But patrons keep paying for chance to wrestle the beast

By Bob Dyer

Beacon Journal columnist

Not doing anything tonight? Here's an option: Drive to downtown Akron and wrestle a 600-pound bear.

Seriously. A 6-foot-10, third-of-a-ton, unmuzzled mass of fur has been squaring off with patrons of Posh Nite Club on Friday nights.

Posh has a standing offer: $1,000 to anyone who can pin him.

Forget it. Safest bar bet ever made. This is the Harlem Globetrotters versus the Washington Generals.

The bear in question has 22,000 wins and nine losses. And those losses did not come at the hands of superior foes; they came because, every once in a great while, bears don't care.

Among the people who have tried and failed: pro football linemen, college wrestling champions and, um... me.

Yes, in the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that, in 1977, at a shopping mall in Mansfield, I took on a 7-foot-6, 550-pound Canadian black bear named Ceasar.

Not Caesar. Ceasar. C-E-A-S-A-R. Hey, he's a bear. How well do you expect him to spell?

Anyway, the bear who has been hanging out at Posh is named... Ceasar. C-E-A-S-A-R. Hmmm.

Now, I'm not the same beast I was in 1977, either.

But if this is my Ceasar, he has shrunk 8 inches and gained 50 pounds.

Given the fact that a black bear's life expectancy is roughly 15-20 years, it would seem that Ceasar is running the same scam as Shamu, Flipper, Morris and all those other superstars who in reality consist of an ever-changing cast of stand-ins.

Still, you won't find too many bears of any moniker who go clubbing on Friday nights. Which begs several questions:

• Does a bear poop in the nightclub?

• Does Ceasar take advantage of the happy hour drink specials?

• If he's not my Ceasar, why can't he be Atnhony or Cloepatra?

• Are there food-preparation issues that would interest the health department?

• Will the animal-rights people attempt to skin me because I don't see this as a major affront to bears?

Last question first: Yes. A handful of them have been calling and picketing the club already.

Even though the bear is treated better than a lot of house pets. Even though the humans are in a lot more danger than the bear. Even though the bear has so much fun that, like a patron at closing time, he has to be bribed to leave with the promise of a hamburger.

Bear abuse? Sorry. I just don't see it.

Anyway, this version of Ceasar first showed up in Akron on May 12 and will continue to appear until he stops packing the house. He wrestles eight opponents per night, who pay $10 each for the privilege of getting crunched.

After dispatching his challengers, Ceasar celebrates with Jell-O shots.

Just kidding. The bartenders won't serve Ceasar because of his suspect ID.

However, he is allowed an occasional piece of pizza (pepperoni is his favorite). But he doesn't get anywhere near the food preparation areas, and food is not served during his matches, so that's not an issue.

As for hitting the bear's room -- well, he's not housebroken, but he's not inside the building long enough to create a problem. So far.

If you promise not to tell anyone, Posh's Ceasar is actually two Ceasars: one who wrestles and one who poses for pictures.

The latter is much more photogenic because he hasn't been sweating -- er, because he is about 300 pounds heavier, which makes the photos more impressive. The smaller bear is a better wrestler.

For patrons who are more interested in bear-hugging other humans, the two sets of bear bouts (at roughly 10 p.m. and midnight) are mixed in with the regular dancing. So just grin and -- sorry.

In case you were wondering, my bear-wrestling career was spectacular. I turned Ceasar into a salad.

Yeah, right. When I started goofing around, doing the Ali shuffle, my Ceasar failed to see the humor. He immediately nailed me with a left hook, knocking me to the mat. Then he pinned me faster than a tailor on amphetamines.

What fun.