Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (27 page)

I stunned the crowd with an upset victory over a top heel called The Great Kabuki, a Japanese wrestler with long hair who wore black karate pants and blue face paint. Just beyond the curtain, Johnny Weaver greeted me with a huge smile. As I unlaced my boots Johnny promised that, as soon as I got back from my next trip to Japan, Leo Burke and I would work a long program in the territory, with Leo as the heel, and that I would eventually win their version of the North American belt. I couldn’t help but smile—finally a break.

I was in Tokyo when I learned that Julie was pregnant again. I still didn’t know where I stood with wrestling, and another baby on the way only made me fear even more for the future. I felt better when Julie put Jade on the phone and she talked baby-talk to me. She had four teeth now and when I was gone, Julie told me, she crawled around kissing my picture.

In Japan, Abdullah was back as the main attraction, looking bigger, rounder and richer than ever.

There was Playboy Buddy Rose, a fat blond, Winnie the Pooh–shaped wrestler from the Oregon territory who was a surprisingly good worker. Rollerball was over from England. And Sterling Golden was due to arrive in February for the last two weeks of the tour, only now he was known as Hulk Hogan. And Davey was there on his first Japanese tour, trailing along behind his cousin. Sadly, under Tom’s influence, Davey was developing a bit of a mean streak. The two of them reminded me of a set of genetically altered, raging pit bulls. They reveled in blasting long, stinky farts in the crowded elevators of the luxury hotels where we stayed. At every opportunity Davey belched loudly right into my face, and when I’d had it up to here, we nearly came to blows.

On this trip the promoters had me losing to everybody, and I took it as a bad sign. When it came time to work with Davey, I thought it would be easy to simply do the same matches that we’d done in Canada, except reverse the outcome. But Davey was just as awkward as any of the Japanese Young Boys, and on the finish he drove me as hard as he could into the mat, jamming my neck like I was a bag of garbage.

One night a Japanese old-timer called Rusher Kimura invited Tom, Davey and me out to an expensive night club; despite our differences, we all went. Three small shot glasses appeared on the bar in front of us, containing Japanese vodka. Floating in each was what looked like a long-stemmed white mushroom. Kimura explained that each drink cost more than U.S.$400, that the Japanese fellow seated in the corner had sent them over and that it would be an insult if we didn’t kanpai. Tom noticed he was missing his baby finger, so we figured he must be a big-time Japanese gangster. We all toasted the man, barely choking down what felt like a piece of rubber. Dynamite only pretended to drink his, and, never one to turn down a $400 drink, I downed his too! Then, Kimura slapped me on the back really hard and said, “Turtle penis. Good for fuckie fuckie.” He was right. For the next week, all I wore were sweat pants, and it got a little embarrassing every time I stood up.

Tom, Davey and I stood with Abdullah in the dressing-room door watching Hulk Hogan wrestle: still the same massive blond, with the biggest arms I’d ever seen. He was never too fancy, and was smart enough to stick to the moves he did well, but his physique more than made up for his limited ability in the ring. Hulk had come a long way since I’d seen him in Atlanta.

He had been doing huge business with Dr. D. for Verne Gagne and the AWA in Minneapolis. Then, at the TV studio where they did their tapings, Verne, who still believed he was as tough as he’d been in his old shooting days, lost his temper and dove at Hogan. Hulk snatched him in a front face lock and choked the sixty-one-year-old promoter out on the floor. Verne was humiliated. Vince McMahon Jr., ever poised to strike, swooped in and financially lured both Hulk and Schultz over to the WWF, even taking Verne’s announcer, Mean Gene Okerlund. The war was on.

The day before Hulk arrived in Japan, he’d won the WWF World Heavyweight title and still seemed overwhelmed by it. It was the most financially rewarding belt in the business, even more so than the NWA or AWA, despite the fact that the NWA title commanded more respect. When Hulk had got to the WWF, Bob Backlund had begrudgingly refused to drop it to him, demanding that whoever beat him had to have at least some kind of legit wrestling background. So The Iron Sheik took the belt from Backlund and immediately dropped it to Hogan.

As we watched, Tom flipped his butt onto the floor and ground it out. “So that’s the big sensation,”

he said. “Can’t work much, can he?”

Abdullah lowered his shades.

Davey stared out at the ring nearly lovesick, fantasizing about being as big and built as Hulk.

On the final night of the tour, February 10, 1984, the climax of the tournament was a three-way runoff for the World Junior belt at the Budokan Hall in Tokyo. I stood watching from the dressingroom door as Dynamite took on Davey in their highly anticipated showdown. At the end, Davey hoisted Dynamite up in a standing suplex in the middle of the ring. Teetering from exhaustion, they both tipped over the top rope with Tom landing painfully hard on the corner of the ring apron.

Although he was hurt, Tom managed to crawl back in, beating the count to win. He could barely walk, but he went right back out and had another bruising match.

When it was over, the Young Boys helped Tom back to the dressing room, gently laying him down on the floor. Hulk stepped around him as he tore out of the dressing room for his match with Inoki: his first ever WWF World title defense. The Young Boys pressed ice packs into Tom’s lower back as he moaned in agony, gripping the World Junior belt tightly.

Titles. It would be wrong for anyone to think they didn’t mean anything, that it’s all fake. I knew, on that night, the title meant the world to Tom, but at a price even he couldn’t begin to imagine.

When I collected my money for the tour that night, I wasn’t surprised to learn that Tom and Davey would be coming back to Japan in July without me, but I understood why. Tom and Davey were both thick and chiseled; though I was every bit the wrestler they were, I couldn’t compete with their look because I wasn’t on steroids. I didn’t take it personally, though. I was happy for Davey. At least I had Toronto!

Two days later I was in the dressing room at Maple Leaf Gardens after a strong win over a guy named J.J. Dillon. Later in the card I charged out, saving the babyface in Leo’s match, beating him back to the curtain to a huge pop. The plan was for me to come back in two weeks and wrestle Leo for their North American title.

And then I was in Regina, the only thing keeping me away from Julie and Jade a five-hundred-mile drive. I was watching the last match through a little hole in the dressing-room wall, waiting for my cue to hit the ring on my old friend Killer Khan, setting up our upcoming feud around the territory.

What happened next will play forever in my head. The crowd roared when I hit the ring, nailing six-foot-five Khan until he fell out onto the floor.

“C’mon! C’mon!” he yelled.

I was grateful that he was doing his best to make me look good, so I jumped out after him. But I misjudged the distance to the floor and spiked my leg into the cement, hyperextending it like a stork! The crowd groaned and winced in empathy. In a second I knew the only big break I’d be getting was in my shattered right knee.

As I rolled on the floor groaning, Killer Khan backed right off, and the crowd closed quietly around me with stunned, sorry faces.

Hito crouched beside me, shaking his head sadly. “This one bad. Very bad.” I rode right through the night, with nothing but a leaky bag of ice to stop the swelling.

I’d had to go on a waiting list for knee surgery. Shortly after I was injured, Tom moved back to Calgary to work for Stu again. Besides, Michelle was pregnant, and they could have the baby for free in Canada. Their baby girl, Bronwyne, was born in May.

I finally had my knee repaired on June 26, four months after I hurt it. To make full use of the recovery time, I’d had surgery to remove all four of my wisdom teeth the next day. Now it was Canada Day, the eve of my twenty-seventh birthday, and I was in no mood to celebrate. Julie was going home to Regina to visit her grandmother, leaving me to hobble around on crutches. Some birthday present. She actually hissed at me like a hellcat as she stomped down the front steps and loaded a smiling Jade into my gray Caddy. Honestly, I was glad to see her go. As they pulled away from the curb, I waved good-bye in silent sarcasm from the front steps, and it was no surprise to me that only Jade waved back.

The air in the house had been thick with anger for so long that the sudden silence jarred open my emotions. I plopped down on an old, half-stuffed chair and allowed myself an exercise in self-pity. I touched my swollen face, and then my sore knee with its fresh stitches. I felt like Frankenstein’s monster, or at least the King of Pain. But the physical pain was never as tough as the doubts and fears I carried deep in my heart. This was one of those times when I really needed Julie, and she just couldn’t or wouldn’t be there for me, for reasons I didn’t understand, and still don’t.

Tom and Davey were galloping ahead of me as Julie was pulling away too. I studied the cracks on the ceiling long enough that they began to form abstract pictures, but it was when I closed my eyes that the real picture came into focus. I had endured enough with Julie. If it wasn’t for Jade, and the baby on the way, I’d have given up by now. Acceptance of that truth, sad as it was, helped me to collect myself.

I could never leave my babies, but I had no intention of being miserable, on some manic roller-coaster ride, for the rest of my life. I’d stayed true to myself, playing it smart and safe, refusing to take steroids, but it was obvious just by looking at Tom and Davey that using steroids had made all the difference to their careers. The knee doctor had said it was going to take me up to six months to recover! I couldn’t afford not to work for that long a stretch. But I’d just heard that the Tunneys had suddenly broken off with the NWA and had climbed into bed with Vince McMahon and the WWF. If I wanted to get ahead in the world, that left me with only one card to play. Japan. Shimma had booked me for four weeks in October. I had to be ready!

A few days of being alone, but not lonely, at my house did me some good. At the end of the week I was in better spirits and went down to the big Stampede show to say hello to the boys. One of the main attractions was Abdullah, whom I found in the dressing room, happy as ever. “Hello, Gabe,” he said. For some reason, Abbie called everyone Gabe.

I took a seat not far from the ring, forced to be a fan for the night. Abbie worked over Jerry Morrow, and when the ref disqualified him, he grabbed some steel folding chairs and threw them into the ring and then tipped over the timekeeper’s table. Just like old times. Then Abbie came toward me and I gave him a look. I can’t! My knee! As much as I tried not to, there I was bashing him over the head with a crutch. He whipped his bladed thumb across his forehead. Blood poured. “Hit me again!” So I did.

What a strange business, where bloodletting could be offered and appreciated as kindness.

That night Abbie went out of his way to make me look good, maybe as a favor to Stu, or maybe to me. The scared little boy wrestling fan in me who once dreamed about the terror of Abdullah The Butcher couldn’t have been happier as he rolled his eyes at me, bleeding, while I shook my crutch at him. My dad would’ve smiled and playfully called him a black bastard. Me, I called him a cool cat.

Thanks, Abbie.

15

SINK OR SWIM

I STARTED WRESTLING AGAIN ON AUGUST 10, which was way too soon. The plan was for me to do tag matches for a while, mostly standing on the apron. In the dressing room at the pavilion before my first match back, my dad introduced me to George Scott, one of the famous Scott Brothers who’d worked for him back in the 1960s. George (who, it later struck me, bears a striking resemblance to Donald Rumsfeld) was lured out of a long and prosperous run as NWA booker for the Crocketts to become the WWF’s booker and one of Vince McMahon’s top soldiers. He’d come to Calgary to make Stu an offer he couldn’t refuse.

Vince wanted Stu’s territory. If Stu didn’t sell, McMahon would work his way into the territory anyway, and we’d be out of business and broke too. At least there was an offer of a buy-out.

George was standing beside Stu as my dad explained the WWF’s proposition to me. Stampede Wrestling would shut down, the WWF’s TV show would replace Stu’s show, and my parents would get U.S.$250,000 up front and 10 percent of all house shows subsequently run in any of Stu’s regular towns, including Vancouver. My reaction was instant relief, although I didn’t reveal the extent of it to George. My parents had lost a fortune, and it seemed to me that selling the whole headache to McMahon would guarantee them a comfortable and well-deserved retirement.

Of course, I had practical concerns about my own future. Stu went on to explain that the WWF had offered to move Bruce into an office job as their representative promoting all the towns in Western Canada; Vince would also hire Dynamite, Davey, me and maybe eventually Big Jim (who was still working Louisiana) as full-time wrestlers. I was immediately envious of what they had in mind for Bruce because he’d be home every night.

I told George that I didn’t have any aspirations to languish at the bottom of their cards. He smiled and shook his head, “You don’t get it. You’re gonna work with all the top guys in all the top angles.

We’re going to make you a big star, Bret.” I thought, Yeah, right.

In a few days, he said, Dynamite and I would fly down to WWF television tapings so McMahon could take a look at us. I leveled with George, telling him that I could barely walk across the room—it wasn’t exactly a good time to show off my skills. He told me the match would be short and I wouldn’t have to do much. I didn’t want to lose out on the opportunity, so I agreed. My dad asked me to keep everything under my hat for the time being

I met up with some of the boys after the show. When I got home at about 3 a.m., I was startled to find Wilk asleep on my bed. He explained that Julie was at the hospital and had called him to come babysit Jade until I got home. By late the next afternoon, Julie was still in labor, and I called Stu to try to get out of working in Edmonton that night. He calmly said, “You’ll need the extra money.”