CURTIS IAUKEA, 1937-2010

My friend Curtis Iaukea died Saturday at home in Papakolea. It was the house he’d lived in for years, on Iaukea Street, the one with the giant, tattered Hawaiian flag flying out front.

I only head the news today. Our one Honolulu newspaper devoted 179 words to his life; a cursory obit in the sports section called him a “legend” and mentioned some perfunctory facts.

Among many details omitted was that Curtis Piehau Iaukea III was a descendant of Hawaiian royalty. He was the grandson of Colonel Curtis Iaukea, vice chamberlain and diplomat to the court of King Kalākaua and Queen Liliuokalani and later Sheriff of Honolulu.

I first met Curtis when he sat down next to me in 1946. It was third grade at Punahou School. Rickety Rice Hall. The kids were arranged alphabetically. Curtis and I became the most unlikely of brothers. We were both belonged to minorities: he, one of the few Hawaiians there and me, one of the few Jews in the school.

Those old enough to remember this man knew him as a kolohe, mischievous hulk. I could pound him until fifth grade. A few years later he was one of the best lineman in Punahou’s long football history.

The last time I visited him in March we spent five hours reliving our glory (and gory) years. He said his biggest thrill was playing in the Rose Bowl. The quarterback of his Cal Bears team was Joe Kapp, who went on to have a big career in the NFL.

But Curits passed on the gridiron and chose to pursue what was called “professional wrestling.” That was a euphemism for what these monsters called “The Show.” In the 1950s Hawaii’s wrestling impresario was “Gentleman” Al Karasick, who promoted the bouts at the erstwhile Civic Auditorium. After World War ii this domed arena on South King Street was the largest indoor venue between the West Coast and Japan.

I worked there as the backup Roller Derby trackside announcer while I was at KGU and KHVH in 1956 and '57, something I generally leave out of my resume.

Karasick, who later transferred the franchise and his nickname to “Gentleman” Ed Francis, was found of Curtis. He was a friendly local boy who travelled in all circles. From Kahala to Kahuku, everyone came out to cheer on “Da Bull” as he disposed of hellish, costumed warriors from around the world.

There was no television at the start. But one would read in the newspapers of Curtis’ thrilling triumphs. Often the stories detailed the riots that broke out amongst the patrons, spilling out onto the sidewalk, while Curtis locked himself in the dressing room, checking out his paycheck.

I was born three months before him. All the lines on my forehead run horizontally below my bald head, each representing the trauma, adventure and wear of a lifetime. But Curtis Iaukea had scores of diagonal lines; they were not the ridges of a normal human. Each, like notches in a gunman’s belt, marked the spot where Curtis once bled, spurting. gushing, just before the bout’s climax.

The horrified crowd, seeing their hero’s claret blinding him, dripping on his chest, responded. Into the ring they would hurl chairs and miscellaneous detritus at “King Curtis’” evil opponent—until Curtis flopped and dropped the guy and planted one big bare foot on the chest of the loser.

Last time I saw Curtis he had to show me “the razor trick.” How he hid a bit of a razor blade between his fingers and self-triggered the blood. In later years, when he ran a boogie board rental concession at The Groin (the makai end of Kapahulu Avenue, intersecting Kalakaua), people stared at these atrocious scars in sympathy, and horror.

That was enough to get Curitis going, talking incredible story. I’ve know many folks, here and afar. Brother Curtis was as smart and akamai as anyone I ever met. In his later years all the big names in wrestling checked in with Curtis on the phone. “You know, da guy who was elected governor,” he would say of Jesse Ventura. They all called—his former opponents--out of concern, fellowship and, more so, profound respect. Curtis Iaukea was a man of honor in a world of scoundrels.

When we last hung out, it was unspoken, but we both knew this could be the last time. We laughed at ancient pranks. We teared up in nostalgic waves. People came and went, leaving the two of us alone. Our bond radiated between the two of us. Driving away I played Elvis Presley’s “If We Never Meet Again This Side Of Heaven.” And prayed for my friend’s sweet soul.

A man among men, Curits Iaukea touched millions. He had friends, literally, on every continent of the globe. Everyone in the Punahou Class of 1955 asked about him when we last met. I told everyone he was sharp as a tack, and fighting disease with his warrior strengths. Then the final bell finally rang, and he went out a champ.

Me ke aloha pumehana, kaikuaʻana.