Chief Jay Strongbow Trashes Referee

We used to work in Carrollton, Georgia on Saturday nights. Mr. Hugh Butler was the promoter and a very fine gentleman he was. The West Georgia Fairgrounds Exhibition Hall was nothing more than a big metal building with a concrete floor. There were wooden bleachers built all around the wall, and metal folding chairs at ringside.

Carrollton was a great little club that saw some classic matches over the years, but more than that there were some classic characters that attended the matches there. For anyone reading this that ever worked there this will bring back some memories.

Granny as we called her sat on the front row every Saturday night. She always had this huge purse that she would beat on the apron of the ring to get the referees attention or to threaten the heel with. She would scream and spray the mist from her snuff with anything that came near to her. She called Rocket Monroe "Wratchet Monroe" and he would reply with "let me give you a big kiss honey." My favorite name was "you old Actingbar", which is what she called Skandor Akbar.

Up the aisle toward the babyface dressing room sat a guy named Billy Frick. He wore dark horned rim glasses and had as loud a mouth as I have ever heard on a little man. He would scream and yell at the heels and when he got real riled up he would take off his belt and weld it like a whip. He wore a thick black belt and a huge rodeo style buckle. He made sure that buckle hit his metal chair to get maximum effect and maximum noise. Many times heels have walked up that aisle and confronted him. He would sit down and become quiet as a church mouse, he never argued, or dared them to hit him. He would just sit down and shut up... that is until they turned their back and started up the aisle toward the ring, then he started again, even louder. I miss Billy.

The head of security for Mr. Butler was a gentleman named Horace. I can't think of his last name, but he treated us well and watched our backs. Horace wanted to be a part of the show. He was the type who thought he knew about our business, but in reality he knew nothing. This story is about Horace: I was refereeing a match between Chief Jay Strongbow and somebody. We were working a bloody double DQ to come back the following Saturday. This was before the day of hardcore where everything including the kitchen sink gets tossed into the ring and the wrestlers take blow after blow and just walk away. We sold our business as real and I am proud I was of that era.

Jay and his opponent were all over the building, then back in the ring and both were a bloody mess. I took a shot from the heel and then one from the Chief, resulting in the double DQ. They went back on the floor and when they came back in a garbage can came with them.

The heel took a powder and left before getting the can, however the innocent referee, yours truly, takes a garbage can to the head. I proceeded to gaff myself and it was a lulu. I was an absolute blood bath in a matter of seconds. I laid flat out and refused to move. Jay left me laying there and I still would not move. Horace came to my aid. This is where it gets funny.

Horace and three fans toted me dead weight to the dressing room and sat me in a chair, a bloody pulp of a referee sitting limp in a chair and saying nothing. Jay looks at me and jumps up yelling in that Indian mumbo jumbo of his and kicks the chair out from under me. I took a bump and never made a sound. Poor old Horace who thought he knew so much, cussed the Indian out, told him how rotten he was and that I did not deserve to be treated that way. He sat between me and Jay until Jay left the arena. Horace toted my bag to the car and was even wanting to drive me back to Atlanta because I had lost so much blood.

Sometimes people know just enough to make them very funny. Mr. Butler, Horace, and the Fairgrounds are all gone now, but they will always live to those of us who knew them.