I'd always wanted to join a circus, even before I actually decided to run away from my abusive, alcoholic widowed Father at the age of ten. Nobody would miss me, I'd had hardly any schooling and in the early 1950's, nobody really cared.
They took me in as one of the family and over the years I grew up to be a handsome youth with a fine muscular physique. I lodged with George, the circus strong-man who challenged members of the public to box or wrestle him and last for three rounds without being ko'd, pinned or submitted. He would stand in the ring in his leopard-skin leotard, arms crossed against his pecs asking if anyone wanted to try their luck and win $50 if they survived. Many tried but failed.
When I reached 18 years of age the boss of the circus, Mr Callaghan, asked me to his office in the biggest caravan on the site.
"Sit down, boy.", he said, chomping on a fat cigar.
"The reason I've asked you here is, well, George ain't getting any younger, and he's starting to lose his fights...which costs me money. Now I've seen you working around here with your top off, shoveling shit out of the animal cages, and you look real fine. I was thinking of giving you the job of working in the wrestling booth. I say wrestling because it's becoming really popular, more so than boxing. What do you say?"
I ran my fingers through my floppy blonde hair, slightly uneasy at the way the boss was eyeing me up and down.
"Well, I errr...I'm really flattered, sir. I've learnt so many wrestling holds with George, we wrestle around all the time in our caravan."
"I'm sure you do, son. And don't worry, we'll look after George. He'll stay with the circus as a handyman or some such. Now, I've drawn up a three year contract, just legal technical jargon that you don't have to worry about."
He pushed the paper and pen towards me and asked me to sign by the X. I could hardly read, let alone write, but I picked up the pen and slowly scrawled my name on it.
"Good boy, your first bouts will be tomorrow night when we hit the next town. Oh, and you will wrestle in these, and your name will be The Masked Apollo."
He opens his draw and dumps on the table a pair of skimpy white briefs and a cheap looking cotton mask with a few holes for eyes and mouth cut into it.
"But my names Tom. I can't wrestle in these...they look...well, sort of queer."
"You've just signed the contract which says you agree to the name change and will wrestle in whatever gear you are given. In fact, I want to see you change into your new uniform now, in front of me."