I remember Monsoon as an excellent heel. He was so "over" in the early '60s. His fierce growl and full beard persuaded people to take his "gorilla" persona very seriously. Unlike the heels of today, the Gorilla Monsoon image was genuinely frightening. No one in the audience laughed at his gimmick. They were actually both afraid and respectful.
I first met Monsoon at New York's Sunnyside Gardens arena during the latter part of 1970. He had agreed, through the local promoter, to be a guest on a local radio show I was hosting. Monsoon was cordial, entertaining and very articulate. After the interview he thanked me, but little did I realize what an important role he would play in my future. In the weeks to follow, I spent more and more hours interviewing wrestlers. Monsoon would watch me most times, but I never realized why. Years later I figured out that he was just making sure I was not asking questions about the legitimacy of the business. He wanted to see if I was a "wiseguy" who tried to gain the trust of the wrestlers, only to expose wrestling for what it really is. That had happened many times before by newspaper writers and radio broadcasters. I had to show I was sincere about just covering wrestling for my radio show in a manner that would be acceptable to him and the other wrestlers. Eventually he, along with a few other wrestlers, spread the word that I was "okay." I was accepted into "the fold."
Throughout the years, Monsoon spent less time in the ring and more time behind the scenes as an agent/coordinator for the WWF. As the business progressed, the heels of pro wrestling became more of a laughing matter to many fans. What Monsoon brought to the table was no longer to be. His character was a classic one. His feuds with Bruno Sammartino drew huge gates, and their matches were always the kind that, to use a cliche, "kept you on the edge of your seat!" You had no doubt in your mind that wrestling was real when these two battled each other. It was "work" at the finest level.
In the last few years, Monsoon went through the motions of the agent/coordinator job, even playing the role of WWF President, but I could tell his heart wasn't really into it. He probably didn't like the direction the wrestling business had taken. He longed for the old days, and I confirmed that. During the summer of 1998, I was backstage at the Atlantic City Convention Center before a WWF TV taping. The wrestlers were all hanging around on a truck loading platform, having a great time, joking around. A few feet way, in a dark corner, alone, and seated on a TV production crate, sat Monsoon. He looked pale and tired. I walked over to say hello, and when I did, it seemed as though he had come out of a trance. Yes, he was at the arena, but his mind was elsewhere. I did not realize that I was going to say good-bye to him, but I guess that's what I did.
"Gino, I never really got to say thank you for all the doors you helped open for me early in my career," I told him. "I miss those classic matches with you and Bruno."
"Those were special days," he said. "There is much more money in the business now but it just does not match the aura of the sport we knew way back then."
We went on to discuss some of the top workers of that time including Victor Rivera, Edouard Carpentier and Bobo Brazil. A warm handshake ended our discussion. I walked off into the arena, but before I went through the entranceway, I looked back and saw him sitting there. It made me sad. The man who used to scare fans and have great matches had become a lost soul in the current wrestling scene.
He called it "sport," and that's how the majority of fans viewed it back then. It was Gorilla Monsoon who made us all "believe."
I'm glad I had a few minutes in Atlantic City to properly say "good-bye!"