Dwarf-tossing: controversial event at Windsor strip club draws 1,000 fans

The encouragement is hardly necessary. Before the strip club’s doors even opened for the night, the reservation list was seven pages long. People had come for this — a chance to win a trophy engraved “Dwarf-Tossing Champion.”

When word first got out about the bar’s plans to host a dwarf toss, journalists from across North America began calling club manager Barry Maroon. Some slammed the event as dangerous and degrading, others shrugged it off as Bradley’s legal livelihood.

That’s the view Maroon takes.

“He’s plying his trade,” he says. “Let him choose if it’s right or wrong. Why are we judging what’s good for this kid? He’s 30 years old!”

This controversy is not new to Windsor. Leopard’s first hosted dwarf-tossing in 2003. On that occasion Bradley, who goes by the stage name of “Tripod,” donned a Papa Smurf costume. The event inspired Sandra Pupatello, a local MPP, to introduce a bill at Queen’s Park banning dwarf-tossing. It fell flat.

Now Tripod is back, this time in a blue baby costume, complete with bonnet and bottle.

The way it works, pairs of competitors throw Tripod, who stands 4-foot-8, across the stage, where he lands on his back on air mattresses. Typically he flies about eight feet. But on Saturday Tyler Gemus and Derek Regnier, both of Windsor, break into the double-digits: 10 feet, one inch. It’s enough to put them into the finals.

The two came after hearing a local talk radio station discussing the event. Regnier says he was unsure about the idea at first, but he figures as long as Tripod doesn’t get hurt, there’s nothing wrong with it.

“He’s having a good time, everyone’s laughing. Why not?”

The Leopard’s exotic dancers have their own concerns. Yes, the place is packed — busier than normal, right from 8 p.m. But these patrons are ignoring them. The women pester Maroon: how are they going to make any money tonight? He reassures them the patrons will stay for their dancing between competition rounds.

For Maroon, it’s a roaring success. The club is at capacity — about 250 people — and a long line snakes out to the street. In total, 1,000 people will pass through the doors.

Maroon loves it. He races about, pointing out the “family people,” the couples. “It’s date night!”

It’s $5 to get in. No one will say how much Tripod’s take will be. Maroon says he does this to supplement his income as a local grocery store employee.

Maroon chalks up controversy about the event to misunderstanding. People imagine little people getting hurled into walls, breaking bones. But Bradley is an entrepreneur, an athlete, who contacted the club about the event. When he’s thrown, he knows how to land it.

“We are so careful about everything,” says Maroon. “There is no danger factor. Your roadside hockey game would have more of a danger factor than this.”

(Ironically, amid all the media uproar, no one seems to care whether the club’s exotic dancers are the ones being exploited.)

The crowd is young. Most are men: students, tradesmen, businessmen, farmers. Though most admit they felt uncomfortable with the idea of a dwarf-toss at first, curiosity got the best of them.

From what competitors Justin Da Silva and Logan Palmer can tell, Tripod  is doing all right. After a crowd-wide chant of “One, two, three!” they threw him nine feet, eight inches.

“It’s all pendulum,” Palmer says.

“It’s all in the hips,” Da Silva adds.

Then they admit they quietly asked Tripod a bit of help. They believe he gave a little jump.

“I have nothing but respect for this dwarf. If he was around, I’d buy him a beer,” Da Silva says.

But between rounds, the entertainer makes himself scarce, lingering at the edge of the room. He’ll agree to pose with girls for photos, but he won’t do an interview.

In the third round, one determined hurler inadvertently goes flying into the mattress along with the dwarf. There’s loud laughter and cheers. Tripod hops up and crosses himself.

He’ll ultimately be thrown 11 feet, four inches in the winning toss.