In Florida: "Lock Up!" And the Pulse Pounds

By PAT JORDAN

The late-afternoon sun is white and hot, and it bleaches the blue sky. The ocean is a pale aqua-green. It is as clear and warm as a drawn bath. A soft, insistent ocean breeze rustles the big, faded yellow-green fronds of the palm trees. The sunbathers are the color of light coffee. Each lies on the sand, one knee indolently flexed, on a blanket whose color has been drained by the sun. Another languid sun-drenched day on Fort Lauderdale's beach.

In the dark low-ceilinged basement lounge of the Candy Store bar, the arm wrestlers are getting edgy. They have been taking turns "locking up" on- stage and then pulling on one another's arms for four hours now. There is a break in the action as the chiropractor, in white, manipulates the arm of an injured competitor. The emcee grabs the microphone; he does not like to see arm wrestlers get edgy, not even if he is Keith D. Jones, a 6-ft. 1-in., 290- lb. Filipino American from Redondo Beach, Calif., who was once the superheavyweight arm-wrestling champion of the world. Jones coached Sylvester Stallone in the arm-wrestling movie Over the Top. He taught Stallone how to curl his opponent's wrist inward to weaken it and how to psych out an opponent by puffing out his cheeks like an adder's and bulging his eyes widely, as if he were having some sort of fit. He also taught Stallone to turn his baseball cap backward to imply he was ready for business.

"There's more psyching in arm wrestling than in any sport," says Jones. "Technique is important too." He raises his right forearm, which is about the size of a side of beef. "Strength counts too." He smiles behind dark sunglasses.

Jones, who is emceeing this afternoon's Southern States International Arm Wrestling Council championships, describes himself as a "mild-mannered guy." He works as an actor, a bodyguard and sometimes as a bouncer at Tequilla Willie's. He doesn't have much trouble with drunken customers, he says, because if they misbehave, "I just rip their arms off." He smiles again behind his dark shades. "Just kidding. Really, arm wrestlers are nice guys. See that guy over there? He killed his parents. Just kidding."

Jones does admit that serious arm wrestlers can be a touch eccentric. They have names like the Ripper, Goliath and the Punta Gorda Maniac. Their appearance often belies their nicknames. Bib overalls. Shaved heads. Tattoos and earrings. One female competitor is so androgynous and muscular that she was once arrested and handcuffed for trying to enter a ladies' room. There are stories that Bruce ("the Animal") Way eats cigars and crickets and washes them down with motor oil. When he approaches the arm-wrestling table, he turns toward his fans and blows them a kiss. A white bird flies out of his mouth.

But most arm wrestlers, like those at the Candy Store, are not flamboyant. They tend to be the kind of men, and women, who use Boraxo to get their hands clean after a hard day's work. Often they work at physically demanding jobs, and they only appreciate sports that are physically demanding, like arm wrestling. They are big-bellied, long-haul truck drivers in dark blue Levi's and cowboy boots; gym owners in muscle T shirts; car mechanics in soiled khaki uniforms; skinny blond boys who work as bag boys at Publix; and occasionally they are pretty, olive-skinned women, like Teresa Taglione, with dangling gold earrings, blow-dried hair and lots of eyeliner. Teresa, 24, is a world champion in the women's 120-lb. class. She got involved in arm wrestling through her brother Ray, 33, a stockbroker and gym owner, who is a heavy favorite in today's 155-lb. and 175-lb. classes.

"I come from a typical Italian family," says Teresa. "My mother wanted me to teach dancing. The first year I arm wrestled she wouldn't speak to me. Now she's proud of all my trophies."

Teresa doesn't date arm wrestlers, she says. She prefers "executive types," so she can wear silk dresses. She is the kind of girl that Robin Whiting, a 29-year-old massage therapist, would call a "frilly." Robin is a very muscular 5 ft. 2 in., 145 lbs., and she used to be a body builder. "I quit," she says, "because I couldn't smile at the judges like all the other frillies did. In arm wrestling, the judges don't determine the winner, you do."

A year ago Robin faced Teresa in an arm-wrestling match in Atlanta. Teresa's slam dislocated Robin's shoulder. "It's all in the technique," Teresa says, fluttering her lashes.

Moe Motel (his real name) is a muscular, 24-year-old pressman for a Jacksonville newspaper. Today he is a heavy favorite in the 196-lb. and 228- lb. classes and so far has dispatched all his opponents, save one, without working up a sweat. Moe's technique is to stand expressionless at the table while his opponent grunts and strains against Moe's muscular arm. When an opponent's tugging has pumped enough blood into his arm, Moe slams the challenger to the table, then puffs up his considerable chest and walks erectly around the room, acknowledging congratulations with his impassive face. "This sport means everything to me," says Moe.

It means a lot to Bob Hopkins too. Bob is the favorite in the over-229-lb. class and is the only man to have beaten Moe. He is a plasterer who once played in the U.S.F.L. He used to weigh more than 305 lbs., which made him a bit sluggish in competition, so he dieted to a mere 275 for today's event. He has a menacing black beard that hides his face, ravaged at age 30. Bob used to have a problem with drugs and alcohol, or as he puts it, "They had a grip on me. But no more. Now I speak against drugs to kids at church groups. This is the sideline for the working guys of the world. They come to the table, take off their carpenter's belt, and for 20 seconds they're superheroes."

That description fits women like the blond girl with polio who drags her crippled legs up to the table and competes in the only sport she can. And it fits men like Joe Elmizadeh, 36, an Iranian immigrant, who was a long-jump champ in the 1974 Asian Games. Now Joe is a garage mechanic who beat all his cohorts in matches at the shop, which is why they have dragged him to today's event, his first. "He's got himself in a fix today," says his wife Adrienne.

Joe shakes his head. He lost his first match to Ray Taglione, and he can't understand it. He is more muscular than Ray, who is slightly built. It is not uncommon, however, to see a thin-armed man slam down a hulking, muscular arm in a split second. "He had some trick," says Joe. "He knew this thing with his hand." When Joe won his second match in this double-elimination event, his friends leaped out of their seats and cheered. Joe put his head down, embarrassed, and joined his wife in a far corner of the room.

Most of the arm wrestlers are mild-mannered men like Joe who are not much used to the spotlight. They are the kind of people who may have frustrations but have learned how to bury those frustrations beneath a veneer of placidity. Still, those frustrations are there, simmering, and it is arm wrestling that gives them their release. Which is why Emcee Jones is nervous. He doesn't like to see arm wrestlers get tense. He speaks into the microphone. He tells the competitors that there will be an hour break so they can go outside to watch the "Teenie Weenie Bikini" contest by the pool. Someone in the audience yells, "No!" Someone else yells, "Lock up!" A third: "Pull! Pull!" Now everyone is chanting, "Pull! Pull! Pull!" Keith smiles, shrugs and calls two competitors onstage, Ray Taglione and Joe Elmizadeh.

Joe takes off his shirt and hands it to his wife. Ray takes off his arm wrap and gives it to his sister. Joe stands at the table onstage, his elbow locked in place, and waits for Ray. Ray is stalking around the far end of the stage, talking to himself. He does not seem to notice the pinup calendar photos of , the Candy Store girls on the wall in front of him. The girls are naked, in suggestive poses, and they are smiling at Ray. Suddenly, Ray barks like a rabid dog, whirls around and charges the table with wide, glassy eyes. The referee, a tall skinny man, bends over the table like a question mark. He fidgets with the competitors' hands until they are satisfactorily locked in place. Someone in the audience shouts, "Knuckles up! Knuckles up!"

A second referee, a body builder with a shaved head, is sitting bolt upright, like a naughty choirboy, at the other end of the table. The stage lights glisten off his scalp. The audience is shouting wildly now "Smoke him! Smoke him! Top roll!" Teresa has crept up to the stage. She kneels only a few feet from her brother and begins screaming encouragement to him.

Like a priest giving a blessing, the skinny referee cups both his hands over the two arm wrestlers' locked hands. "Ready!" he says. Ray and Joe tense up. "Go!" the referee says. The audience erupts into shouts and cheers -- "Pull him! Pull him! Slam him! Slam him!" -- as Ray Taglione, a stockbroker, and Joe Elmizadeh, a garage mechanic, pour every bit of strength in their bodies into their clasped hands.