By Tom Weller
Heaviest
Sportsmen. The heaviest sportsman of all time was the
wrestler William J. Cobb of Macon,
Georgia, who in 1962 was billed as the 802-lb. “Happy Humphrey”
Guinness Book of World Records, 1978
A gasp ripples through the
crowd, a sound like a breath being passed from person to person to person, when
Happy Humphrey enters the ring. This sound is money.
Happy
removes the flat cap from his head, raises both arms above his head, waves the
cap like a stranded man trying to signal a passing plane. As the ring announcer
takes up his microphone, Happy lumbers, a slow circle inside the ring, arms
raised, cap still waving. Happy makes sure every eye in the arena sees just how
big he is, stretches himself up to his full height like a man trying to scare
off a bear. Arms like sacks of hams,
belly like a tractor tire, thighs like wine barrels, big is Happy’s job. Big is
good for business. Bigger is better. Bigger, bigger Happy thinks as he
strolls around the ring, arms reaching toward the arena lights that cloak him
in a hazy yellow glow. Bigger, bigger.
Feedback
and reverb twist the ring announcer’s words into incomprehensibility when he
announces Happy’s hometown, but the numbers ring out clear as a bugle’s call:
“802 pounds.”
The
numbers are a boulder thrown in a still pond. Exhales and hoots, stunned whistles move
through the crowd, come streaming toward Humphrey. The crowd paid for those
numbers. Those numbers are money. Happy drops his arms but leaves them open, a
man offering an awkward hug. He continues to circle the ring. He embraces all
those sounds, all the voices. Each one enters him, soaks right through his skin
like rain, becomes a part of him. Bigger.
Soaked by those voices, Happy grows. His bones stretch like a bamboo racing
toward the sun. His shoulders, his chest, arms and legs, all of it swells,
bigger, bigger. Happy’s joints strain and ache. Still, he thinks Bigger. That’s his job. Happy knows the
secret: giants are made of the voices around them.
Jack McArthur
charges Happy Humphrey as soon as the bell rings. Poor Jack, 230 pounds. There
are no voices for Jack. Jack will never be big. Making Happy bigger, that’s
Jack’s calling, that’s Jack’s money. He starts with punches to Happy’s belly. A
right-left combo. Boom boom. A sound like a bass drum. Again, boom boom.
Happy
feels each punch, each knuckle driving into his flesh, but Happy just smiles.
He looks down on poor Jack McArthur incredulous, shakes his head like he is
watching a boy try to chop down a mountain with his bare hands. This is Happy’s job. This is being a giant.
And the
people love Happy and the incredulous look on his face. They hoot and scream and bray their approval,
voicing gathering in the rafters before falling, falling into the center of the
ring and feeding Happy. Bigger, bigger.
Happy grows with each punch. He stares down on the top poor Jack McArthur’s
head, watches it recede into the distance, smaller and smaller with each punch,
like watching a lover walk away. Happy’s bones are on fire.
Then it’s
Happy’s turn. A forearm to poor Jack
McArthur’s chest. Jack trembles like he’s been hit with a telephone pole. More
voices. Bigger. Happy picks poor Jack up with one hand and throws him into the
corner. The ring rattles, a sound like clattering chains. Jack slouches in the
ropes, looks for a way out. Happy charges. There is no way out. Happy’s as big as
a house. Deep breaths with each step, Happy struggles to find enough oxygen to
feed his growing body. He feels like a
man drowning.
The whole
ring moves when Happy smashes into poor Jack McArthur. Happy hears the metal
ring posts sliding across the concrete floor, and he hears the voices. The voices are growing, too. Making those voices
grow, that’s Happy’s job. Bigger, bigger.
Poor Jack
McArthur takes one step out of the corner and falls flat on his back, falls
right at Happy’s feet. Jack looks so tiny all the way down there at Happy’s
feet, like Happy could reach down and pick up Jack with two fingers, pick him
up like a man finding a penny on the sidewalk.
Happy raises one hand above his head.
His signal to the crowd: the end. Voices rattle the arena walls. Everybody
knows what happens next. Happy’s as big as a damn barn. Happy grits his teeth.
Happy feels like a man about to crumble.
Happy
bends his knees just slightly, and every voice in the arena inhales in
anticipation. The sudden loss of oxygen makes Happy’s head buzz. Happy counts
to himself, one, two. He doesn’t want
to rush. He wants to tease the voices,
make them really want it, but the burden of being a giant is immense. Happy
feels like he’s standing in the center of the earth propping up the whole
planet. Happy feels like he is being buried.
Three. Happy
leaves his feet, and at the exact same moment, every voice in the arena
exhales. And Happy feels that breath coming at him from every direction,
swirling around him like a tornado. And Happy Humphrey rides the voices, rides
the breath of the people. Suspended in the air like Superman, Happy looks down
upon Jack McArthur, so small, so far away.