Wolfman’s death leaves us grappling with mortality

The poolroom is a country whose citizens are kids with cues, girls with tats, old men with idle hours and smooth guys who carry their sticks in well-worn leather cases.

The only refugee I’ve ever seen in here was, one night, a monk: bald head, saffron robes, clunky sandals; he alone was without a passport while his friends attended to the citizenship of play.

There was, of another evening, a man who did not last long enough to pass through customs. He tossed a tray of coloured balls onto the slate table with the force of an angry bowler and was immediately exiled by Dennis, the night manager and prime minister of the late hours.

Mostly it is quiet in here, save for the apostrophic click of cue ball against object ball and the occasional barked curse; mine.

Recently, I saw a notice on the front door. A plain sheet, faded and photocopied, announcing that The Wolfman had died; on the notice, his picture and details of the funeral. I did not know the deceased. The Wolfman — Willie Farkas, Vilmos Farkas — looked remarkably like his nickname: fierce, lupine, hirsute. Dennis said that The Wolfman could have crushed your hand had he wanted to when he shook it.

I have known some wrestlers; all of them were similarly strong. I am fond of Reginald Siki, adored by the women of Montreal who took one look at him long ago and called to him, admiringly, from ringside: “Sweet Daddy.” He is still sweet but he no longer grapples; he is a karaoke man with a voice like Charley Pride.

I still own a hairpin, handed out by Gorgeous George.

I briefly knew The Hitman, Bret Hart, who did not earn his nickname; he filched it from the retired boxer Tommy Hearns, and I have no use for that.

And I will always smile at any mention of the ironically named dive bar on Queen St., gone now but remembered fondly as Gorilla Monsoon. He had nothing to do with it. But I did not know, or know of, The Wolfman.

And so, on a recent afternoon, I looked in on the card players in the back. They are almost all Hungarian. They have long connections to the neighbourhood. Dennis said they’d know.

I approached, with some caution, a table of five men at a game of rummy. Who knew The Wolfman best? “My name is Edward Weisz.” Eddy talked as he played his hand and kept the score on a scratch pad. “I’ve known him since I was 17 years old. He was my dad’s good friend. He was here often, the last year not so much; he was sick.”

What was he like? “Everyone will tell you the same thing. He was kind to everybody. He never had a bad thing to say about anyone.”

Did he live in the neighbourhood? “He lived downtown. He came here every day for 30 years. He didn’t play cards; he’d just kibitz. He wasn’t easy to understand, even in Hungarian; his accent.”

Did he talk about his days in the ring? “He wouldn’t talk about it too much. He was a humble guy. But he fought them all; The Sheikh, André the Giant, whoever was around at that time.” Where does the story begin? Eddy said, “He started in the Sixties, in the days when you’d be walking down the street and a promoter would see you and if you were a big guy, he’d ask if you wanted to be a wrestler — come on, we’ll show you the gimmicks.

“He was introduced in the ring as The Wolfman, from the wilds of Canada. He was dressed in skins. He had a collar around his neck. They’d lead him in on a chain. He’d growl, and the guy would hold him back.

“When he got into the ring, they’d let him off the chain, and after the fight they’d chain him up again, and he’d be growling.”

His signature move was the hanging neck-breaker. In character he would bite; and so, in wrestling parlance, he was a heel.

A pause then to tally the score, to gather the cards, to shuffle them softly and to deal another round. Eddy said, “He was not a young old man; he got beat up quite a bit.” That’s wrestling.

Eddy looked at his hand — he had very little to work with — and he said, “I’m in the towing business. I do the lighter stuff — flat tire, keys locked inside, you need a boost. I’d get a call and I’d look at him. ‘Ready to go?’ He’d always come with me.

“When we got to the customer I’d say, ‘Do you know who this is?’ He loved that. I liked to make him happy. He was a beautiful man. That’s his picture, back there, he’s wrestling a bear.”

I went to look. There, on the wall, next to a framed print of the pokerplaying dogs, was a photo of The Wolfman, grappling toe-to-claw with a black bear.

Aptly, the Wolfman fought tagteam with a wrestler known as The Bear, but when The Bear was killed in a car accident in Newfoundland, the joy went out of it, and the Wolfman quit the ring And now he’s gone. The joy of the card players has gone with him.

Joe Fiorito appears Monday. jfiorito@thestar.ca