Today I was driving south on I-29 from the airport to downtown. It occurred to me that it was the first time I had driven that route since the day I picked up Sgt. Slaughter from the airport. As I was making the drive south I got to thinking about the conversation me and the Sarge both had that day. From the moment I picked him up to the last time I saw him sitting on the side of the curb of the Hyatt in full “Sarge” attire, I couldn’t help but think how much of a tragic figure he really was. That day, I really did learn a lot about what it meant to be a “celebrity”.
I awaited his arrival at Terminal B at KCI airport. I held up a handmade sign hastily scribbled with the name “Robert Remus” on the front. Just an hour before, we joked whether or not we should actually put his wrestling name on the sign. Would anybody notice? Would anybody care? I was standing there a solid 15 minutes when I saw him. He was a mountain of a man with broad shoulders and a chip on his shoulder. His frame was pushing 6’5 and 330lbs., a true giant amongst the commoners. Wikipedia had told me hours before, that he was born on the exact same day and year as my dad. They may have shared the same birthdays, but different were their experiences. I was soon to find out how different those stories actually were.
I greeted him cheerfully as he recognized my sign. I naively asked him if he’d ever been to Kansas City before and his response was classic. “I’ve been here too many times.” He said as we made our way to the car. I didn’t know what that meant, but was eager to learn.
I helped him with his bags to the parking lot as we exchanged a few pleasantries. My experiences picking people up from the airport were limited to minor league baseball players. The occurrence was limited mainly to baseball has-beens and never-weres. I knew the game but a feeling emerged over me as if I would not forget this experience any time soon. This was going to be different. We put the bags in the trunk and jumped in for the 25 minute ride to the Hyatt in downtown Kansas City. MapQuest had assured me of that.
As we made our way south past Vivian Road, he mentioned to me that he and a wrestler buddy of his of years past, used to rent an apartment there. He asked me to drive by to see if it was still there. But alas, it was not. It looked as though it had been torn down for some time. I could see a look of depression fill his eyes. It was there, while looking at the torn down apartment, when he started to talk about the good old days and how his life had changed. He did his best to recall the happier times when he wrestled in a small television studio in St. Joe 30 years beforehand. When he spoke about those days, you could really see that he missed them dearly. He mentioned an old woman that absolutely hated him because he played the “villain”. He loved playing the villain more than anything.
We entered downtown, and it was unrecognizable to him. He hadn’t been here in 20 years. I mentioned that the city was building a new arena downtown and you could tell that he couldn’t have cared any less. “They all look the same”, he said when talking about the new arena.
I asked him what life was like on the road. It seemed as though a cloud had hung over him. He had spent some 30 years on the road. Oh he had seen his fair share of good times. He mentioned a bout he had, had in Alaska against Andre the Giant. He had gone up against Hulk Hogan. He fought the best and he made it to the big time. But now his life was reduced to minor league appearances and slugging through his old “Sgt. Slaughter” routine for peanuts compared to what he used to pull in. One failed marriage later and a life spent not getting to know his kids, he was here in Kansas City just doing another gig. Just enough money to pay his child support and his bills. I felt sorry for him in away. He had not lived a normal life.
We arrived at the hotel. They did not know him or have his reservation. He turned to me for answers. You could see that this was an all too familiar scene in his life. Thankfully, a quick call to you and a couple of minutes later we were back in business. He was tired. I helped him to his room and put down his bags on the bed. “Can you believe I can still fit into this old outfit?” he said to me as he held up his wrestling garb. It was as if I was staring into time machine of failed expectations. How does one respond to a question like that?
He said he was going to take a nap and I told him that I’d be back to pick him up at 4:30pm. We exchanged numbers and I was on my way.
I arrived back at the Hyatt at 4:30 on the dot only to find the Sarge at the hotel bar. He was half lit and ready to go. We jumped back into the car and I gave him the rundown as to what to expect on the night. He had heard these words before. Just another gig, ho hum, sign a few autographs, take a few pictures, give a few half nelsons. It’s all part of the deal.
He was surprised to see the Kansas Speedway. He had no idea that it was near our final destination. His face lit up like a little kid at Christmas. He was an avid NASCAR fan and it seemed as though this was the one thing in life that kept him going. “Lets drive over there!” he shouted gleefully while pointing at the speedway. “Man I went to Daytona last year and you wouldn’t believe how big that place was.” He was in heaven.
We pulled into the Community America Ballpark. “It’s time for work,” he said and he dutifully put his game face on. I showed him to the clubhouse dressing room and within minutes he was in character. He wore black wrestling spandex, black wrestling boots, a camouflage shirt, aviator sunglasses and his trademark drill sergeant hat fully pimped out in sequence around the brim.
I was to be his game-day bodyguard. It was a fact at which seemed preposterous. He outweighed me by over 100lbs and seemed at least a foot taller. I had no business protecting Sgt. Slaughter that day, but was thankful for the experience.
At 5:30pm the gates opened. We had positioned ourselves behind the left field wall. We had a table, a couple of chairs, a money pouch and all the beer we could drink. All we needed now were thousands of drunken rednecks oozing for an autograph and picture.
Thankfully for us, they had arrived. It seemed as though every wrestling fan and drunken redneck in Wyandotte County had come to see the legend. The lines stretched over 200ft. He was in rare form too. He got a kick out of the stories he heard from the fans. “I remember seeing you up against Andre the Giant!” one drunken fan said. The Sarge’s face shined. He too remembered it. And there was a part of him that wished he was still there, back in the spotlight. Back where he was on top of the world. Instead, he was just another has-been selling his past for a few extra bucks in Wyandotte County, KS. His mood changed. He loved hearing the old stories but couldn’t seem to get past the present. “Let’s get us another couple more beers Aaron,” he said to me as the line to see him stretched halfway down the third base line.
He had been signing autographs now for a little over an hour now as one excited fan approached him. To meet Sgt. Slaughter had been this guy’s lifelong dream. Dressed head-to-toe in WWF attire, this man was prepared. He handed the Sarge a wrestling magazine from 1971. “I cannot believe you have this!” he said to the fan. “I’ve been looking for this for years!” He showed me a picture of him and Harley Race on the cover. They both were going at it in St. Joe, Missouri. And he seemed content. He was a younger man then and his life ahead was full of opportunity. For that split moment, his face looked as young as that picture in the magazine. He signed the magazine and took a picture with the man and it was on to the next one. He showed a plethora of emotions in that autograph line. Some excitement, some discouragement, some just plain drunken.
The minor league ballgame brought him a couple of on-field appearances. One where he sang the seventh inning stretch while using his trademark “wrestling” voice. And another where he refereed the sumo match. He had done his job dutifully and it was time to take him back to the Hotel.
“I’m not sure I have too many of these things left in me,” he said while driving back to downtown Kansas City. His body had betrayed him from years of abuse. Perhaps it was one “cobra clutch” too many. Or quite simply put, he had spent just too many nights on the road. In fact, the road was his home and a hotel room was his sanctuary.
We pulled into the hotel drive and he got out. He thanked me for sharing the evening with him and I too expressed the same gratitude. I assured him that if needed I could be back in the morning to take him back to the airport. “No,” he said, “I’ll just call a cab. You go and have a good time tonight. Try to get some ass for the ole’ Sarge! ”
I drove away contemplating the rest of the evening and the events that had taken place. I couldn’t get over the ups and downs, the highs and lows, of a truly tragic figure.
I suddenly heard my phone ring. I didn’t recognize the number. So I answered cautiously. “Hello?” I whispered. “It’s the Sarge! You forgot to pay me!”
“Damnit, I’ll be right back. Sorry ‘bout that.”
I turned the car around and raced back to the hotel. I made a quick left into the hotel parking lot. I gazed over to my right only to see a mountain of a man sitting quietly on the side of the curb in full “Sgt. Slaughter” garb. The hotel customers walked past him without the slightest hint of recognition. He was glad I was back, but glad it was over. “I thought you were gonna stiff me!” he said in desolate tone. I thought that said it all.
