In the grainy black and white photo it appears I am 8-years-old, standing in the aisle between the barstools and booths in Reds Night Club, my parents business in Malvern, wearing penny loafers, jeans cuffed at my ankles, and a white T-shirt. Im smiling nervously. Over my chest is a hand the size of a catchers mitt, my cheek cradled just above the thumb, the long fingers descending past the middle of my T-shirt.

A couple hours earlier, I had been upstairs in our apartment above the bar, settling in to watch the late movie. A knock came to the door. I opened it to Butchie Clark, one of the pin boys in Daddys bowling alley.

"Theres a giant in the bar! Come quick," stated Clark as he wheeled around and tore down the darkened stairway. I slipped on my loafers and went after him.

Friday nights were usually good business, but this was different. Daddy Red, as he was known, hustled behind the bar, pulling drafts, retrieving bottled beverages, making Coney Islands. Every barstool was taken. Customers crowded the aisle. Butchie stood on his tiptoes, poking his head into the cigarette smoke floating above the customers heads.

I couldnt see what the hubbub was about, so I swung behind the bar where Daddy worked. Now I could see seated customers, torso up. Down the line I looked until my eyes lighted on a long, weathered face.

Joe Keister, my dads best friend, got my attention. "Thats Paul Bunyan, Tommy."

I knew Paul Bunyan from the Disney cartoon. The man sitting at the bar was no axe man. But then I heard a long, frightening bellow that could have been made by Paul Bunyans blue ox, Babe. Men stepped back in the aisle. The man with the weathered face hunched over the bar, scrunching his eyes, both big hands balled into fists. He grimaced and bellowed again. Men moved farther back. A woman, a petite bleached blonde sitting beside him, vigorously rubbed the mans back.

He shuddered and unballed his fists. He breathed out in relief. Everyone in the bar seemed relieved too. Paul raised his massive head, opened his eyes. There was a far-away weariness in them.

He placed his hands on the edge of the bar and pushed back. He was so big he couldnt sit on a barstool. There was no room for his legs. So he bent one knee on the barstool and stretched the other leg into the aisle. And now he was rising, lifting that knee off the stool, backing away, standing, straightening his back, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. He swiveled and walked to the restroom, a little limp in his step. Customers in the crowded aisle parted before him. He hunched his shoulders and ducked his head, disappearing into the restroom.

Paul Bunyan was a professional wrestler. His real name was Max Palmer. He stood 8 feet 2 inches, wore size 21 shoes, weighted 421 pounds. He had wrestled that evening at Cantons Memorial Auditorium. He and his wife were driving from Canton to Pittsburgh, where he was to appear the next afternoon on a wrestling show. Daddys insistent neon sign flickering "Reds Night Club" had induced them to stop.

Paul came out of the restroom and at each step, men thrust out their hands. He took each, not in an actual shake, but a touch, left and right. As the night moved toward 1 a.m., the bar grew ever more crowded as word spread around town.

I dont think Paul bought one drink that night. Butchie later told me he drank a case of beer, surely an exaggeration. But he did drink plenty and when he was ready for another, he called to my dad in his bass drum voice, "Barkeep." Before Daddy could even uncap the bottle, someone dropped money on the bar.

Aside from the occasional bellow that customers were getting used to, Paul sometimes leaned forward, his long, black hair falling over his face to his chin. Then he tossed back his head, the hair moving like a wave. He held it in place with one hand and dragged a comb through it with the other.

Mr. and Mrs. Palmer stayed at Reds until closing time at 2:30 p.m. At one point someone from another business came in, sidling up to Paul to tell him that if he and his wife came with him, there would be free chicken dinners and all the drinks theyd like.

The wrestler recognized impropriety when he heard it. He thanked the emissary for the offer, but declined. He was settled, he said.

He looked Daddys way and raised one big hand. "Barkeep," he said.

That night at Reds in 1957 was surely memorable for anyone who stopped in. It has stuck with me over sixty years. Id never seen anyone that tall before, even though I realize now that I was surrounded by men and women of equal stature: Limp Savona, Jimmy McCort, Loreto Facchini, just to name a few. People of integrity, generosity, and good will.

Later, Id recognize those traits in classmates, too, like Danny Wackerly. Look around. Youll see giants in business, religion, politics, and education. Youll see them in the community. There are giants everywhere.

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The night a giant stopped at Reds Night Club - The-review