Jesse Ventura's 'Body' Politics

Out of nowhere, "The Body' Ventura puts politics-as-usual in a headlock with a victory as Minnesota governor. The voters' message to Washington? If you act like pro wrestlers, we'll give you pro wrestlers.

IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME SINCE HE LAST DONNED TIE-DYE AND A feathered boa and stepped into the wrestling ring, but last week Jesse (The Body) Ventura was again the Main Event. Camera crews camped outside his 32-acre ranch, held off by state troopers assigned to guard Minnesota's new governor. Hundreds of calls and letters went unanswered; Arnold Schwarzenegger was among those who sent flowers. (""Did I die?'' Ventura exclaimed when he saw all the roses.) Governor Body himself was in the barn, braving the 30-degree temperature for a photo shoot. He refused to wear wrestling tights, insisting instead on a size-50 pinstriped jacket more becoming a chief executive. ""I'll do some fun things, but I don't want to cheapen the office,'' Ventura said. ""I'm not about to turn it into some dog-and-pony show.'' In that spirit, he said he had reconsidered an earlier plan to rappel from the capitol dome on a rope. Asked how he wants to be addressed, Ventura's blue eyes blazed. ""Governor!'' he said, puffing on a cigar. ""I like it!''

Minnesotans seem to like it, too. Politics has never been staid in the land of Humphrey and Mondale, but Ventura's unexpected victory blew through Minnesota like an early blizzard, devastating the political landscape. In a season when voters everywhere seemed weary of politics-as-usual, the wrestler turned radio personality became the ultimate symbol of revolt. The message that registered back in Washington: if you're going to act like a bunch of pro wrestlers, we're going to give you pro wrestlers. In beating St. Paul Mayor Norm Coleman and Attorney General Hubert H. Humphrey III, Jesse Ventura drew legions of disaffected and young voters who took up his battle cry: ""Retaliate in '98!'' Now everyone is wondering what life will be like under a governor who casually refers to the good old days with Mr. T and Cyndi Lauper. ""Can you imagine him going to Japan to talk about free trade? He'll scare somebody to death,'' says a local radio host known as Dark Star. ""The question is, is he going to meet people in the middle, or is he going to hit them over the head with a chair?''

Behind the jokes there was real trepidation. Minnesota isn't a wrestling match; it's the 20th largest state in the country, with a $23 billion budget. ""We've elected a governor that people in this state do not know,'' says Roger Moe, the Senate majority leader. What they do know is that Ventura is one of them. He jet-skis and coaches high-school football for fun. He listens to Led Zeppelin and Jonny Lang. His favorite movie is ""Jaws.'' (""Shark bad fish . . . swallow you whole,'' he recites in his best Robert Shaw.) True, he's rich and drives a Porsche, but he still sounds working class, especially when he mauls the English language. Consider this Jesseism: ""My brain is operating at such a level that I don't want to put my foot in it.''

Born James Janos in blue-collar Minneapolis in 1951, Ventura joined the Navy after high school and was trained as a SEAL. Ventura refuses to disclose anything about his missions but says he's a Vietnam veteran. One of his commanding officers in the SEALs says Ventura spent some time in Subic Bay in the Philippines, which was a sort of Wild West. That's where the wiry Ventura, a barroom brawler who didn't like to shower or shave, began pumping up with weights. Honorably discharged in 1973, he rode with a motorcycle club in California, spent a semester at community college and rented out his tree-size arms for security. He did a stint as a bodyguard for the Rolling Stones.

One day in the mid-'70s the soon-to-be Body wandered into the Seventh Avenue Gym in Minneapolis and told the trainer, Eddie Sharky, that he wanted to be a wrestler. Why? ""Why does anybody do it?'' says Sharky. ""They need the money. And it helps to be half-crazy.'' Back then pro wrestling wasn't yet the blockbuster, pay-per-view-driven business it became in the late 1980s, but you could still make a few bucks on tour. Coaches taught body slams and chokeholds in small Midwestern gyms; it was--and is--largely faked and choreographed, though you still take the blows. The goal: to put on a realistic show without too much real bloodshed.