Booker T: From Prison to Promise: Life Before the Squared Circle (18 page)

Wow. TV?
I thought.

Lash looked at me, his eyebrows raised.

When we all got in the ring, one thing was evident: we were green as grass. Seriously, nobody knew a thing. It didn’t help to discover that Ivan Putski himself was virtually useless as a trainer. We had watched the big star a few years back on TV wrestling for the WWF. We had never really noticed his lack of actual wrestling ability. Now we realized he’d just been an in-ring gimmick wrestler with a phenomenal physique.

Fortunately for me, where Putski fell short, one of the other trainers had some great things to offer as a coach. “Cowboy” Scott Casey had been a wrestler for the WWF just a few years earlier in the late eighties and had worked with guys like The Iron Sheik, Greg “The Hammer” Valentine, and Honky Tonk Man.

Scott took a liking to me and took me under his wing, making sure I understood the core fundamentals. From basic moves to the language wrestlers used with one another, he broke it all down and shared it with me.

Scott was also the one who encouraged my accidental breakthrough with my first character gimmick. At American Mini Storage one day, I was cleaning out an old storage locker someone had stopped making payments on and discovered a green army baseball cap. I thought it looked cool, so I put it on and made my way to the gym for a workout.

When Scott saw me, he called me over. “You’ve got to start wearing that hat all the time,” he said. “From now on, this is going to be your character. You’ll be G.I. Bro, America’s greatest hero.” He had a big smile on his face.

G.I. Bro?
I thought.
What the fuck are you talking about?
But then I laughed. “Sure. Why not?” After all, this was professional wrestling, and some of the most famous guys had a great gimmick to connect with the crowd. G.I. Bro it would be.

At that time, the Gulf War had officially begun, and the country was charged with patriotism. It was crazy to have found that army cap during our nation’s entry into a fierce conflict with Saddam Hussein and Iraq. If ever there was a prime example of being in the right place at the right time, it was when I cleaned out that storage unit in January of 1991.

To bring the G.I. Bro gimmick to life, I practiced with Cowboy Casey night in and night out. Most importantly, I was perfecting my technical in-ring work. It all came to me organically as if an instinctive part of me was emerging and taking over. All the time I had spent watching those kung fu movies as well as dancing with The Remote Controls suddenly came together. I used a lot of kick variations and chops with a dramatic Bruce Lee expression for effect, and the agility from those synchronized dance moves brought a fluidity to my style that made the routine believable.

While he watched my combinations, Cowboy laughed and shook his head. “Kid, you’ve got it. You’re a natural.”

As I developed the G.I. Bro character, I made a strategy to replace the legendary WWF Superstar Sgt. Slaughter, who had used an American hero gimmick to great effect for twenty-plus years in every wrestling organization in the country. At one point during the eighties, Slaughter was a character in the popular
G.I. Joe
cartoon and comic book series. He had even been made an action figure. He was a huge star. By this time, though, the Sarge was nearing the end of his career and playing an Iraqi sympathizer in one last run with Hulk Hogan.

At night I dreamed of replacing Slaughter and filling that Americana void. In the ring, nothing sold more than patriotism and great performances. I was developing both. Only time would tell.

During those eight weeks of training and at our first small shows, Cowboy Casey went to great lengths to assist with production value in my presentation. Soon I had not only a full set of army fatigues and combat boots but a huge American flag, which I carried and waved on the way to the ring. I also had an entrance song: “Soul Army” by Cameo.

When we did shows in local high school gyms, it was all about the presentation. Man, when my song hit, the whole place jumped up, even though I was a complete nobody. We had managed to tap directly into that patriotic vein just as planned, and it was really cool. I had a huge banner that said G.I. Bro: America’s Greatest Hero. The kids rushed and jumped all over me as I came out holding a big red, white, and blue flag. I felt like a real-life superhero, and I loved it. No other feeling could compare to getting a reaction like that.

Having been nothing but a street kid my whole life, I’d never experienced this level of energy from a crowd before. It was even stronger than the feeling I’d gotten from those school talent shows when my group had something unique and everyone knew it, teachers included. I couldn’t get enough. It was beyond adrenaline. After years of searching, I had finally found my niche. Who would have thought it would be in professional wrestling?

Suddenly I had a new outlet to express myself aside from my roles as Brandon’s dad and American Mini Storage sales associate. It was a real kick to get off work in the evenings and head to the school. Every weeknight, I climbed out of my daytime norm and escaped into my alter ego as G.I. Bro. It was almost like being a kid and reliving carefree times again.

Having Lash there made it that much better. There we were, two Huffman brothers relearning how to play, only on a bigger stage.

Between work and wrestling, my hours were so long that I reached out for help with Brandon. My sister Carolyn, who had cleaned herself up, had invited Brandon to live with her. I was with him there several times a week and was so happy to see him with a solid roof over his head and food to eat. He was even doing better in school. I was making decent money, and the bills were paid. I felt like I was on my feet to stay.

I enjoyed meeting other wrestlers at our local shows and the camaraderie wherever we went, but I’ll never forget when we reached the end of the eight weeks for the WWA training camp and the big names arrived. We were about to perform for our first TV show, and it would be in front of a live audience of a few thousand people. We would also be competing with more established names in the business who were brought in to give credibility to the WWA product.

By this point, all of us had reservations about the level of teaching and insight we had received from Ivan Putski. We felt burned. Had it not been for the good graces of the Cowboy, I may have bailed on professional wrestling altogether.

That night I ran to see the match listing posted on the wall. I would face Dusty Wolfe, who had been a well-known jobber for the WWF since the mideighties under various names, including Dale Wolfe. He had never won a match. It was his sole position to lose and make the stars look fantastic. Every successful WWF wrestler during the eighties had no doubt beat Dusty to a pulp on many occasions. That was just how it went for some guys, but it was a paycheck and TV time.

Dusty had amassed his own level of recognition and had a ton of experience in the ring. Nerves aside, I was very curious what he would say as we went over our match backstage. Although guys like Dusty were paid by the WWF to lose without getting much offense in during matches, they were usually the main event when they hit the independents like WWA.

I was smart enough to know Dusty Wolfe was smarter than me. His experience was like a set of encyclopedias. He had all my respect from the moment he gave me the classic gentleman’s handshake, which is one of those unspoken rules in wrestling. Simply put, you very gently shake another wrestler’s hand out of respect. Ric Flair is the master of this tradition, which was around long before my time. Pitifully ignorant is the performer who comes in with a kung fu grip, trying to exert his strength. He will find himself and his belongings rammed into a Dumpster faster than the speed of light.

As it got close to match time, I was anxious and looking to Dusty to take me by the hand and explain what to expect. He had been through it all, and I needed reassurance and guidance.

Dusty was great about it. He was a personable and professional dude, and we had a great match. I got the one-two-three pin, and the crowd was hot from beginning to end. I had a hard time containing myself and could not keep the grin off my face as I walked to the back, high-fiving all the fans along the way.

When Dusty and I walked through the curtain, I expected everyone to congratulate me.

Instead, I was shocked to see Ivan standing there fuming. “You piece of shit,” he said in front of everyone back there. “That’s one of the worst fucking things I ever saw in all my years. What a joke. You didn’t do anything I taught you, and what you did was horrible. Why bother wasting your time and mine?”

I was completely taken aback and did not say anything. Dusty, the fans, and I had thought the match was solid, but I would be lying if I said he didn’t shake my confidence. I began questioning myself. Why was I trying to pull this wrestling thing off?

Just then a godsend came my way. Joe Blanchard, the legendary old-school pro wrestling promoter and the father of The Four Horsemen and Brain Busters member Tully Blanchard, approached. “That was one of the greatest matches I ever saw for someone so green in the business. Wow!”

I couldn’t believe it. It was rejuvenating to have one of the most respected men in the history of professional wrestling give me a moment of his time. I concluded that Ivan Putski was just a putz.

After my match with Dusty, things took off and we did more WWA shows. As our matches played and I saw myself right there on the television, it sank in.
That’s me. G.I. Bro.

Houston was a relatively small market, and people began recognizing me everywhere I went. It was humbling and even sometimes embarrassing when I would be working at American Mini Storage and a customer’s little son would ask for an autograph.

Bruce, always my biggest fan, got a huge kick out of it. “See, Booker,” he would say with a smile, “I told you!”

The WWA shows were getting bigger by the week. I was also meeting more established, internationally recognized performers on a regular basis. This was a crucial aspect of learning the business. Just as Joe Blanchard had encouraged me, other guys also generously offered their time and perspectives.

One night in late 1991, another big WWA show was being taped for
Houston Wrestling.
It was in an arena downtown known as The Summit, a famous venue that had hosted everything from WWF and WCW shows to some of the biggest acts in music over the years, including Paul McCartney, Aerosmith, Genesis, and Prince. Many well-known wrestlers like Ox Baker, Manny Fernandez, Jose Lothario, Black Bart, and Sam Houston, all Texas favorites, were brought in just for the event. There was a lot of promotion and excitement building up to our show.

I pulled in to the back building’s talent entrance in my piece-of-crap 1979 Ford T-Bird.

A security guard walked up to me, cracking half a smile. “Can I help you?”

I could tell he was staring my car up and down, and what a sight it was. It had this laughable, sunbaked paint job peeling off in sections, completely bald tires, and a wire coat hanger sticking out of the hood as my antenna.

“Yeah, man, I’m one of the wrestlers for tonight’s show.” I pointed at my gear bag, which was sitting on a seat bursting at the seams with hideous orange foam.

“Oh, okay. Just pull straight ahead and find any open spot.”

Any self-esteem I’d had was destroyed. As I walked into the building, I laughed it off but came to a serious conclusion. As soon as I got out of there, I was buying a new car.

As I stood backstage preparing, seven thousand fans stomped, rocking the rafters overhead. I was extremely nervous to walk out in front of them. The whole place rattled as if an earthquake had struck. Then I heard a different sound that shook me even more.

“We want Bro! We want Bro!”

The crowd was chanting for me! Losing my mind, I began to pace as my stomach twisted itself into knots.

Cowboy Casey walked back and saw my restlessness. “How you feeling? A little nervous, brother?” He had a huge, obnoxious grin on his face, and I hated him for it.

“Nah, I’m cool, man. Ready to go.”

Cowboy raised his eyebrows, clearly not believing a word I said. “Good! Because you’re on next.”

Ah, man!

Well, suffice it to say, the match went extremely well. Even that early on, I had a work style that was easy to manage and cohesive with any opponent’s as long as he had the slightest athletic ability and decent reflexes. I was so anxious that night that I don’t even remember who I wrestled. It seemed like it was over as soon as it had begun, even though it was a scheduled ten-minute match—an eternity inside the ring.

What’s most memorable about that night is Ox Baker. Ox was about as famous as a guy could get in professional wrestling. He had been performing all over the world since 1962 and was instantly recognized wherever he went with his pointed eyebrows, giant Fu Manchu mustache, and bald head.

I was sitting on a bench unlacing my boots when the massive Ox sat down beside me. “Kid, I saw you out there. I’ve been around a long time and I’m telling you, with your athleticism, poise, and that crowd reaction, you’ve got something special. You have the ability to make it as far as you want to take it.”

I just looked at him, speechless and overwhelmed.

He advised me to expect racism to surface everywhere, from other wrestlers and up to the office. “They’ll try to hold you down if they can, out of nothing but jealousy and feeling threatened. I’ve seen it time and time again. The key is to just deal with it, and eventually no one can mess with you because you’ll have made it. When someone draws and makes money, all the bullshit goes away.”

I was grateful for the wise insight but thought,
Why is he telling me this? Is there an agenda behind all this?

There wasn’t. He was just a guy who had seen it all during his thirty years in professional wrestling and enjoyed giving something back. I’m glad he did. I would remember Ox’s advice forever.

As my wrestling education continued, I was not the only one finding success. Lash had also been excelling as one of the best big men climbing the ranks in our local independent scene with the WWA. He picked up on the training as quickly as I did and was really enjoying pursuing his lifelong dream.