Two Confessions

Dear Crimson Readers:

A few weeks ago my colleagues wrote personal columns about their favorite sports.

I was proud of them. They showed courage in their selections. As a matter of fact, I wept when I read Sean Wissman's piece. Many men love figure skating, but few admit it.

So I decided it was my turn. Sean has given me the courage to speak. He has shown me the light. For years I have had a particular fondness for two atypical sports, but I never told anyone.

I feared people might look at me differently or laugh when I walked by. It has been a burden I have had to shoulder.

All these years I've talked basketball or baseball to hide my two true loves. I've even scoffed with my friends about these sports, never showing the real pain I felt inside.

Now, though, Sean has given me the courage to finally confess.

I love Tractor Pulls. This is truly a man's sport. The first time I attended a pull, I was a young and impressionable 10-year-old. The experience changed my life forever.

There is little that compares to the sheer excitement of man and machine working together as one. And the crowd that was there that day was magical.

Really. The grunts and the swearing that came out of their mouths as they bet on each view I got when I leaned over for my drink only to realize the man one row below was wearing pants that were too small.

No reason to stay up late that night. I had already seen a full moon.

But the event reached a feverish pitch when the Big Masher broke the local record. As the machine began to pull I unconsciously rose to my feet. When it lurched forward pulling the weight, I lost it altogether.

I charged the pit, wanting to touch this awesome piece of metal And thousands followed behind. we gathered around the driver, holding hands and singing.

I still have some of the telephone numbers of the men there that day. We shared an experience that won't soon be forgotten.

O.K., that felt good. One more confession. I love WWF wrestling.

Some say that it is fake, that it is Hollywood all the way.

I just don't understand these people. They're the same ones that think Elvis Presley and JFK are catching up on some R&R on an obscure ice glacier in the arctic.

How can they attack something so sacred? The WWF is a cultural icon.

O.K., I'll admit that the WWF has hit a lull these days, but at its peak nothing compared. Remember the good old days. Forget about baseball's golden years with Dimaggio and Williams, the WWF with the Hulk, Captain Lou and Black Jack Mulligan was supreme.

Are you going to tell me that Hulk Hogan isn't the greatest athlete since Jim Thorpe? He has since quit, but what a legacy he leaves behind. He was strong, quick and he had charisma, sort of like a JFK on steriods in a speedo. That's how I'll remember the Great one.

Then there was Captain Lou. Not only could the man coach (undoubtedly the Red Aurebach of wrestling), but he was a fashion trendsetter. Sure the fad has passed, but I remember countless individuals with rubber bands on their beards. I think I'll name my first-born after the man.

That is, if I don't name him after Black Jack. This man could wrestle. He was the master of the claw. Who didn't practice the claw on their younger brother when mom or dad wasn't looking?

In a freaky way, Black Jack can be compared to Kareem Abdul Jabaar. Jabaar had the sky hook and Black Jack and claw. Both mastered one skill and became the greatest in their sport.

O.K., there you have it--two bold confessions. To those who have read this far I thank you for the time and I hope that you share some of the passion that I feel.

And to those who don't share the passion please don't laugh or look at me funny. Thanks.