Post by Stu-E Price on Jul 28, 2007 8:50:23 GMT -5
MY WEDDING DAY
Oct. 7, 1984 was our wedding day.
It was marred by an incident that had taken place three weeks earlier. Davey had returned from a match in Edmonton on a Sunday morning and come straight over to see me at my dad's house. He came up to my bedroom and woke me up. He sat on the edge of my bed with his back to me, his shoulders heaving.
“Oh my God," I thought, “something awful has happened.” I thought maybe one of his parents had died.
“What's wrong?" I asked gently rubbing his back.
“You're not going to want to marry me," he sobbed.
“Of course I will," I assured him. "What's wrong?"
He shook his head, "No, you won't. Not after what I have to tell you."
“Oh Davey, nothing could stop me. We're a team. We are going to have a wonderful life together. What is it?" I pleaded.
He continued to beat around the bush for half an hour. By that time, I was getting annoyed. I concluded he was trying to break off our engagement and didn't know how to tell me and told him so.
He began crying even harder. "No, that's not it. I'm so happy with you. You are my life. I love you more than anything. This ring rat in Edmonton says I got her pregnant."
This took a moment to digest. "Well Davey, I'm not mad at you for something you might have done a few years ago."
“No. She's about two months pregnant," he replied with his back still to me.
“Oh my God, how could she make up such a vicious lie? Is she trying to blackmail you or something?"
There was a silence.
“I've been seeing her all this time, Di. Right up until she told me about the pregnancy yesterday," he croaked. Then he turned and laid his hands on my forearms. "I don't think it's mine though. She's been with a lot of the wrestlers."
I shook his hands off me. What was he trying to do? Excuse what he had done because he might not be the father?
“You bastard! I could even understand if you were in love with another girl, but she is just some bum you and a bunch of wrestlers were taking turns with. That's despicable. My mom and dad have planned this huge wedding for us in less than a month!"
“Please, please forgive me Di. Forgive me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Don't tell Stu. Don't tell Helen. Just don't say anything to anyone. Let's just move on."
“Well what about this girl? Is she going to come after you and sue you one day? How will we explain this to our future kids?"
He shook his head. "She ’as to prove it's mine first and I don't think it is. Di, it could be anybody's."
I buried my face in my hands. "Oh my God, your life is on the road. How do I know you won't do this again?"
“Because I love you. I don't wanna to be with anyone else. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If I can't ’ave you I will kill myself. I swear to God, Di. I'll end my life."
I was 20. He was my first love and I believed him. I kept this to myself for 14 years. We had already invited 1,000 people from all over the world to our wedding. I was sick about what Davey had told me, but felt powerless to do anything. I couldn't eat or sleep for the next three weeks and lost more than 15 pounds. Everyone thought I was being a self-indulgent little princess with pre-wedding jitters. Little did they know how tormented I was.
The wedding took place on a beautiful fall Sunday afternoon. A heavy, red velvet tablecloth covered in bone-colored lace was draped over my mom's 18-foot Chippendale dining table. The table was laden with sumptuous finger foods. A harpist plucked gently in the front room, which was decked out like a ballroom. The house was filled with candles and flowers. Waitresses collected dishes and served hors d'oeuvres, while barmen worked in every corner.
I remember my mom surveying the room with her sister Diana Sr. They always had a slight rivalry, but Diana had supplied the wedding menu. There were fried chicken wings, deviled eggs, rare prime rib served with cocktail buns, kielbasa sausage, quiche lorraine, fruit and vegetables.
The menu came from a White House function. Diana's husband, Jock, worked for the Canadian embassy in Washington. My mom glanced outside at my dad tending a rotisserie filled with chickens and ducks and sighed.
“Stu is cooking more chickens. How are we supposed to eat chicken with all this finger food?"
There were 13 cats running around and two or three dogs chasing each other through the guests. My mom rubbed her forehead as she always did and pleaded with no one in particular, "Will someone please put these cats away?"
About 800 people filled the house: dignitaries, relatives, old wrestlers, and wrestling photographers from all over the world. Tom Billington was Davey's best man and a little Japanese reporter holding a video camera upside down was trailing him.
While Dynamite was chowing down on a prime rib bone and guzzling a beer he noticed this cameraman moving closer and zooming in on him. He turned angrily to him and, in a strong accent, he sniped, "That's it, yard dog. I've 'ad enough o' you. Now eff-off."
Just before the ceremony I sat on the porch railing next to my dad. He poked at the meat on the rotisserie. Twenty chickens, two ducks and one large prime rib turned gently, dripping grease. Dad, never a drinker, was holding a cup of tea. I could see he wanted to tell me something, but my dad takes his time.
“Not a bad turnout," he said.
I nodded. "Yeah and the weather looks good for Thanksgiving weekend."
There was a long silence, then I smiled at my dad. "Davey looks good in your suit, too."
My dad nodded, "That's nubby silk."
I brushed his arm. "Thanks for giving it to him, Dad."
My dad modestly shook off any gratitude. "Oh that's fine. It looks nice on him. I can't wear it anymore. I remember when I used to do 1,000 squats non-stop. I'd amateur wrestle one guy after another all day long."
We stared at the chickens slowly spinning.
Then my dad cleared his throat a little. "Di, can I just talk to you for a second here."
I looked up at him.
My dad continued to stare at the meat. "The art of submission wrestling is a lot like life. We always gotta know what the other guys move is before you move. Then you guzzle ’em."
Guzzle is another way of saying move in for the kill. My dad was trying to tell me that as a married woman I would have to stand on my own and be strong.
Then Davey and Dynamite appeared in the doorway and the talk turned to wrestling.
Oct. 7, 1984 was our wedding day.
It was marred by an incident that had taken place three weeks earlier. Davey had returned from a match in Edmonton on a Sunday morning and come straight over to see me at my dad's house. He came up to my bedroom and woke me up. He sat on the edge of my bed with his back to me, his shoulders heaving.
“Oh my God," I thought, “something awful has happened.” I thought maybe one of his parents had died.
“What's wrong?" I asked gently rubbing his back.
“You're not going to want to marry me," he sobbed.
“Of course I will," I assured him. "What's wrong?"
He shook his head, "No, you won't. Not after what I have to tell you."
“Oh Davey, nothing could stop me. We're a team. We are going to have a wonderful life together. What is it?" I pleaded.
He continued to beat around the bush for half an hour. By that time, I was getting annoyed. I concluded he was trying to break off our engagement and didn't know how to tell me and told him so.
He began crying even harder. "No, that's not it. I'm so happy with you. You are my life. I love you more than anything. This ring rat in Edmonton says I got her pregnant."
This took a moment to digest. "Well Davey, I'm not mad at you for something you might have done a few years ago."
“No. She's about two months pregnant," he replied with his back still to me.
“Oh my God, how could she make up such a vicious lie? Is she trying to blackmail you or something?"
There was a silence.
“I've been seeing her all this time, Di. Right up until she told me about the pregnancy yesterday," he croaked. Then he turned and laid his hands on my forearms. "I don't think it's mine though. She's been with a lot of the wrestlers."
I shook his hands off me. What was he trying to do? Excuse what he had done because he might not be the father?
“You bastard! I could even understand if you were in love with another girl, but she is just some bum you and a bunch of wrestlers were taking turns with. That's despicable. My mom and dad have planned this huge wedding for us in less than a month!"
“Please, please forgive me Di. Forgive me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Don't tell Stu. Don't tell Helen. Just don't say anything to anyone. Let's just move on."
“Well what about this girl? Is she going to come after you and sue you one day? How will we explain this to our future kids?"
He shook his head. "She ’as to prove it's mine first and I don't think it is. Di, it could be anybody's."
I buried my face in my hands. "Oh my God, your life is on the road. How do I know you won't do this again?"
“Because I love you. I don't wanna to be with anyone else. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If I can't ’ave you I will kill myself. I swear to God, Di. I'll end my life."
I was 20. He was my first love and I believed him. I kept this to myself for 14 years. We had already invited 1,000 people from all over the world to our wedding. I was sick about what Davey had told me, but felt powerless to do anything. I couldn't eat or sleep for the next three weeks and lost more than 15 pounds. Everyone thought I was being a self-indulgent little princess with pre-wedding jitters. Little did they know how tormented I was.
The wedding took place on a beautiful fall Sunday afternoon. A heavy, red velvet tablecloth covered in bone-colored lace was draped over my mom's 18-foot Chippendale dining table. The table was laden with sumptuous finger foods. A harpist plucked gently in the front room, which was decked out like a ballroom. The house was filled with candles and flowers. Waitresses collected dishes and served hors d'oeuvres, while barmen worked in every corner.
I remember my mom surveying the room with her sister Diana Sr. They always had a slight rivalry, but Diana had supplied the wedding menu. There were fried chicken wings, deviled eggs, rare prime rib served with cocktail buns, kielbasa sausage, quiche lorraine, fruit and vegetables.
The menu came from a White House function. Diana's husband, Jock, worked for the Canadian embassy in Washington. My mom glanced outside at my dad tending a rotisserie filled with chickens and ducks and sighed.
“Stu is cooking more chickens. How are we supposed to eat chicken with all this finger food?"
There were 13 cats running around and two or three dogs chasing each other through the guests. My mom rubbed her forehead as she always did and pleaded with no one in particular, "Will someone please put these cats away?"
About 800 people filled the house: dignitaries, relatives, old wrestlers, and wrestling photographers from all over the world. Tom Billington was Davey's best man and a little Japanese reporter holding a video camera upside down was trailing him.
While Dynamite was chowing down on a prime rib bone and guzzling a beer he noticed this cameraman moving closer and zooming in on him. He turned angrily to him and, in a strong accent, he sniped, "That's it, yard dog. I've 'ad enough o' you. Now eff-off."
Just before the ceremony I sat on the porch railing next to my dad. He poked at the meat on the rotisserie. Twenty chickens, two ducks and one large prime rib turned gently, dripping grease. Dad, never a drinker, was holding a cup of tea. I could see he wanted to tell me something, but my dad takes his time.
“Not a bad turnout," he said.
I nodded. "Yeah and the weather looks good for Thanksgiving weekend."
There was a long silence, then I smiled at my dad. "Davey looks good in your suit, too."
My dad nodded, "That's nubby silk."
I brushed his arm. "Thanks for giving it to him, Dad."
My dad modestly shook off any gratitude. "Oh that's fine. It looks nice on him. I can't wear it anymore. I remember when I used to do 1,000 squats non-stop. I'd amateur wrestle one guy after another all day long."
We stared at the chickens slowly spinning.
Then my dad cleared his throat a little. "Di, can I just talk to you for a second here."
I looked up at him.
My dad continued to stare at the meat. "The art of submission wrestling is a lot like life. We always gotta know what the other guys move is before you move. Then you guzzle ’em."
Guzzle is another way of saying move in for the kill. My dad was trying to tell me that as a married woman I would have to stand on my own and be strong.
Then Davey and Dynamite appeared in the doorway and the talk turned to wrestling.