Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (14 page)

While I was still talking with Abbie, a wrestler known as Superstar Billy Graham came over to me: Wayne Coleman was six-foot-three, with twenty-four-inch biceps. I remembered him in the dungeon on the mat, where Stu had him clamped in a thread-through with his arms twisted up behind his head, as he was screaming for his life. “Please say hello to your dad,” he said. “I’ll never forget how much he did for me.”

Just then, Ole Anderson, the Atlanta booker, introduced himself and said he needed me for a twenty-minute draw with a French-Canadian wrestler, Rene Goulet. Goulet was working a French Foreign Legionnaire heel gimmick and stood sourfaced with his arms crossed as Ole explained that he needed to see what kind of worker I was. I told myself that I’d get all my moves in, whether Rene liked it or not. He didn’t appreciate the liberties I took bumping him all over the ring, but when the bell rang, I knew I’d had a good match.

As I sat undoing my boot laces, I heard Ole’s voice on the other side of the dressing-room wall. “Did anyone see Hart’s match? Damn, I really wanted to see him work.”

The fall weather in Hapeville, a seedy suburb of Atlanta, was beautiful, but I spent most of the time I wasn’t working in a basic, furnished room at the notorious Falcons Rest apartments, watching TV. I remember watching every moment of the coverage of the United States embassy hostage taking in Teheran by followers of the Ayatollah Khomeini. I was making less money than I had been at home, even though the houses we played to were full, but all the wrestlers seemed to be in the same boat, most of us staying at the Falcons Rest, sharing rides to the venues when we could.

I was depending on Buzz Sawyer (no relation to Terry), a short, thick, bald kid, my age, with similar ambition, to get me to the shows. At first he’d been helpful, assuming that since I was a promoter’s kid I had some clout, but when it became obvious how untrue that was, I’d had to keep my door propped open to catch him as he jogged by my door to the parking lot: He’d intentionally leave me behind just to make me look bad. The last time he’d left me stranded I missed my first town ever.

Ole was mad, but not madder than I was.

Suddenly, one day Buzz flashed by my doorway yelling, “C’mon!” and tore off down the hall. I grabbed my bag and ran as fast as I could, but all I found was an empty parking lot—again. I headed over to the phone booth, digging through my pockets for the phone number of Candy, a cute cheerleader who seemed nothing but innocent to me but turned out to be one of a horde of ring rats who hung around the Falcons Rest and came to my room like it was a revolving door, eager to please. I asked her for a ride, and she was only too happy to help me out. When she got there, she insisted that I drive, and at the edge of town, she slid my zipper down and lowered her head. I was twenty-one and single, and I was no more innocent than she was. I tried to keep my eyes on the road.

The next day I was in that phone booth again calling around for a ride. I wasn’t supposed to ride with the heels, and none of my fellow babyfaces ever seemed to have room for me. Just as I’d run out of people to call, a Lincoln Town Car pulled up behind me. Ernie Ladd with his big red Afro was hunched over the steering wheel. “You stuck again, kid? C’mon, jump in!” I’ve always thought it was strange that the heels were usually nicer people than the supposed good guys.

Ernie was a six-foot-nine pale-skinned black man, one of the greatest defensive tackles to ever play in the NFL. Up front next to Ernie was Bobby The Brain Heenan, a fast-talking, crazy-bumping manager with a shock of bleached-white hair. I climbed in back with The Russian Bear, Ivan Koloff, famous for being one of the few guys to beat Bruno Sammartino for the WWWF World title. Ivan said hello in a heavy Russian accent.

“I remember you,” I said. “You’re Red McNulty from Winnipeg. I watched you have your first match, with Firpo Zybysko, up in Calgary.”

He was stunned. Later, he pulled me aside and politely asked me to never tell anyone about that.

“Everyone believes I’m Russian.” In those days a wrestler became his gimmick. He lived it.

A few blocks from the building, Ernie slowed down to let me out so I wouldn’t be seen with the heels, and as I walked along the street, the babyfaces drove past me in their empty cars.

Inside I was surprised to see André the Giant, playing cards with his usual two big bottles of red wine on the table beside him. I extended my hand and said, “Hey, boss!” He ignored me like I was invisible. Thanks, Smith.

That night I was working with Ernie, who said, “Okay, kid, we’ll seesaw, seesaw, do the waltz across Texas and then you slip on a banana peel, one . . . two . . . three, ya got it?” What a simple analogy for a wrestling match. Ernie Ladd did all right by me.

When Harley Race came to Atlanta to defend the NWA World Heavyweight title, he took me under his wing, insisting I ride with him. He always bought me a few beers for the drive, and he never let me pay for meals. Buzz couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw me riding with the World Champion, and after that I was treated well by everyone. Though, as far as I was concerned, it was too late. I wanted to go home—I wasn’t earning enough, wasn’t being pushed by Ole and Barnett.

When I called Stu, he told me he could use me any time. He also had news: Big Jim, who had been injured in the preseason and had yet to set foot on the field for the Raiders, had flown Ellie down to visit him in Reno, Nevada, and he’d proposed. When she said yes, he bartered his Raider helmet for a bottle of Dom Perignon. They were set to tie the knot at Hart house on December 26 unless the Raiders made the playoffs.

As soon as I hung up the phone I called Jim Barnett, who agreed to let me go—a little too quickly, I thought. We decided I’d finish up in early December.

Then Ole’s budding star, Buzz, held up the office for more money and when Ole said no, he walked out on him. Afterwards, Ole told me what I already knew. “We had to decide on your first night whether to push you or Buzz, and damned if I didn’t miss your entire match. So I went with Buzz and now look!”

That night in the dressing room, Bobby Jaggers, a harmless but outrageous bullshitter and heel, cornered a large rat in the dressing room and happily stomped it to death, which, trust me, was harder than one might think! The Masked Superstar, Bill Eadie, went off on him: “I suppose you’re just going to go in the ring now with dead rat germs all over your boots, ya moron.”

I’d never seen a rat before, and I don’t think I was the only one, judging by the way so many big, tough wrestlers jumped up on chairs!

After the rat stomping, Ole introduced me to Sterling Golden, the territory’s newest big blond heel.

He had quite a presence about him, standing a massively muscled six-foot-nine and sporting the biggest arms I’d ever seen. As soon as I saw him, I thought, Boy, my dad would love to get his hands on this guy! Ole told me to make it short and simple because Golden was green. I hit the ropes, and when I crashed into him it felt like I’d hit a brick wall. I charged again, right into his waiting arms. He squeezed me like an anaconda while I screamed uncle and writhed in agony. After almost being disqualified for not releasing me, he dropped me limp to the mat, dead, like Bobby Jaggers’s rat.

His real name was Terry Bollea, soon to become Hulk Hogan.

When I was on my way home to Calgary, Hito tracked me down in Chicago, where I’d stopped to visit a friend. He called with big news: Dynamite had been scheduled to wrestle Fujinami for the WWF

Junior Heavyweight Championship at Madison Square Garden the next day, but his papers weren’t in order; the New Japan office would be grateful if I could take his place. My mind raced: Here was my big break—a chance to wrestle at Madison Square Garden, on a card that would be broadcast across the eastern United States and throughout Japan.

I’d never been to New York before. As the yellow taxi made its way through the crowded, noisy streets it looked pretty much like I had expected it would from TV. I got out of the cab in front of the Statler Hilton hotel, across the street from Madison Square Garden, to find Hito waiting for me. We were immediately surrounded by a mob of Japanese reporters. Hito pulled me close and advised me to be intimidating; being a heel was the best way to get over with the Japanese press. Any fears I’d had vanished, and I was the picture of confidence as I waded into them.

I did one interview after another, posing for photos with a fixed glare on my face and my fists balled up in anger.

When Hito suggested that I go up to my hotel room and rest before the match, I was too pumped up to lie down, thinking about different strategies and moves for my debut in the greatest wrestling hall in the world.

When it was time, I came out of the elevator and strode across the lobby riding high and ran straight into Hito. From the look on his face, I could tell something was wrong.

“You off. No work Fujinami. Vince McMahon say you no big name to work Madison Square Garden.

Me sorry.” And he handed me an envelope with $500 in it from New Japan.

I was crushed, and Hito felt almost as badly as I did. He invited me to the dressing room, but I didn’t want to hang around like a pathetic wannabe. Instead, I went back up to my room, ate some Chinese take-out and flew home in the morning.

Later I found out it wasn’t Vince McMahon Sr. who’d given me the thumbs down, it was his son. Not a big enough name to wrestle at MSG? I made a promise to myself that someday I’d go back there and change Vince Jr.’s mind for him.

7

KEEPING IT REAL

WHEN I GOT HOME, everyone was busy planning Ellie and Jim’s wedding. Hart house had never looked so grand as it did on their wedding day. The chandeliers were polished and shone so brightly that you could see their glow all the way from the highway. Outside, snow hid the skeletons of the dead Cadillacs. Inside, logs crackled in the fireplaces, a teenaged musician strummed her acoustic guitar, a hired hand in a tuxedo tended bar, and the dining-room table was piled high with hors d’oeuvres. Owen entertained everyone, sprawled on the carpet in the living room, pitting Heathcliff the cat against his arch-nemesis, a stuffed monkey. The three of them put on a fine show, reversing in and out of holds, with Heathcliff’s tail pounding on the rug as he tried to think up a countermove.

At last Stu escorted Ellie down the main stairs, and she looked resplendent. When the reverend asked whether there was anybody who objected to the marriage, none of us were going to pipe up: We thought Jim was a perfect match for Ellie, as he was the only man we knew with a personality just as combustible as hers. But Shep, our old, half-blind bearded collie, barked frantically, and everyone laughed. Maybe Shep knew something we didn’t.

The whole time I’d been gone, business had been horrible. Art Nelson, from Amarillo, had been doing the booking, and the most boring wrestler on the planet, a big, slow, and arrogant old-timer named Larry Lane, was headlining. They were soon unceremoniously ushered out of the territory. By a process of elimination, I ended up the booker again—Keith and Bruce had gone back to school to get teaching degrees and could only work for the promotion on the weekends. I took it as a personal challenge to get my dad’s business back on its feet. Wayne and I worked together on the road, and Ross and my mom ran the office; Helen actually seemed to have built up a tolerance for the business, and was often in the best of moods, fascinated by the day-to-day mishaps and funny stories I loved to tell her. We knew who was coming in and who was going out, and I’d sit with Ross and Stu and book three weeks in advance. It felt like we got the territory organized, for the very first time.

Dynamite was back for a little bit. In Japan he’d shaved his head and built himself an even more chiseled physique. I thought he looked like Pee-wee Herman with muscles. The original British punk had taken Japan by storm, but he wasn’t going to be around much for the next while, having been booked for several tours in Japan. Stu had grown extremely fond of Tom, and gave him all the leeway he needed to work in Japan; and Tom repaid him by working harder than anyone else when he was in Calgary. I also couldn’t help but notice that Tom was relying heavily on steroids, taking a lot of pills and polishing off a case of beer a night, but in the ring he was magnificent.

Ross frantically searched for talent anywhere and managed to book Steve Wright, a thin, balding English wrestler who had a reputation as a shooter. He’d been taught by Ted Betley, who’d also taught Tom, and we hoped that Wright might be the second coming of The Dynamite Kid. When Tom went to England to work a few shows before heading off to Japan for another three-week tour, he helped us out by booking Giant Haystacks for us, whose real name was Martin Ruane. The seven-foot, 550-pound behemoth, billed as England’s version of André the Giant, was due to arrive in February, along with Wright.

I was back in Regina again for the first time at the end of the first week of January 1980. The fans seemed to have missed me, and I realized that I had missed them too. The show was over, and I was zipping up my bag when Gil, the old security guard, leaned his head in the dressing room to tell me Julie was waiting for me. My first reaction was to sneak off. She and her sister had stayed on at my house when I’d left for Hawaii, but they went back to Regina after only a week, and I hadn’t heard from her since. After all the girls in Atlanta, I couldn’t see that Julie and I had much future, so I decided to tell her to her face that it was over.

The arena was completely empty, and most of the lights were turned off. Julie was sitting on the ring apron. She smiled at me, and I found myself thinking that I didn’t need to make any rash decisions.

“So, did you want to see me still, or are we done?”

Someone leaned on the horn of the van to hurry me up.

“If you want to pick up where we left off, we can,” I said.

“But I have to go. We’ll be staying over next week. We can talk better then.”

We did. She told me her life story and I told her mine. Like a Mafia man, I told her to never ask me questions about the business; it was easier for me not to explain and better for her not to know.