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Nobody was listening to me; they were looking at the wrestlers, which, of course, was what I’d figured on. Most of the men were comparing the grunters’ muscles to their own, and here and there a few were dropping their flowers onto the floor.

I signaled and in a second the boys were an omelet of flying legs. The crowd gasped, then leaned forward intently. The shrieking began when Gordon got a headlock on Zbich. It grew when Zbich flipped Gorgeous with a flying mare. By the time Gordon got in a billygoat butt, the amphitheater sounded like feeding time at the zoo.

But there was another sound, too. Old Whiskers was tottering down the aisle, shrieking, “This is romping! Mere romping!”

I signaled and the boys stopped.

“We need a third man to illustrate the next point,” I said. “Perhaps the gentleman in the aisle will volunteer.”

Two wrestlers grabbed Old Whiskers and tossed him into the ring. Making fast double talk, I took off his shirt and he stood there, stripped to the waist, blinking in the sun and looking like a dehydrated squab.