Lansdale candidates go to the mat, literally

They do things a little differently in Lansdale.

For instance, elected officials embrace the radical notion that they should put aside their political differences and pull together for the welfare of the town.

So when Mayor Andy Szekely and his challenger, former Borough Council President Ben Gross, were trying to generate excitement about November's mayoral election, they considered having a debate in the park.

Szekely would wear a seersucker suit. Gross would don his customary bow tie. Looking like members of the Princeton debating team circa 1924, they would present their competing ideas for renewing their beloved community.

"We wanted to get together and do something quirky," Szekely said.

But in the age of reality TV, would that draw a crowd?

"I don't think anybody's going to show," Szekely worried.

Gross: "How about arm wrestling?"

Szekely: "A little iffy."

Then Gross had a truly bizarre flash of genius: They would settle their differences, negligible though they may be, in the ring, mano a mano. Better yet: sumo a sumo.

And so it was that Republican Szekely, 39, a chiropractor, and Democrat Gross, 40, real estate lawyer and developer, wriggled into blimp-like inflatable suits yesterday and squared off in the band shell at Whites Road Park. Despite overcast skies and intermittent sprinkles, a hundred or so townsfolk gathered on the grassy hillside where they usually listen to concerts or watch movies to behold this wondrous civic spectacle.

It was a novel and much-anticipated event in this Montgomery County borough of 17,000, which is endeavoring, with fresh energy, enterprise, and common purpose, to revitalize a historic downtown plagued by the usual woes of vacant storefronts, absentee landlords, and anemic retail traffic.

Steve Moyer, 67, vice president of the borough historical society, served as ringmaster and emcee. Wearing his wife's red kimono, he outlined the rules. There would be three rounds. You win by pushing or throwing your opponent out of the ring, or causing your opponent to touch the floor of the ring with a part of the body other than the soles of the feet.

"You're allowed to push, slap, trip, and flip," Moyer said. "Kicking and striking with fists, hair-pulling, eye-gouging, grabbing the vital organs, and choking are prohibited."

The referee was J.R. Briggs, 30, pastor of the nondenominational Renew Community. He wore a zebra shirt and could boast of experience. As Sox the Fox, mascot of the minor-league Colorado Springs Sky Sox, he had supervised numerous such contests in the middle of the fourth inning.

"A lot of the guys were drunk," he confided. "I expect this to be a little tamer."

Before the main event, three undercard bouts featured candidates for the Borough Council. The crowd cheered, hooted, and hollered as Democrat Mary Fuller, the only female wrestler, vanquished Republican Paul Clemente, and Democrat Bill Henning defeated Republican Mike Sobel. The match between Democrat Matt West and Republican Dan Dunigan, who bounced out of the ring simultaneously, was declared a draw.

The theme from Rocky blared as Szekely and Gross made their entrance. Both resembled the Pillsbury Doughboy on steroids. Handicappers were split. Szekely, at 5-foot-8 and 170 pounds, seemed to have an advantage over Gross, 5-7 and 140.

"I've got him beat by size," Szekely bragged before the match.

"My object is to go in low and fast," revealed an undaunted Gross, a long-distance runner training for the Chicago Marathon.

In the first round, Gross plowed into Szekely like a ferocious bulldog. Szekely, seemingly surprised and dazed, was ejected from the ring in a mere seven seconds.

In the second round, Szekely and Gross engaged in a weird pas de deux, embracing each other, dancing, and spinning. To some, the Astaire-Rogers act looked staged, and there were murmurs about a fix. Gross, in an apparent romantic swoon, tripped over his feet, and sprawled ignominiously outside the sacred circle.

It came down to the third and final round. Again, Gross charged, summoning every fast-twitch sinew in his body, astonishing Szekely with his aggressiveness. This time, Szekely pushed back. No more nice-guy complacency. But to no avail. He was shoved out of the ring. It was over in nine seconds.

Afterward, a jubilant Gross invited everyone to his house for beer. His secret: "speed and cunning," he said.

Szekely, crestfallen because he had besmirched the honor of preppies generally and the Inter-Ac League specifically (he's a Germantown Academy grad), accused Gross of cheating and murmured darkly about "doughnut doping."

In truth, the mayoral candidates are close friends whose families vacation together. Said Gross: "I love him like a brother, even though he snores like a chainsaw. Our visions for Lansdale are very similar. We're looking to redevelop the town like Phoenixville, Ambler, or West Chester. We work as a great team together. It's just unfortunate he had to lose."

Besides raising money for Manna on Main Street, which supplies meals and social services to the homeless and indigent, the event had a grander, more serious purpose.

"It's something to bring a little more attention to Lansdale," Szekely said. "I was born and grew up here, and Lansdale has always been the butt of jokes: It's where a bunch of farmers live. This shows we've got a sense of humor, we're a little quirky, we know how to have fun. And, hopefully, that will help with revitalization."

Whether that happens, the stunt certainly pleased the crowd.

"I think it's fantastic," said Carol Zellers, 59, a real estate agent who has lived in Lansdale since the '50s. "It's symbolic of the new ideas and new people that are bringing vibrancy, enthusiasm, and excitement back to town. It's a welcome change."

Read the first article in the series, on husband-and-wife Rolls Royce restorers, with a video and photo gallery at

http://go.philly.com/ThisSuburbanLife

EndText