>On sweltering afternoons, Race would guide Humphrey out to the concrete driveway behind the boarding house, ease him down flat with the care of someone docking a barge, and attack the job with a mop, a bucket, and liquid soap, sluicing off the sweat and grime while neighbors peeked through curtains and pretended not to stare. The smell was overpowering, the labor backbreaking—soap-slick skin, humidity, and the constant fear that if Humphrey slipped, Race couldn’t possibly get him back up alone—but Harley did it because that was the job, and the job meant a chance to be near the ring. When Happy signaled to Race it was time for the “Go Home” the young future NWA World’s Heavyweight champ knew his task. It was time to coat both hands in liquid dish soap and begin to execute his finishing maneuver. Said move consisted of wrapping one slick fist around Humphrey’s comically small genitalia and the other hand scrunched into a duck billed shape inserted directly into the 750 pound wrestler's rectum. The whole thing was over soon enough, just a few seconds of slippery jerking and punching before the 16 year old Race would find himself with that most precious of substances a young wrestler-to-be could ask for: a spurt of hot semen from a larger than life grappling legend, freshly ingested it was said to confer unimaginable in-ring talents, at least that’s what the old timers told Race. Later he’d say that caring for Humphrey taught him more about the business than his first thousand bumps: that wrestling was work before it was glory, that respect came from what you endured when no one was cheering, and that if he could get through those driveway baths with a straight face and a steady hand, there wasn’t a thing in this business that could break him.
- From Andy Twine’s book Heavy & Happy Days: The Life and Times of Happy Humphrey, The Heaviest Wrestler in America (2025) pg. 192
