The Iron Sheik and my first brush with kayfabe

It is no secret that I enjoy professional wrestling. Good people know not to bother me on Wednesday nights lest they interrupt my AEW Dynamite binging.

That being said … the passing of Hossein Khosrow Ali Vaziri yesterday caught me off-guard. He was a professional wrestler in the late 1970’s and 1980’s, working under the nickname of “The Iron Sheik.” Those weekend TV matches on WRGB included matches with the Iron Sheik – who, before entering the ring, would swing two 75-pound Persian clubs behind his back with ease, as proof of his strength (in real life, he was an international Greco-Roman wrestling champion and had competed in the 1972 Olympics). He would beat his opponents into submission – often with punches and throws, butt also with kicks from his curved-horn-pointed boots. And then came the finishing hold – the “Camel Clutch,” where he would climb behind his fallen opponent and wrench the pour soul off the mat, essentially leaning back to cause painful stretching of his opponent’s back.

This was the Iron Sheik in all his glory. He would take the microphone and shout about how the USA was nothing and that Iran was #1. And this was only a short time after the Iranian Hostage Crisis. It was almost as if he was the epitome of the Ayatollah Khomeini in the squared circle.

The Iron Sheik eventually won the then-WWF heavyweight championship title from all-around good guy Bob Backlund – well, in all honesty, he didn’t really beat Backlund, but Backlund’s manager tossed in a white towel to surrender lest Backlund suffer spine damage from an extended camel clutch ride. Sheik held the belt for about a month, eventually losing it to Hulk Hogan – and thus the start of Hulkamania running wild, bruddah.

But I want to go back to 1980. And I may have told this story before – I don’t care, I’m telling it again.

At the time, the WWF held wrestling matches at the Washington Avenue Armory. It was not unusual to see the big stars on a Saturday night – babyfaces like Chief Jay Strongbow or Bruno Sammartino or Tony Garea or Ivan Putski all battling evil heels like Spiros Arion or Stan “The Man” Stasiak or the like.

I say this because in 1980, I was living with my aunt and uncle in a two-family home on Southern Boulevard in Albany’s Delaware Avenue neighborhood. There was a Handy Andy convenience store at the intersection of Delaware and Second Avenues, and it was a decent place to get milk or cookies or bread. Just a simple convenience store.

So one night in 1980, my aunt and uncle told me to go to Handy Andy and purchase a few things. Okay. I’ll do that – especially since on the way I could sneak into the tavern across the street and play a game of pinball before the bartender chased me out.

I arrived at the store … and as I’m walking in, I see – big as life – the Iron Sheik, Pat Patterson and a couple of other wrestlers – the same guys that were on WRGB on Sunday mornings – buying beer and tobacco and a couple of other sundries.

Holy shit. What do I do? Do I run up and get their autographs? Do I run like hell so that I don’t get caught by the Iron Sheik and twisted into a camel clutch? Should I be on the lookout for Ivan Putski or Rick Martel to come into the Handy Andy and now we’ve got a full-fledged brawl at the checkout counter?

But in all honesty, the only thing I did – was I looked at the Iron Sheik’s feet.

See, I still believed at the time that pro wrestling was real. I hadn’t grasped the concept of kayfabe. I was more curious as to whether the Iron Sheik wore regular shoes or not. Because in the ring, he wore those hob-nosed pointed boots, and I thought those were because he had some sort of foot injury or that his toes were pointed upwards.

Spoiler alert – the Iron Sheik wore what appeared to be very comfortable, normal – and well-shined – Oxfords. No hob-nosed points, no hooks, none of that. Just a few men purchasing beer and tobacco at the local Handy Andy. Probably oblivious to the 17-year-old wrestling fan who was totally gobsmacked and surprised to see them.

I mean, what am I going to tell my folks? That the Iron Sheik and Pat Patterson and some other guys from Sunday morning pro wrestling were at a convenience store, most likely getting a few purchases after their match at the Armory and on their way to Springfield or Utica or wherever? My folks would probably send me to my room, claiming that I’m making up stories and I should be ashamed of myself.

But there it was, plain as day. The Iron Sheik’s feet were as normal as yours or mine. Those horned boots he wore in the ring weren’t for orthopedics.

There you go. Rest in peace, Iron Sheik. And because of your snack purchase at Handy Andy, I got my first tiny glimpse into the truth that pro wrestling isn’t just fights and blood and screaming into microphones. These are men and women who, after they leave the arena, just want some Schlitz and Marlboros and probably a couple of Hershey bars.

In sensible Oxfords, no less.