Oxford University Blues: A tale of madness, molotov cocktails, and Hugh Laurie

STRIP! Commanded the former captain of the Israeli Defense Force.
NO! said the composed red-headed female whose head came up to the captain’s underarm.
A scene from The Unforgettable Lightness of Being. No. This is the second floor bedroom in the rented 2-floor apartment of my Oxford University tutor.

STRIP!

"What part of “no” don’t you understand!"

I am standing on his bed wearing the robes that we have to wear when we meet with our tutors. It’s hot and I’m not wearing a whole lot underneath. But in my left hand, where in the past baseballs used to nestle before I threw them at the plate in junior high, and where the in future my pink taped hockey stick would rest, poised to be thrown at the head of this former captain of the Israeli Defense Force was a glass Coke bottle with a gasoline-soaked rag stuffed halfway through. In my right hand a match.

STRIP!

FUCKING ISRAELI PIG!!! And I hurled the bottle.

“Nice catch.” I said.

“Nice throw.” He looked impressed.

“Thanks. I’m not sure I got the rag in properly. It kind of slipped out as I let the bottle go.”

“Yes. I noticed. More work. Come, let’s go back to the kitchen and make again. Damn. No more Coke. Ok. Next week, I go to the store and we get more bottles. Go now. It is almost the Sabbath. Good Shabbes. And next week, you wear a t-shirt and short pants under your robe. Today, it opened a bit and I can’t teach you properly when I can see your boobies. You understand, yes?”

“Nachon. I gotcha. See ya, Zevvy”
“Shalom, my little red firecracker.”

__________________________
I had decided to do my third year abroad at Oxford University because my academic advisor at Sarah Lawrence College told me that having Oxford on my resume would give me an advantage in life. Zev Levi was the tutor assigned to teach me Middle East politics at renowned St. Antony’s College where, it was rumoured, Salmon Rushdie stayed in secret. Actually, and I’m sorry if I’m about to relate a top-notch security secret, but we all knew when he was there because the road leading out from St. Antony’s was totally blocked and access to the only decent pizza restaurant in the whole city denied.

After my tutorial, I met my roommates, the Christines, at the King’s Arms pub.
“Your hands stink,” said Christine.
“Yeah, Nat. They are really bad today. How many did he make you prepare,” said the other Christine.
“Not many. But I kept spilling the gasoline all over myself and then the whole rag got soaked and you can’t have it all soaked because then it burns too quickly and the bottle will blow up in your face. Or so he tells me.”
“Aren’t you worried about your grades? I mean, what’s he going to evaluate you on? Throwing ability?”
“He said not to worry about studying. He’s giving me firsts for the year and told his buddy at Princeton to give me a scholarship for graduate school.”
“Wow, said the Christines in unison. “That’s insane. Didn’tcha think you were going to work this year, being at Oxford at all.”
“One would have thought. Anyway, next week, he is taking me behind Magdalen College to practice shooting.”
“That’s Maudlin you fucking Yankee arseholes,” said the greasy PPE students in unison at the next table.
“Listen Commander Fucknuts, first of all, I’m Canadian, eh. And where I come from: M A G D A L E N E is pronounced Magdelen, like Jesus’ fucking mother, you feel me?

I’ve had 8 Pimms and Lemonade and need to go home to sleep it off.

“Time to go play dodge the barf.” sighed Christine.
We walk outside the pub and start the 30 minute walk home in the rain and wind. Puddles of vomit from the evening’s afternoon slosh around the gutters. I can’t even count the times I’ve stepped in it and had to air my shoes out for days after. Zevvy told me that such problems would be alleviated if I stopped going to bars. At these times, I would pretend to go spontaneously deaf.
_____________________________
“You know what collagen is?”
“Nope.”
“You’re a nice rich Jewish girl from New York City and you don’t know what collagen is?”
“I’m a nice middle class Jewish girl from suburban Toronto and I don’t know what collagen is.”
“Collagen is this shit that when the doctor puts it into your boobies they don’t move like you were 16 again. “
“My boobies moved when I was 16. They have never not moved. This is the cross I must bear.”
“OK. Fingerhut. I am going to put collagen in your fingers so that they will stop shaking like a little baby girl.”
“ I just had too much coffee, Zevvy. Just a coffee high.”
“You can’t be high and be in the IDF, Fingerhut.”
“I’m not going into the IDF. I’m just here for a year because my academic advisor thought having Oxford on my resume would give me an advantage in life.”
“I know, I know this. You keep saying. But you have much to learn, much much to learn. And so little time. It’s MIchaelmas already, we only have Trinity term and then you leave my tutelage.”
I start doing rapid finger exercises to try and excise the caffeine. At no point do I question Zevvy’s sanity nor my own.
“OK. Pass me the rifle.” He holds it out in front of him. 20 years later, my very cute hockey coach would do the same thing with a hockey stick.
I grab the long part with my left hand and put my right hand on the trigger.” “Fingerhut! Get your fucking hands off the fucking trigger!”
“Why? Is this thing loaded?” I drop it on the muddy ground.
“Of course it’s loaded. All guns are loaded. What is the purpose of a gun if it is not loaded. You see, Fingerhut, this is why I asked for a male exchange student but your advisor in New York said you were the closest thing they had. Now pick up the rifle and clean it off. Show it the same respect as your boyfriend’s shlong.”
Only now do I realize the absurdity of the moment. But then the moment passes. I gingerly pick up the rifle and wipe it down with my sleeve.
“Good. Now. You hold it like so and aim at something moving. Then you will wait until it stops moving and that is when you push on the trigger.”
“Wait a second. If it’s moving, that means it is living. If I shoot , I’ll kill it.”
Zevvy sat down. He put his greying head in his hands. “Rachmunis, Ha-Shem, give me mercy”
I sat down next to him. “I’m sorry Zevvy. I’m just not cut out for this kind of work.”
“Ok Fingerhut. I guess this is the time when I explain you what I need.” He took a deep breath.
“Before I came to Oxford to be your tutor, I was student Zevvy at Cambridge? You’ve heard of it yes all the way in New York? And I wanted to row for the university team. I was quite good, you know. I have big hands, big something else too, but that is not for you to know. Anyways, I rowed nicely for my college but I had this bigger aspiration and so I tried out for the big team. I did very good that day. My team—it won every race, but it came down to me and this silly English funny boy named Hugh and his last name was like a girl I slept with last week.
“HUGH LAURIE!!! Like A Bit of Fry and Laurie, Hugh Laurie. Like Bertie Wooster, Hugh Laurie. I FUCKING LOVE HUGH LAURIE.”
Zevvy grabbed the gun and pointed it between my eyes. “You never say that again.” Ever. I hear it, I blow your head off.”
You know what was really strange about those few seconds. I didn’t defecate all over myself. I had often read that this was something people did when they had a gun pointed at them.
“OK Zevvy. I’ll keep that to myself.”
“Anyways, the Hugh had a father who was an Olympic rower and so they picked the son over me. Over me. Captain Zev Levi of the Israeli Defense Forces. Unbelievable." Zevvi was reliving the moment. I let it wash over him yet again.
“OK, Fingerhut. So I want you to make the Cambridge boat team lose at the big race at the end of term.”
“You want me to shoot the Cambridge rowing team?”
Zevvi paused for a minute. He was living that possible moment. I let it wash over him.
“No. I don’t think they need to die. But they do need to lose. They need humiliation.”
Well thank God for that. Humiliation I could do.
“So what’s the plan, Zevvi.”
“I want you to throw a Moly into the river while the race is on.”
“You want me to stand on the bank of the river, make a Molotov Cocktail on the spot, and throw it into the Thames in the middle of the Oxford/Cambridge regatta?”
“Nachon. I knew you were a smart girl.” He patted my head.
“Zevvi. Forgive me. This does not sound like the sound plan of a former Captain in the IDF.”
“Never former, always still a Captain. Till death, I will be Captain Zev Levi.”
“Zevvy. I can barely make the cocktail in your kitchen, let alone behind some trees near the river.”
“Not behind the trees. They will see your fiery head. You must be in the trees. That is where you make the Moly.”
I need to meet the Christines in 5 minutes and have no time to argue.
“OK, Zevvy. OK. If it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad.”
“Good. Now we must practice.”
“No, now I must drink. Good bye, Zevvy. Shalom. Next week, we practice.”

Do you remember the training sequence in Rocky One? When Rocky runs all around Philly and then punches raw meat. This I did for Zev Levi. The children of Oxford followed me and people lined the main roads cheering me on. We told them that I was going to run across Britain like Terry Fox ran across Canada to raise money for cancer. “Whose Terry Fox?”, they would ask. “A hero.” I would respond, and that was good enough for them. After my run and meat punching, we would go back to Zev’s kitchen. There were 18 bottles lined up, with 18 rags, and a medium size jug of gasoline. Zevvy would stand behind me with a stop watch as I prepared Molotov Cocktail after Molotov Cocktail. Within weeks, I had 10 cocktails prepared in under 3 minutes. The Christines were ready to call the Guiness Book of World Records but I didn’t think that would be good PR for my career.

After I had nailed down the prep, I spent an entire week throwing. And when I say an entire week, I mean we didn’t stop. The Christines came by three times a day to feed chips into my mouth and to spoon Knorrs Chicken Noodle soup down my throat. By Thursday, Zevvy needed an IV which he did by himself without missing a catch. The week before I had decided I was Shomer Shabbes, so we did stop on Friday evening at sundown.

Full of pride and accomplishment, I slept soundly the night before the big boatrace, probably more soundly that the nervous rowers who had no idea what was in store for them.

I rose late on that Sunday morning, had my usual breakfast of McVitties chocolate biscuits and waited for Zevvy. We walked toward the Oxford Rowing Team’s clubhouse. As we neared, I saw the pasty white complexions of the rowers who despite all logical to the contrary remained pasty despite spending so many hours outside. The Cambridge men’s team was stretching nearby. They were also pasty and equally unattractive. I harboured no sympathy toward any of them which was a necessary precondition to deliver successfully on the task before me.

“OK. Fingerhut. You see that tree. The one with lots and lots of brown leaves. Yes, you go up there. It will camouflage your ginger top. Maher, Maher. Go quickly. You’ll see the steps that others have carved before you.”

“You’ve tried this before?”
Zevvy sighed. “You are the 13th to try this. 12 others before you have fallen. Some to their deaths, some burned beyond recognition. Perhaps you shall succeed. Perhaps my pain will be sated at long last.”
“Failure is not an option.” I declared.
“You will look nice in a Princeton cap and gown.” Zevvy looked at me for a minute. “I’m going home. If you succeed, I’ll know. Good luck.” And with that, he was gone.

I scampered up the tree in the time it takes to make an Americano and nestled into a previously used nook. There, I assembled the cocktail in the time it takes to make another Americano. Zevvy and I thought having a back-up in case something happened to the first was a good plan and so within minutes and I had two Israeli Army grade Molotov Cocktails.

If my mother could see me now, she’d be damn proud.

The rowers took their positions in their boats.
“Up at the catch," yelped the coxens. “And row.”
As soon as the Cambridge eight passed the bridge about 100 metres away from my tree, I picked up one of the cocktails, lit it, counted to 10 and tossed.
A beautiful flaming Coke bottle flew through the air, hit the rock where the front oarsman had just passed and exploded perfectly.
They kept rowing-a half a boat length ahead of Oxford.
I threw the second one. Again, it arced expertly through the soggy grey of English spring and exploded off the bridge where the middle of the boat was passing.
They kept rowing-a full boat length ahead of Oxford.
The finish line was in sight. I had seconds to defend the honour of Captain Zev Levi. And I did, not by kitchen-made Molotov cocktails, not by AK-47s, but by the one sure thing that will stop any male in his tracks: a white, wet, t-shirt.
This I sustained by nailing a beautiful forward dive in the pike position out of the tree and into the Thames landing just before the finish line. The Cambridge coxen screamed: “let it run” which makes no intuitive sense since it translates to Stop. The stern beckoned me to grab onto his oar and even though I could beat Michael Phelps on any given day in any given week as long as its not the week where I am menstruating, I flailed helplessly in the river. As the Cambridge team debated what to do with me, the Oxford team rowed into the finish line. A huge cheer went up on both sides of the river. I decided I had better make myself scarce. I pulled a Denis Pankratov and swam 25m underwater surfacing past the crowds. I jumped out of the river and into the Christines who had been watching the whole spectacle.

“You better tell him that you would look better in Harvard Crimson.” said Christine patting my hair dry with a towel.
“Yeah, said Christine. That might have even deserved full scholarship to Yale Law School.”

That evening as I sat down to my regular dinner of Knorr Chicken Soup, Zevvy stopped by.

“Very impressive, Fingerhut. Not exactly the way of the IDF, but effective. I give you almost top marks. He patted my head. “I can finally sleep knowing my honour was defended by a pair of New York Knockers. Like the basketball team, nachon.”
“Nachon, Zevvy, Nachon.”
“Layla Tov,Good night, my little wet t-shirt with red hair.” He chuckled.
“Night, Zevvy.”

A few weeks later, I received a full scholarship to Princeton and a welcome note from the head of their international security studies program. I clutched this in my hand as I got on the plane back to Toronto and contemplated my future.

Love Canadian Style: A Poem

Homme:
As I gazed at your hot chocolate eyes
Over the donut distressed table
At Tim Hortons,
I traced our initials in the foam of the $1.95 Cappucino
And licked the contents off my finger.

A taste of things to come.

Woman:
We watch Hockey Night in Canada:
I touch the scars on your left cheek
With my right fingers:
Remnants of Pee Wee hockey.

Homme:
Remember the first time I knew you
In that wilderness way
I took you in my arms
In the canoe…

Woman:
As if it could have been anywhere else, my toque wearing teddy…

Homme:
(interupts) Bear.
You were going to say.

Woman: And now
So many years passed
I still recall the soul of the hinterland
Trapped in the fabric
Of your skipants.

Homme:
Ah…tu remember my petite pamplemousse
Our trip to La Belle Provence
How we sailed down the Mountain Royale
In our snow scuffed snowshoes

Woman: And how we heated our lips
On the warmth of the Depanneur wine
That stained our teeth
The colour of love

Homme:
Scampering in the Quebecois sleet and stopping
To read the license plates.
Murmuring the sleek sensual sound of : Je me souviens over to each other
And wondering out loud
What it actually meant.

Together/Tout Ensemble
We celebrate our unity
On our Hudson Bay beige and rainbow blanket
And after the festivities:
Lying together listening to the familiar sounds of
Our beloved Leafs losing.

Killing my Inner Figure Skater

Every morning THEY made me wear a purple satin skating dress with green flowers
Every evening, I fished the sports pages out of the garbage can and read the Leafs game notes.
Every morning THEY made me practice moves with names like salchow, axel, and camel spins.
And every evening, I curled up to watch the Leafs or if they weren’t on, to watch news about the Leafs.

In the wilds of suburban Jewish Toronto, the girls did not play hockey. The girls figure skated. We wore white figure skates with purple guards. We wore little skirts with panties sewn into them. We did not eat because if you were thin, it was easier to jump. We got yelled at by Yasha Shmushkin for not doing enough strength training. We got yelled at by Diana Williams for not being graceful. We got yelled at by our parents for not practicing enough. And then finally, I turned 14, began smoking and drinking, and discovered punk rock, and that was the graceless ending of my figure skating career.

But it was not the end of my love for hockey.

Hockey has been a constant theme in a life that has seen periods of studying genocide, dressing up as a HeartSmart chicken in Brandon, Manitoba, writing computer manuals, and postering as a management consultant. It saw me though the early death of my father, my mother’s breast cancer, the birth of my kids (I credit surviving the labour of my daughter on being able to distract myself through a wild Leafs game against the Islanders), and the raising of my kids.

About five years ago, I had the privilege of interviewing Hayley Wickenheiser, arguably the greatest hockey player to ever wear a Jill. During the course of speaking with her and appreciating what she had done for women’s hockey, I began the slow process of killing my inner figure skater. I watched Hayley and the girls win gold for Canada. I watched women practice slapshots at the local rink. And I said, “ I can do this.”

At the tender age of 39.5, I figured it was time to lace ‘em up.

I was the first one signed up for the Dufferin Grove Learn to Play shinny Wednesday nights at 10:00 pm. I showed up at 9:30 There was a scrappy game of women’s shinny already ongoing. I just stood there in the freezing cold watching them and wondering if I would ever be able to play with them.

When coach Dan arrived, he asked me if I needed a stick. I said: Oh my God, are you really going to let me have a STICK!! My own STICK!!
“Well, you really can’t play hockey without one.”
“No, you don’t get it. Holding a stick for me is like holding a Torah.”
“A whah...OK, never mind. What side do you shoot from.” He held out a stick.” I grabbed it with my right hand and put it on my left side holding it the way I had seen Salming and Sittler do it a million times.

“Looks good. Time to hit the ice.”

I gingerly got on the ice and took a few baby steps. “Oh spare me,” I thought to myself. “I can skate better than this.” And so I did. Long graceful strides, picking up speed, head up, knees bent. All of those thousands of dollars and thousands of hours of figure skating finally paying off.

“Grab a puck and try skating with it.”
There I was flying around the ice, stick handling as though I had been doing it for years.

“OK. Now stop.”
What do you mean stop. How do you stop. When you figure skate, you use your pick. But hockey skates don’t have picks. I thought I killed my inner figure skater but it is pulling a Lazarus.
“Dan....how do you.....CRASH.”
My father’s voice in my head: “Get up or you’re going to get cold.”
“You OK?”
“Yup. Fine.”
Dan looked at me and winked: “Good for you. When you fall, it means that you are trying something new.”

For two days, my left knee is one big bruise; my right elbow is a mess and I have checked the weather forecast obsessively to make sure that the weather will be OK for Sunday night’s drop-in class.

One of the last things Hayley Wickenheiser said to me was: “You have the right to play the game.”

Thanks Hayley. I will.

The Sheik and I

The Sunday afternoons of my youth were reserved for a particular torture known as religious school. Those memorable occasions were spent with the nice Jewish princes and princesses of Toronto at the Church on the Hill, a.k.a. Holy Blossom Temple or as my father called it, the Holy Bosom. My father was part of a car pool involving several Mercedes –he however preferred driving his Army Jeep down Bathurst St with York Mill’s finest in the back seat. Sometimes, my father would drop all the other kids off and then announce that he and I had some serious business to attend to. This would involve him driving further south down Bathurst to College where we would dine at The (Dirty) Bagel and I would get thoroughly grossed out by his inhaling of intestines with a side of kasha. After lunch, we would continue east down College to the Gardoons a.k.a. Where God’s team used to play. My father would escort me through the front door, and down onto the floor of the arena and locate our chairs which were usually in the second row right behind some generic blue haired caned women whom you know had spent the previous night smoking Vantage at the local bingo hall.

At approximately 1:30, some guy in brown polyester (this is the mid-70’s) would come down the raised aisle with a mic: Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to Maple Leaf Wrestling…and the ladies in front of us would bang their canes again the floor and spit out peanut shells, and I would take off in my godawful clothes to hang out just behind one of the turnbuckles. Being approximately 5 years old, the security guards weren’t exactly concerned about my presence and left me alone. For about 3 hours, I would watch Dominic DeNucci, Lord Athol Layton, the Beast, Waldo von Erich come down the aisle and beat the shit out of each other. At the end, all of my testosterone exorcised, my father would take my hand and escort me outside and back into civilization. Just before we left the ring area, he would point to the centre of the ring and ask me if I would like to get in there one day. Yes Daddy, when I grow up, I want to be a wrestler. My father gave me the nomme de guarre of The Hut and would spend the car ride back to suburbia announcing me to the multitudes of my fans.

The end of the matches conveniently ended just as the final notes of the Israeli national anthem was being played at Temple so my mother had no clue where we had been and, of course, I wasn’t going to tell her.

*******************
Edward Farhat was a nice guy from Michigan. Eddie’s alter ego, however, was not. Every so often, Ed would don the tights and turn into one of wrestling’s legends, The Madman from Syria: The Sheik. Now Mr. Farhat should not be confused with the other Sheiks that came after him: Sheik Adnan al-Kaissie whom my husband and his friends in their Scarborough dinner jackets would chant mercilessly at Winnipeg’s only arena: “Sheik has AIDS”, nor should he be confused with the Iron Sheik whom at some point teamed up with Nicolai Volkoff or was it Ivan Koloff and were the champs during the 80’s. No, Edward Farhat was the real deal. The Sheik would come out in his black speedo tights with a little turtle on one side. Usually he was accompanied by his manager, Eddie “The Brain” Kreetchman who wore a very large Mogen David around his neck and later The Grand Wizard of Wrestling with his purple fez. The Sheik’s shtick was to walk down the aisle covered in his Yasser scarf and a snake around his neck and occasionally drift into the crowd where the old ladies with the blue hair would spit peanut shells at him and grown men would cower. After his manager reigned him back into the ring, The Sheik would remove the snake that was around his neck and wave it at the ref and then sometimes if the mood hit him, he’s breathe a little fire at the crowd. When the bell rang, he would pummel his poor opponent senseless in minutes and then take out the dreaded “Foreign object” and rip open whatever forehead got into his way. The whole spectacle lasted about five minutes. The Sheik was then soothed back into his corner as his manager dangled his snake hypnotically at him. The crowd would cheer as the bloodied loser was carried from the ring and then would boo vigourously as The Sheik walked out.

Religious school would just have to wait.

One Sunday, my father comes into my room and tells me to get ready for school. He helps me pick out my dress, which should have clued me in that something was up. Name a father from the 70’s that even knew where their kids clothes were. He selects my red strawberry dress and attempts to put me in it—then he decides to put my hair into two pigtails. Now why my mother didn’t pick up on this was beyond me but perhaps she was so in shock that she let it go.

So we get into the Army jeep that my father has recently procured. He in his raccoon coat and Russian hat with the floppy ears and me in my sensible blue coat. We pass Temple going south and make the turn onto Carleton. At that point, as though I couldn’t have guessed, his says to me: We’re going to see The Sheik.

Now I have to tell you that The Sheik at this particular juncture is not in my good books. He’s not in my good books because a few weeks prior, he had the audacity to break Mark Lewin’s leg. And Mark Lewin, was not just your average punching bag, he was Mark Lewin nee Moshe Ben Lewin hailing from the wrestling Mecca of Israel.

So as the Rabbis at Holy Blossom were reading that week’s Torah portion to my classmates, I was watching Goliath destroy David.

I knew that I would be atoning a lot that Yom Kippur.

I sat down in my seat and watched Billy Red Lyons with his partner Dewey Robertson in the corner contend with Stan the Man Stasiak and his dreaded heart punch; cheered when the 400 lbs that was Haystacks Calhoun sit on Abdullah the Butcher, and got a little ferklempt at the sight of the Flying Frenchman Edward Carpentier doing a back flip off the top rope. But that was all foreplay.

The lights went out. The man in the brown polyester suit stood alone in the centre of the ring.

Ladies and Gentlmen..this is the duration match with a 20 minute time limit. Introducing first in the red corner, from Hamilton, Ontario, weighing 285lbs, Angelo “King Kong” Mosca.

The crowd went nuts for Angelo, a former Canadian Football League player turned pro wrestler. As he hulked down the aisle, I screamed: I love you King Kong!! My father just looked at me bemused. “Do you want to get a little closer”. Being female and in short supply of the requisite amount of testosterone that would have allowed me to jump up and say: YES, YES, YES at the top of my little lungs, I looked a bit nervous and said OK, Daddy, sure, let’s get a little closer. So clutching my father’s hand, we moved right up to the front right behind…

And in the blue corner, from Syria, weighing in at 262lbs, The Sheik.

The Blue Corner. Yes, that’s where we were. And there was The Sheik being led to the ring by The Brain. And there was me in my crooked pigtails and strawberry dress half ready to pass out, my nails digging into my father’s hand.

The Sheik made his way through the ropes and knelt in the middle of the ring on his prayer mat offering prayers to Allah. He crawled back to his corner and as he reached down to deposit his snake, my father pushed me between the ropes and I came face to face with the Madman himself!!

Our eyes met—the Sheik’s crazed expression slipped slightly and he looked puzzled like why is there a small child in my corner…

I started screaming—mass hysteria, right at the Sheik. His expression gave way to concern and he reached out to touch my cheek showing yet again that bloodthirsty foreign object wielding Middle Eastern madmen do in fact have a heart.

I screamed louder and after what seemed like an eternity which was probably about 20 seconds, my father removed me from the ring and escorted me back to my seat.

The Sheik apparently recovered from having a small redheaded pigtailed child in a strawberry dress shoved in his face and started decimating King Kong Mosca.

I continued to yell, unconsolable even as my father hugged me against his fur coat. Finally, as my tantrum turned into the arrival of the Fourth Horseman of the Apocolypse, he took me outside to the nearest Beckers and got me a chocolate sundae—as though that would alleviate the post-traumatic stress disorder.

On the way home, just before we turned into the driveway, my father stopped the car and looked at me. “Don’t tell your mother.”

Up until he died, my father and I ditched the Jews of Forest Hill and went to the Gardens every few Sundays. I still turned a little pale when the Sheik came out but secretly he was my new favorite and once or twice, I think he looked at me.

My father, who was not apprehended by Children’s Aid, did not shove me through the ropes ever again. However, on one of our last trips, he took me out during intermission and led me down a very quiet hallway and pointed to one of the many closed doors—I could hear mens voices inside and lots of laughter—he said: do you know whose in there, I said no, he said very quietly..its Ox Baker…do you want him to come out and you can say hello…you can say: Hello Mr. Ox, My name is The Hut…and before he could say anything more…I fled back down the hall and hid under a cotton candy stand.

Both my father and The Wildman from Syria have long gone up to the Big Wrestling Ring in the sky. I picture them reminiscing about how a little redhead in a strawberry dress freaked The Sheik.