, hot, white lights. In a corner stand armed security men. "Our job is to protect the wrestlers from the people," says a Temple guard. Finally a gong rings, and an announcer climbs through the ropes and into the ring.

Joe Blanchard, bail bondsman, former wrestler and promoter of the bouts, explains, "In wrestling, you've got to have good guys and bad guys." Blanchard has run matches around the state for more than 20 years. "We're selling entertainment and excitement," he says, gesticulating with large, powerful hands. In fact, wrestling's heroes and villains are the same as those in the real world, ebbing and flowing with the tide of world events. "We've seen Iranians after the hostage crisis, Russians, Germans and Mexicans with headdresses," says Blanchard. He mentions current Texas favorites: "Tully the Kid," "Wahoo" McDaniel, "Abdullah the Butcher," a gallery of rogues conjured from professional wrestling's fevered imagination. A fusion of morality play and Greek comedy, wrestling fires extreme emotions, building to the catharsis of victory of good over evil, of hero over villain.