Washington has its share of menacing lobbyists – – power players whose mere presence is enough to command the respect, even the fear, of the establishment.
But in the annals of strong-arm politicking, no one cuts as intimidating a figure as a man by the name of Bill Goldberg, who made his debut on Capitol Hill last week.
Known simply as Goldberg to his fans, the World Championship Wrestling star packs a persuasive argument for just about anything into his 6-foot-4, 285- pound frame.
Making the rounds with lobbyists for the Humane Society of the United States, he came to defend animal rights and specifically to push for an end to cockfighting and other forms of animal blood sport.
Lawmakers would be well advised to pay heed: This is a man who makes a living pummeling his opponents into submission — a man who, if need be, could bench- press the entire congressional delegation from his home state of Oklahoma.
This is Goldberg, the head-shaven, tattooed flag-bearer of professional wrestling, and by all accounts, the most burly, fearsome Jew in professional sports today.
He catapulted to the top of the wrestling world last July by defeating “Hollywood” Hulk Hogan for WCW’s heavyweight championship title. Scores of unworthy competitors have since lined up to take their poundings from the man clad in black boots and black briefs, and nearly all have found themselves staring up at the arena lights, pinned by his signature “Jackhammer” maneuver.
Although he lost his championship title in December, Goldberg, 31, is still the rage among millions of Americans with an appreciation for violent theater – – and one of the biggest reasons why WCW’s “Monday Nitro” has become one of the most widely watched television shows in the country.
His fame has spawned a complete line of products, including what is believed to be the world’s first Jewish action figure. Wherever he goes, a faithful army of fans — some with their heads shaved in tribute to their hero, others hoisting Star of David placards high in the air — greets him with a ritual chant: “GOLD-berg! GOLD-berg!”
The phenomenon was on display on Capitol Hill last week as an overflow throng packed into a Senate briefing room to catch a glimpse of the absurdly large man stuffed into a black pinstripe suit. Congressional staffers, interns, pages, local fans and a wide-eyed contingent of visiting high school students formed a ring around the wrestling star.
Jesse Ventura may have already blazed the trail from wrestling to politics, but with all due respect to Minnesota’s new governor, he couldn’t carry Goldberg’s tefillin strap.
Despite being out of his element, Goldberg pulled off his first foray into politics with aplomb.
His message was simple: “When I step into the ring, that’s my choice. But these animals, they have no choice. It’s sick,” he said, throwing his weight behind a bill that would make it a felony to transport fighting roosters across state lines.
He worked the crowd with grace and patience, signing every last autograph, posing for every last photo, ruffling the hair of every last young fan.
Even a senator approached him, saying: “I don’t know who you are, but I was told I had to get a picture with you.”
So, how did a nice Jewish boy from Tulsa, Okla., the son of a Harvard-educated doctor and a classical musician, get into the business of body slamming guys named Macho Man and Undertaker on national television?
There were early indications of the career path Goldberg would take when, four years removed from his Bar Mitzvah, he took his first job as a bar bouncer. He gained notoriety playing football in college and made it to the NFL as a defensive tackle with the Atlanta Falcons in the early 1990s before a severe muscle tear put an end to his brief career.
After toiling as a trainer in a gym for a few years, Goldberg entered the wrestling world in 1997 intent on changing the stereotype associated with the sport and helping bring it into the mainstream.
He wanted to create a no-nonsense character people would like without relying on a cheap gimmick. Although he briefly entertained the idea of naming his character “Mossad,” a nod to the Israeli secret service, he said he ultimately decided against using a pseudonym in favor of “my nice Jewish name.”
“I wanted to come out and be myself and show that wrestlers can be professionals, that we can be someone like the guy next door,” he said in an interview, adding, “I’m just a normal guy — that likes to beat people up.”
He is not, however, exactly what you would call a normal Jew. And that’s part of his appeal to Jewish fans. Not only has he bucked Jewish stereotypes — he has turned the notion of Jew as victim on its head.
As one devoted Jewish follower of pro wrestling, 27-year-old Lou Kipilman of Corte Madera, Calif., put it: “He’s a proud Jew, a righteous kicker of goyim tuchas and a shooting star who’s beloved by every stripe of wrestling fan.”
Rabbi Irwin Kula, the Goldberg’s family rabbi, sees Goldberg as a positive symbol for Jews struggling with their identity.
Watching Jewish fans revved up by Goldberg, Kula, president of CLAL — The National Jewish Center for Learning and Leadership, said he is struck by what he recognizes as a “deep thirst in Jewish life” for the idea that a “Jewish good guy can exercise power and win,” and “that gentiles can stand up and applaud a Jew that uses power.”
For his part, Goldberg says he never intended to make an issue out of his Jewishness, but nonetheless feels honored to be thought of as a Jewish role model. Although he does not consider himself religious, he declined to wrestle last year on Rosh Hashanah — something that didn’t go unnoticed by his fans.
“I wanted to give the Jewish public someone to hold onto,” he said, “someone as a positive role model that didn’t go out and cuss, didn’t go out and cheat, someone to look up to.”
One of his most adoring fans is Kula’s 7-year-old daughter, Talia. “She can actually do an imitation” of his entrance theatrics “when he contorts his face, gives a primal scream, moves his arms up and down — she does it perfectly,” Kula said.
As for his future, the natural question arises following his political debut: Is Goldberg looking to become the next Jesse Ventura?
“Nah,” he demurred. “I’m here for a specific purpose. That and that only. I’m not here to do anything else than lend my time and heart to this cause.”
Of course, if he changes his mind, he’d probably win a welcome reception on Capitol Hill from House Speaker Dennis Hastert, a former wrestling coach. And all the trash talk and cheap blows exchanged inside the dome would make him feel right at home.
Besides, as one congressional staffer noted, “some folks here could use a good knocking around.”
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The Archive of the Jewish Telegraphic Agency includes articles published from 1923 to 2008. Archive stories reflect the journalistic standards and practices of the time they were published.
