Killer Kowlaski passes away

Gentle ‘Killer’ Kowalski leaves a legacy of love


Terrific tales are sure to be told this afternoon and evening when the friends of Killer Kowalski gather for his wake at the Weir Funeral Home in Malden.

Kowalski, who was 81 when his heart gave out Saturday morning, was a wrestling legend in this town, routinely packing old Boston Garden with frantic fans who came to see him vanquish foes with a weapon he called the Claw Hold, which he performed on an opponent’s abdomen.

The nickname was established one night in Montreal when Walter Kowalski, who was 6-foot-7, climbed to the top of the ropes and jumped upon Yukon Eric, a crowd favorite whose many years in the ring had left him with a cauliflowered ear.

Kowalski later insisted his intention was to slam his shinbone across Eric’s chest, but the latter turned, exposing the damaged ear, and Kowalski’s leg ripped it off.

“It rolled around the ring like a little ball,” Killer later recalled. “Eric headed for the dressing room with a towel wrapped around his head. The ref looked at me and said, ‘What should I do?’ And I told him, ‘Raise my arm! I’m the only one left.’ ”

That was the Killer Kowalski most fans loved to hate, the consummate bad guy. It was, however, an image very much at odds with the one that emerged in his retirement.

Settling into this area, Kowalski established a string of wrestling schools and then became a very familiar figure at charity events throughout the region.

“I need to share a story,” a caller said five weeks ago after a piece here told of Kowalski’s fading health and confinement to a nursing home.

“I had taken my young son to one of Walter’s schools. Killer reached out to shake his hand, then suddenly fell onto his back as if he had been tossed there like a ragdoll. You should have seen the look on my boy’s face; he had just floored the champ! Walter gave me a wink as if to say, ‘He’s a nice kid, Dad.’ ”

That same piece told of how, at 79, Kowalski, a lifelong bachelor, married a widow named Theresa.

“The more I found out about him,” she said, “the more odd that nickname seemed. He never smoked, never drank; in fact, he was a vegetarian. And he was serious about his religion. I found him to be a wonderful guy.”

Readers responded with an avalanche of cards.

But these past two weeks became a death watch as his hour of departure approached. Theresa watched a steady stream of friends and wrestlers stand by his bed and convey unvarnished affection.

But in the end, which came 40 minutes after midnight, it was just the two of them in that room at Whidden Memorial Hospital.

“His breathing was getting slower,” she said. “I kept whispering in his ear, ‘Don’t leave me, baby.’ Then I felt his heart stop. I’m so glad I was there.”

On Monday she returned to one of their favorite restaurants.

“Look at these,” she said, offering samples of her husband’s poetry as she sat in Ferrari’s in Malden, where the owner had adorned their regular table with flowers and a portrait of the Killer.

One, titled “I was a professional wrestler,” included this line: “When I was billed as the main event, you found your money was well-spent.”

She also had a book called “Killer Pics,” a collection of poignant photographs Kowalski had shot around the world.

“That nickname bothered me,” she said, “because people wouldn’t believe the kind of guy he was. A nurse told me I was born to be a caregiver, but you know what? Walter was an easy guy to care for because he was such an easy guy to love.”