Remember how to arm-wrestle?

The late George Yontz with a steelhead. Look at those upper arms & shoulders.

A reader mentioned the Sturgeon River near Wolverine and Indian River in an recent email roday, and it set me to remember things from 55-60 years ago. We traded a pair of comments, but his mention of the river brought back a great flood of pleasant memories.

One was of a former Pennsylvania Dutchman by the name of George Yontz. He owned the old Hillside Camp cabins and tackle shop three miles north of Wolverine on old M-27. He taught me a good bit about steelhead fishing, catching walleyes on Burt Lake, and about being willing to gamble when the situation demanded such actions.

Yontz was a plumber and pipe-fitter by trade, and was long-waisted and short-legged. He wasn't tall but had biceps as big as my thighs, and was as hard as granite. He had developed a far-flung reputation as an arm wrestler of merit who had never been beaten, and people came from near and far to test him. They would arrive by car, swagger into the tackle-shop building, looked at my friend, dismissed him and asked for the legendary George Yontz.

The poor guy didn’t realize what he was walking into.

"You found him," Yontz would say in an ugly tone. "You want something?"

"Understand you arm-wrestle some. Want to give it a try with me? I've never been beaten."

A glimmer of a smile always crossed Yontz's face as he answered: "Got any money? I don't arm-wrestle for fun. I always like to take money from people who have never been beaten. Everyone but me has been beaten at least a time or two."

"I got money. How about $50?"

"Let's go for a hundred. Which arm-wrestling method do you prefer: lit candles or razor blades?"

"Say what?" The gent with the big fancy car suddenly found himself out of his league and sputtering. "What's this about lit candles and razor blades? Never heard of that before."

"Give your Ben Franklin to my man here," Yontz said, pointing at me. "He will hold your cash and mine, and he will give all of it to the winner. You have a choice: my man can light two candles. We will assume the position and he’ll measure where my hand will hit the table if you whip me and he'll measure where your hand will hit the table if I win. One candle will go under your hand at my end and one under my hand at your end. Any serious problems with that?

"Or ... I have two special devices here that will hold a single-edge razor blade with the sharp edge pointing up. You can get your hand cut or burned. It's your choice, bud. Time's a-wastin', and I ain't much on talking about it. Let's arm-wrestle!"

The muscle-bound gent had that look deer get when caught in the headlights of a speeding car. It was so quiet you could hear yourself sweat. He looked at Yontz with apprehension as he rolled up his sleeves over forearms that looked like Popeye's, and stood grinning at the dude.

The man wasn't grinning back as sweat began beading on his forehead.

I began a behind-the-counter search for somethinng that didn’t exist.

He didn't know whether to cut and run or try to finish what he started. One look told me and Yontz this guy was wired and wondering what he'd walked into.

"C'mon, make your choice," Yontz hissed, baring his teeth slightly in a frightening grimace.

"Make up your mind: Lit candles or razor blades. What will it be? Dave, go fetch the candles, razor blades and the things to hold the blades while our gentleman friend here gets himself ready to get whupped real bad."

I turned and started looking under the counter. I knew there were no candles, razor blades or special devices to hold the razor blades. It was part of Yontz's dog-and-pony show, and it was beginning to show on the stranger’s face.

"Hey, hey," the guy sputtered. "Let's keep this a friendly test of strength. Let's just arm-wrestle for the Bennies. No need for any rough stuff, is there?"

"It makes no difference to me but I never arm-wrestle friendly," Yontz said. "I want your money and you want mine. How can that be friendly? I just thought a guy that drove clear up here would want to make this a bit more interesting. You've never been beat, I've never been beat, so why not add a touch of danger and pain to it as well?"

"Let's just arm-wrestle for $100," the man said, eyeballing the size of Yontz's forearms as he took off his flannel shirt, and stripped to a lightweight T-shirt from the waist up. There were muscles visible now that few people had ever seen, and only those people who were willing to arm-wrestle for $100 would ever see. Well, that’s not quite true. His “man” had a front-row seat and could see the muscles bulging in his arms, shoulders and wrists. It was an impressive sight.

It soon became apparent to everyone that the stranger was out of his league.

Yontz flexed his arm muscles, and for a man in his 50s at the time, he was a remarkable specimen. His arm and shoulder muscles rippled like waves washing a beach. The other man was well built from lifting weights, but so far he just didn't have a clue how much trouble he was really in. They locked hands, and Yontz needed a thick book under his elbow to match up.

"Your challenge, you start," Yontz said as they locked hands again. Yontz stared hard into the challenger's eyes, and nodded for him to start.

The man tried to do it hard and fast, and it barely rocked Yontz as he held his hand straight up with the stranger's hand in his. The old pro felt a challenging taunt was in order.

"Get it going," Yontz said, "I don't want to sit here all day holding hands with another man. Show me what you're made of. Bring it to me. Arm-wrestle or I'll break your wrist!"

The contest was already won but the visitor just didn't know it yet. He gathered his strength, took a deep breath, let it out and gave it everything he had. He couldn't budge Yontz's hand. He nearly lifted himself off the chair with the effort but his try was ill conceived and a case of too little, too late.

"Done messin' ‘round yet," Yontz snarled. "If you can't bring more than that to the arm-wrestling table, it's time to finish it right now."

He slammed the stranger's knuckles against the hardwood table with great force. Had he wanted to, he could have broken the other man's hand. He did it hard enough to make the knuckles swell up and turn an angry red color.

Adding insult to injury.

"I'll give you a chance to get your money back," Yontz said. "Want to go again, left-handed? I'm pretty weak in my left arm. Hurt it a bit when I was young. You might take me left-handed. You game for double or nothing?"

The man looked Yontz in the eye, and saw something there he didn't like. He also saw that a man twice his age was well equipped and more than ready to whip him left-handed.

"Nope, I've had enough," the man said. "Boy, give him my one hundred dollars."

"Hold on there," Yontz hollered, standing up fast, tipping over the table and flexing his muscles. "I told you that my man would hold the money. Don't be calling him no boy. Treat him right. He did his job, I did mine and you didn't do yours. Apologize!"

"I'm sorry," the guy said to me as he headed out the door. "Young man, please give Mr. Yontz my money. It's disappointing to lose, but I was beaten by a better man."

Yontz later told me that it was true he had never been beaten arm-wrestling. He also said he had learned early in his arm-wrestling career to get into the other guy's head fast and make him sweat. Break his confidence before you sit down at the table, he said, and you've won the battle.

I served as Yontz's "man" for almost 10 years, and after each win, he would slip me ten bucks. Ten dollars back in 1952 through 1961 was a pile of money to a kid, but most of all, I learned an important lesson from him other than how to catch trout: don't back down, don't give up, and make the other person question your abilities. Do that, and half the battle is won before it starts.

His advice has served me well for many years in other ways. But I never could arm-wrestle, but then, I never had to. I usually could talk my way out of trouble.

Posted via email from Dave Richey Outdoors