The Cobb Civic Center, offering hope for culture, found dismal attendance for flower shows and art exhibits but filled to capacity Friday nights for wrestling, a primal art form with more resonance in that county.
Being the journalist I was and having libated on a six pack, I attempted objectivity but there was none. André stood above all, he was the man, more than man in fact and all hope was lost for the challengers. No Davids in that ring.
Hundreds of pounds of flesh and hurt stuffed into a skimpy outfit that would embarrass a Frenchman seemed natural that night and afterwards the unvanquished emerged from his shower and greeted his worshipers.
His hand was as big as a baseball glove and his shirt could have made a festive Cub Scout tent.
For a long time, this was the only photograph my parents displayed of me. Maybe it gave them comfort that far away from home there was a larger presence looking over me.
photo by Margaret Barrett Herndon