Bereaved ringmates hail 'Killer' Kowalski's class act

Mark Wilson/Globe StaffThe casket of the 6-foot-7 former pro wrestler was carried into St. Joseph Church in Malden yesterday. He died Saturday at age 81. (Mark Wilson/Globe Staff)

MALDEN - The Pink Assassin was there.

So were the Skunk and the Bull. The Boston Babe and the Boston Bad Boy, the Butcher, the Bandit, the Candyman.

They came to honor the Killer, his famous hands wrapped around a rosary and a statue of the Virgin Mary as he lay in a casket. No one who ever shook those massive hands forgot the experience.

After pro wrestling legend Walter "Killer" Kowalski died Saturday at 81, hundreds of wrestlers, friends, and family shuffled past his casket at the Weir Funeral Home Wednesday and gathered at St. Joseph Church yesterday for his funeral Mass.

Don Bravo, one of Kowalski's longtime wrestling associates, gave the eulogy and talked about his "famous claw."

Kowalski "used his powerful hands with the dexterity of a concert cellist, to build an extraordinary career," he said. "Yet he also used them lovingly to guide students, always shake a fan's hand, write lovely poetry . . . and expound on the power of love."

It was a reunion for wrestlers, some well-known, some not: the Sandman, Mr. USA, the Golden Boy, the Fabulous One, the Mailman. Some wore long ponytails, others were shaved bald. Some were covered in tattoos and piercings, while others could have passed for college professors.

Many had been his students.

"Some of these people I haven't seen since I was 20, probably," said Paul Richard, 43, a referee who trained with Kowalski, as he looked around outside the funeral home Wednesday night. "You'll probably never see all these people all together in one place again."

Born in Ontario, Kowalski had planned to be an electrical engineer before he tried wrestling and was hooked. He made his name in the rough-hewn wrestling scene of the 1960s and '70s playing a villain, or "heel" in pro wrestling vernacular. Later he became known as a teacher, training a generation of wrestlers at his school in Malden and later in North Andover.

"He didn't [teach] to make big stars," Kowalski's most famous student, Paul Levesque, better known as Triple H, said after the funeral. "He did it so guys could live the dream he lived."

For the 6-foot-7, 285-pound Kowalski, that dream contained a screaming crowd, fans throwing eggs and pig's ears, and the chance to play a role bigger than life.

"If you wanted to know how to incite a riot, you watched Kowalski," said Joe Matterazzo, 31, one of his students.

In the ring he cursed at old women and scared little kids. In private, he wrote poetry and was religious; he practiced vegetarianism and listened to Mozart.

"Walter was the epitome of the heel, and the kindest guy in the world," said Richard Byrne of North Reading, one of Kowalski's oldest friends and colleagues. "He got all his frustrations out in the ring."

Kowalski honed his act by arguing with the car radio.

"The announcer would say, 'It's a beautiful day. Eighty-two degrees,' " he told an Esquire reporter a few years ago. "And I'd start screaming back, 'Lies! Lies! Lies! Never has the temperature been lower than it is today!' "

But he would rather wrestle than talk. He changed the pace of wrestling, speeding up the action and adding spectacular "high flying" jumps off the ringside ropes.

Wrestling is as difficult an art as ballet: Creating the illusion of violence without seriously hurting yourself or your opponent takes expertise.

Kowalski, who held that respect for an opponent was a priority, was skilled at the dance.

"It's like a tango," Terry "Magnum T.A." Allen, 52, said at the wake. "It has to be done right."

Kowalski grew up in an era when the artifice of wrestling, a kind of performance art with written story lines, was a secret. And he took that secret seriously.

Byrne recalled once when the two of them were talking amiably in the locker room, after a match in which they had played bitter rivals. But when a stranger wandered in, Kowalski immediately threw Byrne up against a wall, bellowing, "You dirty bastard!"

Even after the public caught on to wrestling's secrets, Kowalski passed the old values on to his students. Stay professional, he told them; don't let the fans see you out of character. And he taught them how to defend themselves if their opponent tried to "shoot," or hurt them for real.

He taught them the old locker-room ritual of the handshake: Before a match, wrestlers traditionally shake hands with a soft, almost limp grip. The message: I know what I'm doing, I'll work with you to make a good match; we're partners in the ring. Kowalski, with his huge hands, couldn't quite manage that loose grip himself.

"His hand would wrap around you," Matterazzo recalled. "They were meathooks."

Kowalski suffered a massive heart attack Aug. 8 and never regained consciousness. Ten days later, he was taken off life support. His wife, Theresa, kept vigil by his bedside and a stream of old friends came to visit when they heard the news.

At Wednesday's wake, Byrne stayed long after others had gone, talking about Kowalski's last days. He remembered looking down at his old friend.

In his later years Kowalski had developed a stoop, and at the end, his knees had been bad and he got around in a wheelchair. He had seemed to shrink.

But seeing Kowalski lying full length on the bed, Byrne was impressed by how huge the man still was.

"He's on his deathbed, and his forearms are twice the size of mine," he said. "He was just massive."