Fearsome and oafish, Skull Murphy strode through our weekends, a glowing TV titan. In league with tag-team partner Brute Bernard, mad, bad Skull administered eye gouges, powerslams, atomic drops and other holds that would’ve got them arrested outside the ring. They were scarcely legal inside, but the boundary between wrestling and make-believe was very blurry. They were more like Abbott and Costello than Ajax and Achilles. World Championship Wrestling was a misnomer for old American stagers still acting the part in makeshift studios in Richmond. Only January break kept us from watching Skull apply the hammer lock, one more time.