Death Clutch (6 page)

VODKA AND VICODINS

A
s my first
WrestleMania
was approaching, I was already feeling the toll of life on the road and in the spotlight. I was hurt, dating back even before I dropped the title to the Big Show. My ribs were broken, and they hurt like hell, and I had a torn PCL (posterior crutiate ligament) in my right knee. I was flying to a new city every night, drinking more and more vodka and washing down more Vicodins, all just to dull the pain. It got old real fast. I kept thinking to myself that I was living a life that my mom and dad wouldn't want me living, and there was good reason for that.

It's easy for people to blame the wrestling business when top notch people like me get consumed, but that's just a cop-out. It's not the wrestling business' fault.

I could easily have ended up like some of the less fortunate. I had been popping pills for a while just to kill the pain of being on the road, of injuries that never heal, and I started drinking vodka. Lots of vodka. I can't even tell you how much for sure, but it seems like a bottle every one or two days, with a couple hundred pain pills each month to go with it. You want to know why there aren't more stories in this book about my pro wrestling days? Because the truth is, I don't remember a lot of that period of my life.

The even sadder truth is that my consumption of booze and pills was on the light end of the scale compared to some guys who had been around longer than me. They were really trapped, and they knew they would never get out. So they escaped another way. When I started to make an assessment of my life back then, I realized that if I stayed long enough, I'd end up just like them. Nowhere to go, and not even remembering where I had been.

It's not the pro wrestling business itself that's the real problem, it's the lifestyle that goes along with it.

The schedule is too demanding for anyone. You have to live on the road, and at the same time deal with the injuries, fans, rental car people, hotel clerks, restaurant waiters and waitresses, company politics, everyone walking around like a zombie, and never being home. And on those rare occasions when you get to go home, you are supposed to suddenly turn it all off and just try to be “Daddy.”

Yeah, salesman travel and they are gone a lot, too. But they don't get body-slammed by 250-pound men, or tear up their knees by landing a backflip off the top rope, or have their ribs crushed, or get concussed, or have their arms twisted out of the sockets each night before they head to the airport. Pro wrestlers do, and they are expected to heal on the plane, get a few hours of sleep in a hotel, then show up “looking good” the next night, in the next city.

I found myself getting caught up in everything, and I think I lost sight of reality for a while. But I have no regrets. I chose to jump off the train, move as close to my daughter as possible. Nothing was more important to me than making sure my family life would be stable.

MY FIRST
WRESTLEMANIA

K
urt Angle was hurt going into
WrestleMania
2003
in Seattle. He wrenched his neck and it was determined he needed surgery. Kurt didn't want to take a year off, so he found a surgeon in Pittsburgh who had an alternative that involved shaving down the disc instead of the neck-fusion surgery the other wrestlers were getting.

Kurt also didn't want time off for the standard surgery because he wanted to collect that
WrestleMania
main-event payday. I can't say I blame him for that. I wanted that payday, too.

Kurt and I talked a little about our match, but we didn't talk about it much. We knew we could bring out the best in each other, and I knew I had to protect Kurt because his neck was hurt.

John Laurinaitis was going to be the agent for the match. That means he was the choreographer, the guy who had to know what we were going to do, so the cameras could follow us and cover the match properly. The agent carries the finish of the match from Vince, and then talks with the wrestlers, and gets the entire story of the match together. Then he goes back to Vince and hopes Vince likes it.

John wanted to do something special because a lot of corporate eyes were on him since he was being groomed to take over Jim Ross's job as the head of talent relations. He was now the agent for the biggest match of the year, the main event of
WrestleMania
. The WWE title was on the line between two amateur champions, two real wrestlers with legitimate athletic backgrounds. Apparently, that wasn't enough for John Laurinaitis. He thought the match needed a
WrestleMania
moment.

At lunch that day, John came up to me and pitched his great finish, which would see me hit the Shooting Star Press to beat Kurt for the WWE title. John had this elaborate concept of me kicking out of everything Kurt could hit me with. Then Kurt kicks out of the F-5. Since we couldn't beat each other with our best shots, we'd have to dig something out of our bags of tricks. I'd look around, trying to figure out how I could beat Kurt. Then I'd climb to the top rope, and hit the Shooting Star Press to pin Kurt Angle and become a two-time WWE Heavyweight Champion. That was John's big finish, for the biggest match, on the biggest show of the year.

The only problem was that I hadn't done the move for over a year, and it was very dangerous for both of us. A lot can go wrong when a three-hundred-pound man inward-reverse-somersaults himself through the air from the top rope, and the margin for error is slim.

John, however, was relentless, “Brock, you gotta finish the match like that. It's so memorable. It's your
WrestleMania
moment.”

I kept thinking my
WrestleMania
moment was beating Kurt, just like I had beaten everyone else, and winning back the title that had been stolen from me at
Survivor Series
. Wasn't that the story we were telling? I didn't want to do the Shooting Star. It didn't make any sense to me.

To crank up the pressure on me a little more, Jim Ross sat down with us, and John started saying, “Don't you think Brock should finish the match with the Shooting Star Press? It's so impressive, no one has seen him do it for such a long time, it's such a great move, blah blah blah.”

J.R. thinks about that for a moment and drawls, “Hell, kid, that would be one helluva
WrestleMania
moment!” They had their routine down pat.

Finally, stupidly, I agreed to do it, but I at least wanted to practice the move a few times first. I should have listened to my gut and just said “NO!” But I went down to the ring to practice hurling myself from the top rope.

John got ahold of some crash mats and piled them in the ring for me so I wouldn't hurt myself during practice. When I went off that top rope and threw myself into a reverse spin, it was actually kind of cool. I nailed the landing perfectly my first time. I tried it again, and l nailed it the second time, too. After a few more times, I was really feeling pretty good about it, and we were all thinking it would be no problem when I had to do it at the end of the match.

What I didn't consider was that I was going to be working with Kurt for fifteen to eighteen minutes, and I was probably going to be dead tired and pouring sweat by the time we got around to the finish of the match.

That night, Kurt and I put on the best show possible considering the circumstances. We had a really physical match, which wasn't easy when you think about how injured he was. It finally came time to hit the Shooting Star Press, but Kurt and I had been throwing each other off the ropes and working the corners all night long. When I grabbed the top rope to boost myself up, it was all wet. Not good. As I climbed up, I was dripping even more sweat onto the ropes, but I wasn't thinking about that. Everyone at Safeco Field in Seattle knew what was coming, and they were all screaming for me to hit the move, and beat Kurt Angle for the championship.

There I stood, on the top rope, both arms raised in triumph, my head back, letting the crowd take it all in . . . and then I launched the Shooting Star Press.

Every wrestling fan knows what happened next. My boot slipped off the wet rope, I under-rotated, crashed in spectacular fashion, and gave myself a massive concussion. I damn near broke my neck. I still had enough sense left to know that I had to win, but I don't remember finishing the match. I did finish, which meant I was the champion again, but I sure don't remember it. Not at all.

Can you imagine if I had knocked myself out . . . if that “missed move” had become the finish?

The next morning, I was supposed to do a sponsor appearance, but I couldn't get out of my hotel bed. After I received a few phone calls to rouse me, I finally crawled out and made it down to the appearance. When the sponsor's people saw me throwing up from the aftereffects of the concussion, they sent me back to the hotel.

After you play in the Super Bowl or the World Series, you get some time to yourself, or to take your family on a vacation. Not in pro wrestling. You're right back to work the very next day, doing live TV for
Raw
the first night, or taping
SmackDown!
two nights after
WrestleMania
. Kurt made it through the match, and I was lucky to “only” have suffered a concussion. Kurt went in for the alternative surgery, and I was right back on the road as WWE Champion for the second time.

STARTING YEAR TWO

M
y first year on the main roster in WWE was a blur. My second year was even worse. I was running into the grind. Same routine every day, day in and day out. The money was great, and I was buying a lot of nice things, but I had no time to enjoy any of it. That touring schedule just eats you up. I just kept thinking that there has to be a better way to make some real money.

The one good thing—okay, great thing—that came out of my second year was that I got to meet my future wife, Rena.

I think it's pretty common knowledge that I'm a very private man, and there's a reason for that. When I'm on the job, in the ring, at the arena, I'm there to entertain you. I understand that. You paid to see me, and I owe it to you to make sure your money was well spent.

But when I'm not on the job, I don't think I owe anything to anybody. If you're a plumber, and you're out to dinner with your family, would you like it if the waiter walked up and said, “Hey, the toilet just backed up, can you come in the back and fix it?” Probably not. You are there to eat, not to fish tampons out of the drain pipe.

When I'm enjoying some time with my family, I'm not at work. I'm not “on.” I'm not there to entertain anyone. I'm a husband and a father. I'm Daddy. That's who I am, and all I want to be. So if some jackass wants to pose for pictures with me, it really burns my ass because he isn't just imposing on me, he is imposing on my wife and my children, too.

I think everyone should have a right to privacy. Certainly, my family has a right to be left alone. My wife was on TV for a while, so she can expect some of the attention, I get that. But my children aren't performers. What makes them fair game? What gives anyone else the right to take pictures of my children? Why does anyone think it's okay to just walk up to me and act as if I owe them an answer to personal questions? Is it because they bought a ticket or purchased a pay-per-view? I've never been able to grasp that. Why can't I just do my job? If I'm at an event, or out promoting something, that's one thing. I expect to take pictures and sign autographs. That's why I'm there. But I deserve a private life, too, and so does my family.

Over the years, I'm sure that being as private as I am has cost me a lot of money. I could be like one of those media whores that shows up anywhere there might be a camera just to keep my name out there, and to keep my face on the TV and in the papers so the endorsements will keep coming in. But that's not me, and I can live with that.

I like to stay home, spend time with my family, and be left alone. My life is my life. It's nobody's business what goes on in my house, or with my wife or my children. I won't intrude on your private life. Don't intrude on mine.

That's why, in some ways, the WWE character I envied the most was Kane. He had the greatest gig ever, because he was a big star who wore a mask on TV. When he went home, he'd get to take off the mask and live a normal life. Nobody knew what he looked like, and no one ever bothered him when he went about his personal life. He must have had about as normal a life as you can have in professional wrestling. That's probably why Glenn Jacobs (Kane) survived for so long in WWE. Maybe I should have worn a mask. I might have lasted just a little longer . . . or not.

THE GRIND

W
hen people talk to me about 2003, they talk about my match with Kurt at
WrestleMania
; my matches with John Cena and Big Show; the Iron Man Match (most falls in sixty minutes) I had with Kurt on
SmackDown!
; or me beating Kurt for the title and turning heel again.

Financially, that was also my best year in WWE. I was made champion so fast, Vince never even got around to giving me a new contract. I was on the road so much, we never had the time to discuss a new deal. Even by the time I was already a two-time champion, I was still working under the “developmental contract” I signed when I was recruited to train in OVW. Finally, we got around to discussing a new contract, and I signed a major deal with WWE on July 1, 2003.

Jim Ross kept telling me I had joined the millionaire's club faster than anyone else in the history of the business. That may be true, but I'll have to take his word for it because I didn't pay much attention to what the other guys were making. They all lied anyway, so who really knew?

I was making a shitload of money, but I just couldn't imagine being on the road for another fifteen years or so. I really liked the boys, but I didn't want to be like them. It didn't take me long to figure that out.

It's so hard to even imagine being thirty-five to forty years old, working matches four nights a week in four different cities. When those wrestlers get home for a day or two, they are too tired and banged up to do anything. The few who still have families try to give their loved ones a little quality time, but when they arrive at home tired, hurt, and probably hungover, they end up spending the first day just decompressing. Then they use the next day to catch up on the mail, the bills, and chores around the house. Once they've had a night or two in their own beds, they are packed and off to the airport piss-early the next morning. Their wives and kids get to see them on TV. So what? That's no substitute for being there.

It makes no difference where the plane lands, because all the cities look the same. It bears repeating. All the hotel rooms look the same. All the locker rooms, rental car return lots, shuttle buses, they all look the same. You're on autopilot all the time. Then you go home, but before you know it, you're back in the grind, shaking everyone's hands, being careful not to piss anyone off.

Vince drills into the guys the notion that they have to believe in their characters if they want the fans to believe in them, too. What happens over the years is that some of the guys get so into their characters, they don't know when—or how—to turn it off. They become their own number one fans. That's how Vince gets so many guys by the balls after a while. The guys will do anything to get their characters over, and if they're lucky enough to get into a good position, they will do anything to keep their characters in the spotlight. It becomes all about Vince. Vince pulls and controls all of the strings.

Vince can suggest anything he wants, and as long as he says, “It will be great for your character,” there's a bunch of guys ready and willing to do whatever he says. They are brainwashed, and they don't even know it.

Take a shot to the head with a metal folding chair? Great idea. Do a body slam from the top rope onto the concrete outside the ring? Awesome finish. Fall from the top of a twelve-foot ladder? That'll get a big pop. Finish the match with a Shooting Star Press? Yeah, I know.

Even though I was there only a relatively short time, I wasn't immune to the sell. I was slowly getting sucked in. WWE superstar Brock Lesnar agreed to do the Shooting Star Press finish, not Brock Lesnar, farmer and father.

The problem is that when you are in WWE's universe, it becomes very difficult to step out. You can't see in from the outside. You can't take an honest look at yourself and say, “What the hell am I doing?” There is no such thing as “normal.”

In an attempt to keep my sanity, and avoid becoming like all the others, I kept telling J.R., Laurinaitis, Brisco (and anyone else who would listen) that I needed some time off. That didn't work, so I finally cornered Vince and told him the same thing.

You should have seen the look on his face. You would have thought that I stuck a knife in his stomach and twisted it. He acted as if I had committed the ultimate act of betrayal. “I have all of this TV time invested in you” . . . “The COMPANY is counting on you” . . . “I told everyone I could rely on you. You can't let me down.”

Eventually, I persuaded Vince to give me a weekend off here and there, but he was never going to let me come off the road for a couple of months. It didn't matter to him if I dropped the title or not, there was just no way he was going to give me that kind of time off.

Vince did, of course, have a lot riding on me. I was the youngest champion ever, and was built up to be the Next Big Thing. But a lot of it was also Vince making sure I didn't step outside of the WWE universe long enough to be able to look back in. If I did, I might see things as they are, and not as he wanted me to see them.

It's all about control, and Vince wasn't going to let me have any. The more I work, the more money I generate for Vince through ticket sales, merchandise, DVDs, pay-per-views, and advertising revenue. If it ruins my life, and I end up a zombie like the others, so what.

On one of the rare weekends that I did manage to get off, I was sitting at home, and I was trying to figure out why I was so worn down. I felt like an old man even though I was only twenty-five. The obvious suspects were the injuries that had never had time to heal properly; a lot of empty vodka bottles; the hundreds of pain pills I was swallowing just to get through the tour; and the fact that I was never home and was losing my family connections because of it. I was a professional wrestler all right.

But still I thought maybe if I didn't have to deal with some of the travel hassles it might be different. Lines at airport security were getting worse and worse after 9/11, and for a lot of flights you had to arrive two hours early. When you fly every day, and you are always tired and beat-up, the constant lines and waiting around just wears on you. And it is even worse when you can't walk through an airport without being recognized by hundreds or thousands of people who want pictures and autographs. So I ran the numbers, and I found out it was costing Vince about $175,000 a year to fly me all over the country. The international tours were a different story, but just the domestic travel was somewhere between $150,000 and $175,000.

Then it hit me. What if I bought my own plane, and avoided all the lines, check-ins, time spent waiting to board, walking through the airport, getting my bags? What if I could just hop on my own plane, go to work, do my job, and get back on my plane and come home? It would be just like driving to work for most people. Yeah, I could do that!

So I added up some more numbers, and I figured it out so that I could buy my own plane, have one of my oldest friends, Justin, fly it for me, and actually save Vince money at the same time. Vince would only need to pay for maintenance and fuel, and he would come out ahead. One day during a
SmackDown!
taping, I went into Vince's office with my spreadsheets and told him my plan. I showed Vince how he'd actually save money making this deal with me, and maybe I wouldn't need as much time off as I was looking for. Wouldn't you know it, the very next day the son of a bitch got back to me and said, “Let's do it!”

By September 2003, I had dropped the title back to Kurt Angle, only to “turn heel” in order to “beat” him for the title again. I wasn't even a full year and a half into my run, and I was WWE Champion for the third time. I wasn't a mark for the title, but I was very happy to grab the championship so I could be in more main events. I was already making millions. I had my own plane. The company was counting on me, and I was being reminded of that every day.

Then came Miami . . .