Ramping Up

Ocracoke Island. Summer of ’17. The 9th Annual Women’s Arm Wrestling Tournament to benefit Ocracoke's Community Radio Station, WOVV 90.1 FM.

I was up early, 9 am, though the festivities wouldn’t be under way until the evening, I knew that I was going to have to warm into this task. This was the kind of story that young heroes cut their teeth on, earning their stripes in the blazing heat of battle, it was just such sports coverage that launched the careers of so many of the journalistic greats. Here I was—Ocracoke Island—the seething center of the Women’s Arm Wrestling universe. It was exhilarating just to walk the same earth, breathe the same air as these New-gods.

This would be a day of glory for many—victory for one—but for me it started rather inauspiciously. My morning ablutions done, I had set out for the beach in search of waves, only to be yanked out of my car, cuffed and detained for a crime I did not commit. Apparently my doppleganger had been seen attacking a woman—my villainous sister, assuming my likeness, had disturbed some tourists when (in the course of making a short-film) she dragged a kicking friend from out the trunk of my car and dropped her in the dirt. I was cuffed and paraded through the streets like a common felon, for the children and old folks to throw rotting fruit at—not a good first impression for a young reporter trying to win the hearts and minds of the citizenry.

Clearly some R&R was called for, but before I could commence to snoozing another assignment winged down the line to me, so I rubbed my wrists to get the blood flowing again, and set off to the community ballpark to see some of that good old fashioned American past-time: Skydiving. Alas after I laid down my golden offering and gained admittance I realized there would be no skydiving and I had been snookered into watching baseball. Eugh!

The best part of the game was the National Anthem, sung with clarity and unsentimental sincerity by rising sixth grader Mariah Temple. The hot dogs were also pretty damn satisfying, props to Bob Toth. But even these boons were not enough to sustain me through more than one inning. There’s a reason futbol is the international sport, people, and I ain’t talkin' about tossin' a pigskin.

[Editor's note: Stay tuned for a story about the collegiate ballgame. Not all the Current's staff writers skipped it!]

I departed the pitch with all possible alacrity and made for the beach where, before being detained at the state's expense and my chagrin (your tax dollars at work!), I had seen something that might pass for a wave. Indeed when I returned, board in hand, the old Atlantic did not disappoint. After an hour of solid surfing my head was cleared, and with an open heart I was ready to take on the true event of the day. I still had roughly three hours to kill and in years past the tournament was not an ordeal to be undertaken sober, so I set to work.

Before I knew it, it was time to set out for the big show, the grand brouhaha, the best the island has to offer on a Thursday night in June. As I staggered up the Community Center steps I glimpsed a sign that said “Women’s Arm Wrestling Tournament Tonight @7PM! Benefits WOVV” as if there was anyone left in town who did not already know. The entire world was tuning in to the local radio station to hear the thing announced, but I, I would be there witnessing the carnage first hand! My eyes spun wildly in their sockets trying to take in everything: the sights! the smells! the splendid clamor of the place! I waddled up the steps, eagerly grasping my notepad and pen—this would be a tourney for the ages!

I burst through the door hands raised in front of my face—just in case punches were already flying—only to find a room about a third full of pleasant-looking spectators sitting idly in white-plastic folding chairs.

(From here forth I will use mainly the notes I took at the time, and thus we will switch into a present tense. Do not be alarmed, all these events are now safely in the past and cannot hurt you, though they may disturb you greatly.)

Inside the Community Center

It has become a tame and tepid affair. No longer do you leave your kids at home. Heartwarming country music rings through the space at a reasonable level, a worrying portent of things to come. A man with a sash of raffle tickets some two meters long saunters past. Where is the leather? The tattoos? The blatant intoxication? I am far out of my depth here.

The announcer is a seedy man in a blazer and psychedelic board-shorts; his toady is dressed as Ralphie from that old-time Christmas classic, A Christmas Story, replete with pink bunny suit and Red-Rider BB-gun. This apparently decorative weapon can be put to deadly use if necessary as it was in the fabled "Fracas of ’05."

Giles Russell, a serious hunk wearing an Angie’s Gym tank-top, is the ref. This dude means business, and is the premier armwrestling champ NATIONWIDE. What do you think of that? But he’s not here to compete today—only to give us a run-down of the rules in short, sharp barks designed to capture his audience’s attention. Alas, the crowd hums amiably and inattentively—these cold-blooded onlookers are going to need more than a champion explaining the finer-points of the sport—they want some action.

Now the contenders arrive—Smackdown Spicy, the opposition’s press agent in a triple-imitation of McCarthy’s Spicer with zombie make-up thrown in for good measure; Ella Fist-Gerald, a flapper with hands of steel; Tink the Tank, a local singer in a green tunic who boastfully hurls lurid catchphrases at the blinking audience; a character named Bad Ass Mama* rolls by with a lobster atop her sea-green wig, apparently headed off to get amped before facing her valiant foe; Maniac Mommie, mother of not 1, not 2, but 6(!) chilluns, (here come the tats at last); Jaques Crushtoe, in full scuba gear, flaps across my field of view; next Fat Jesus, the champion from two years back, spills her beer and then miraculously walks atop it to the stage; To Gnome Me is to Fear Me, a garden gnome with eyes of rage; Miss Duke, a gnarly granny hellbent on destruction; Blister Sister, dressed like Rosie the Riveter except with extra “yes we can”; and, last but not least, the defending champ from last year, Wrestles with Bears, a towering woman in full war paint.

DJ Tommy Hutchison knows how to spin a record better than any San Fransiscan club-meister; he flips tunes with an easy swagger, quicker than the ear can capture. This is a necessary skill as the natives begin to get restless the longer they have to wait past 7pm to witness some goddamned armwrestling.

“I like not this Carolina Blonde,” I hear a fellow spectator roar.
“True but it be ill spake when it is thy ine choice,” quoth I.
She: "As for thee, do with it as ye list, an it pleaseth you, but it liketh me not."
I am distracted from retorting by another merrymaker appearing out of the crowd with a walking taco—a foul contrivance of coleslaw and ragu in a frito bag—and proceeding to munch away fiercely much offending my tender ear-ball.

The BELT of CHAMPIONSHIP is paraded by Ralphie. It is an iron and chrome affair, fashioned from old car parts and cookware...the beer flows like beer...a gong sounds in the distance...

It Has Begun!

First up—Maniac Mommie v. Tink the Tank
“I’m fighting for my man’s peter!” the Tank cries, then a hush falls over the buzzing crowd. An air of expectant tension builds—and is broken as the Tank bulldozes Mommie.

2. Jaque Crushtoe v. Blister Sister
It’s CLOSE! Blister Sister takes it! The game is hers, all hers, and none but hers.

NOW we’re in it man! No timidity, no mercy!

3. Miss Duke v. *Maniac Mama (turns out she’s not called Bad Ass Mama—that was just her tattoo)
Miss Duke kills it in cold blood. She almost rips the lobster off the Maniacal Mama’s wig but is retrained by Ralphie, and must content herself with advancing in the championship sans crustacean.

4. Smackdown Spicey v. To Gnome Me is to Fear Me
Media versus Media—on either side a press! But the Gnome proves that FAKE NEWS will always win over false leadership, and sends the wretched Spicer packing!

5. Ella Fist-Gerald v. Fat Jesus—Hero of ’15
The showdown of the (20th) century, Ella thinks she’ll win this for a song. Fat Jesus is the crowd favorite and she delivers—as in a trip to the ER—Christ!

6. Tink the Tank v. Wrestles With Bears—2016 Champ
The champion caresses her proud trophy—for the last time? Only time will tell... Tink starts strong but tanks as the Wrestler bears down on her.

7. Blister Sister v. Ms Duke
Bliss Sis slams a hard-won victory against the Blue Devil!

All thought of the bloodless, meek, and yawning crowd is gone—they are ravening for blood!

The first elimination round commences, it is a grim air that grips us now, we know the weight of this outcome.

8. Maniac Mommy v. Jaques Crushtoe
Jaques got crushed, tho! ELIMINATED—a door opens under her feet and she falls screaming to the albino gators that live beneath the dance-floor.

9. Maniac Mama (I know, it confuses me too) v. Smackdown Spicey
MM is the crowd fave by three bucks but Spicy is a contender—Maniac Mama is giving her all, the crowd is bonkers—Spicey’s wrist gives out with a sickening crunch! “I can feel the love in this room,” she wails, ”The president’s tweets speak for themselves!”

10. To Gnome Me is to Fear Me v. Fat Jesus
Fatty-J dispatches the Gnome with brutal ease, but the Gnome can rest satisfied knowing she has conquered her true competition.

11. Ella Fist-Gerald v. Tank the Tink
Pixie dust is sprinkled and steals old Ella’s spark, she fades out like a jazz tune into depression-era silence.

Who the hell is up in rankings? It is utterly unclear to me at this time. Perhaps the crowd can tell me—or at least give me the odds, is there a bookie around here anywhere? Where’s the action? What’s the damn score?

“Tink the Tank at 85%” says someone who doesn’t understand odds.

12. Maniac Mommie v. Miss Duke
While I’m polling the audience Maniac Mommie scrapes a win from the Blue Devil...

Two answers to the question (and there is only one question): “The winner”
“Fat Jesus”

13. To Gnome Me is to Fear Me v. Maniac Mama
Lobster-Head Sue gripes hands to no avail—truly it is a vengeful Gnome.

A respite is called and I retire to the porch to inspect the smokers’ corner and see what news might be transpiring just outside.

“This is fun as hell, I love this,” quoth one be-cataracted old man plaintively as his wife tugs at his ear—trying to drag him home to “Wheel of Fortune” and an early bed time. Clearly he is still down to party.

Back inside the battle is rejoined with round 14: Wrestles with Bears v. Blister Sister

Wrestles with Bears pops Blister Sister with more brutality than Saturn gnashing on his babes.

15. Maniac Mommie v. To Gnome Me is to Fear Me
Maniac Mommie bends To Gnome Me’s wrist with such expert precision that the claywork creature shatters.

16. Blister Sis v. Tink the Tank
The Blister Sister dedicates the match “to a very special man...” the crowd oohs suggestively, “the father... of my husband!” Slay, queen...slay

The clown-haired announcer hurls t-shirts into the roaring crowd! The man who bought a victory wreath of tickets hits big!

There are now only four contenders left—god knows who they are but there’s four of them!

17. Whistles with Bears v. Fat Jesus
...
A cockroach malingers beneath a chair, with no respect for the weighty matters being decided upon the stage.
...
The contenders join hands.
Wrestles with Bears takes down her opponent with glacial authority. It is the first bitter taste of defeat that Fat Jesus has sipped this eve—she will be back for vengeance.

18. Maniac Mommy v. Tink the Tank.
Tink the Dank needs no faith, no trust, no pixie dust—only the incredible strength of her rippling arms.

The cockroach crawls up the chair of the woman in front of me and wriggles roguishly down the back of her shirt.

Two young girls are pulled from the crowd to give rein to their untried strengths. The girl in green shatters the ulna of the girl in purple and is heartily applauded.

BUT WAIT—costumes must be judged!
A prize for the snorkel girl, Jaques Crushtoe!
A prize to the fearful Gnome!
And first prize goes to...Smackdown Spicey!—booed, cheered, generally despised – with his/her timely, relevant, slamdunk costume.... It is over.

Now it’s time for

#19 FAT JESUS v. TINK THE TANK
(cue strings—this is an elimination round)
The Power of Christ compels the Tank’s hand into an early grave, a crucifixion if you will.

An interim is called and more prizes thrown, but hurry it up folks! We want to see the grudge match! I resolve to compete in a match myself at the afterparty “for the story,” “to see how it feels.”

Some smooth tunes build to cool the burning fever of the audience. The refs confer— now they’re keeping us in suspense on purpose dammit!

A lusty belching of applause froths forth from the appreciative crowd, but it is a false alarm, the judges want a selfie. By god give it to them! Give them anything, anything they want, but please god lets see some f***ing carnage!

There’s too many donors to list here, but believe me, they all get named.

#20 Championship Match!

FAT JESUS v. WRESTLES WITH BEARS
“Thus Spoke Zarathustra” blares to a light show David Gilmour and Roger Waters would sell their false teeth for as the audience ROARS! Then *zap* the bright lights cut on—is it a narcotics bust? NO! These hot-blooded champions must compete in the glaring light of TRUTH!

Our beloved warriors grasp their deadly wrists...
And Wrestles with Bears masterfully nails the Podgy Savior—

~SHE DEFENDS HER TITLE~
After the dust had settled I managed to snag a few quotes from onlookers and participants alike about what they thought of the event.

Tink the Tank: "F*** Peter, next time I’m in it for ME!"

Jaques Crushtoe: "Because arm-wrestling is awesome, that’s all."

Bill Cole (our announcer): "I didn’t think about it at all, I just let the magic flow."

Charles Temple: "So I think it was a lot of fun but sparse on local girls, and what I hear is next year, the 10th anniversary, the local girls will have a resurgence."

Jessica Caldwell: "Cora had a great time, really a family affair!" (Cora is three.)

Ella Fist-Gerald: "It’s my first time—I had a lot of fun!"

Afterparty!

At the bar, a joint named DAJIO. Tourists look nervous shuffling into this treacherous hive of scum and villainy. A new sort of showdown is about to commence. You know why WOVV doesn’t have a men’s arm wrestling tournament? Because people always always always get hurt in those things, and the testosterone is stifling.

But here at DAJIO they’ve set up the ring and a line is already forming. A circle of smoking spectators surrounds the first two contestants and a drunken whoop goes up at first blood—a mere echo of the howls to come.

Jeremy Piland is there filming, and I ask him, media-man to media-man, what he thought of this year’s tourney—“Best fundraiser we’ve had so far for WOVV—I’d love to see Karm the Arm come out of retirement to go against Kimmy (Wrestles with Bears) though!”

I ask Jimmy Wrobleski the same, “Missed the first half, watched the latter, pretty cool!” I am then regaled with the story of a rusty fishhook which pierced the protagonist’s great toe. Gorgeous imagery, foul content.

The crowd cheers—a man is down.

“It’s bananas,” some guy I don’t know says, “I came all the way here from Nashville!”

As the night winds down and the carcasses of defeated swains piles up, a harmonica is brought out, and a few old mournful tunes are whistled.

At last I stumble homeward, content in the knowledge that I have covered the sports event of the millennium.

 

Check out photos and stories past years' wrestling events here. Note to event coordinators: the photos were so much better when this all took place outside!