Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (34 page)

They were right. I was new at being a heel in America.

Then we drove up the ramp of the parking lot onto West 33rd Street, where the same unruly mob immediately descended on our car like a bunch of wild baboons. We locked the doors just in time!

They were beating on the windows and rocking the car up and down, their growling faces pressed up against the windows. Bundy, squashed in the backseat, put on an angry scowl: It was the only thing we had to scare them back! I could barely see to maneuver through traffic, so I went right over the curb and down the sidewalk. The fans followed, pounding on the car until I escaped down a maze of Manhattan side streets. We let out a collective sigh and had a good laugh, then Jim sternly lectured me to never do that again. But I was lost, and before we knew it, I was driving right back down West 33rd Street!

“Hart! Ya dumb fuck!” Bundy yelled in utter disbelief.

We tried to hunch down so as to remain undetected by the mob, but it was impossible for the fans not to notice Bundy’s giant head, shining like a light bulb. “It’s them!” the mob cried, and they pounced in one long angry carwash of beating hands and fiery-eyed faces!

And so we went through the whole thing one more time—laughing and shouting our fool heads off.

Ah, the life of a heel!

For the next nineteen days, all I could think about was wrestling Steamboat at WrestleMania II. Ricky was a perfect opponent for me, with the way he sold, writhing in pain, making the crowd cry with him. And I was the perfect hot-tempered heel for him, needing to be taught a lesson for my own good. I was looking forward to our match in Boston, where we’d feel each other out for the big show.

As soon as I walked into the dressing room at the Boston Garden on March 8, I could tell something was up by the droop in Chief’s face. He pulled me out into the hallway to tell me that my match at Mania had been scratched. I’d been demoted to the twenty-two-man battle royal instead.

I sulked as I dressed, unable to shake off my disappointment. Ricky seemed to notice how badly I was taking this. Since we weren’t going to work together at Mania, our match in Boston meant nothing special anymore; still, Ricky gave me a generous finish. “Let’s go out and show them what they’ll be missing at WrestleMania,” Ricky said. He was right. I walked out to have what would turn out to be one of the milestone matches of my career.

As I made my way to the ring behind Jimmy, I glared, cold with anger, like I had no intention of losing.

The Dragon came out looking as dashing and fit as a suave Bruce Lee, wearing black tights and a confident smile. The crowd rose to greet him.

From the moment I jumped him from behind, we understood each other, and we danced a match filled with intense passion. Throughout, The Dragon died beautifully in an awesome display of wrestling as art—the great work, rarely attainable, built layer upon layer—until he cradled me for a one . . . two . . . three. While The Dragon stood weary but victorious, I lay on the mat pounding my fists. I felt in my heart that it actually was real, that somehow this loss cost me my chance to dance at -WrestleMania.

The match aired live on NESN. That was the first time Gorilla Monsoon ever referred to me as The Excellence of Execution.

At Poughkeepsie TVs on March 11, I ran into Jake The Snake Roberts. He wore a big smile, and it was no wonder, given the way George fussed around him and his twenty-foot python. Being a good worker and one of the best talkers in the business, Jake was just what Vince was looking for.

I approached George with the idea that it might make for a good end to the battle royal to have André press me over his head and throw me over the top rope onto Anvil on the floor. At the end of the night George told me that André loved my finish for the battle royal, so that’s what we’d be doing at Mania. It could never compare to a match with Steamboat, but it was something.

The first WrestleMania had been such a big success that the question was how to make WrestleMania II, on April 7, 1986, even bigger. Vince came up with the idea to hold three simultaneous events, in different time zones, and beam them via satellite to more than two hundred closed-circuit locations throughout the United States and Canada: a three-ring circus for the media age. These were still the days of rudimentary cable and satellite TV, so nothing like it had ever been done. People in each local arena could watch what was going on in the other two venues on big screens, which would have to be specially installed.

Hogan and Bundy would be the main event at the Los Angeles Sports Arena, in a steel cage. In these glory days of Hulkamania, it was common to see wrestlers walk up to him and shake his hand, thanking him for putting food on their tables. I was one of them. Hulk had a star on his own private dressing room door, a company limo and a Lear jet, but no one thought he didn’t deserve it.

In Long Island, New York, the main event would be a boxing match between Roddy Piper and Mr. T.

On the big day, I was in the dressing room in Chicago as André explained to me how he wanted to go into the finish. He was wearing bright yellow trunks as he leaned over to tie the laces on his massive boots. His teeth looked like rows of corn in the mouth of a gigantic piranha. I ran his idea through my mind before innocently suggesting to him that if Jim and I doubled up on him, we could go for our sandwich move and he could give me the big boot from there. André thought about it while his huge fingers worked the laces tight. The dressing room was suddenly quiet. I saw a frozen stare on Tom’s face, and I wondered what I’d said wrong. Then André smiled and said, “Yeah, boss, I like that better.” A few minutes later, Tom told me that it was unheard of for anyone to suggest the slightest change to André. But I knew better. André was a great worker and appreciated that my suggestion made the finish better.

When all but eight combatants had been eliminated from the battle royal, Jim and I beat on William Refrigerator Perry of the Chicago Bears. Together we tossed him across the ring, but he rolled to his feet and came right back at us like a bowling ball, hitting two pins for a big strike and the pop of the night. Finally it was down to just me, Anvil, and André, and I found myself running into André’s boot.

It wasn’t long before the giant was lifting me up over his head. He tossed me out of the ring and dumped me thirteen feet to the floor, where I landed in Anvil’s waiting arms. It was a long way down!

By the time Hogan beat Bundy in the cage match in L.A., I was sitting in the Chicago Hyatt bar with Julie, Ellie and Jim. Most wrestlers didn’t kayfabe anymore, but The Hart Foundation and The Bulldogs did. We were old school. So across the room, Tom and Davey were celebrating their world tag-title victory. The road had brought us a long way from riding five hundred miles a day in Stu’s van. I raised my beer in salute. Tom acknowledged it with a nod from across the smoky bar that only I could see. Good luck, brother, have a good run. I was proud of all of us.

After WrestleMania II, I found myself humming the “Movin’ on up” theme from the sitcom The Jeffersons. Jim took his family as far away from Stu as he could get, buying a big monstrosity of a house in Tampa, Florida. Tom, Michelle and the baby moved in with me until Tom could find a house out in the country. Even Davey purchased an acreage on the outskirts of Calgary. We all bought into the dream, on credit.

With the ten days I had off, I did my best to spend time with my kids, while exploring my big new house, swimming in my own indoor pool—though I still couldn’t swim very well—and soaking my aching muscles in my Jacuzzi. I’d look out at the city skyline and picture the kids someday walking out the back door and up the grassy hill to the schoolyard. I was relieved that I was able to get my family away from Ramsay. All I had to do was work hard and long enough to pay for this dream—and come home at the end of my run safe and sound.

I spent considerable time visiting my mom and dad too. Stampede Wrestling, like a leaky ship, listed dangerously with Bruce at the helm. I’d hold my mom, her head against my chest as she cried.

“We’re losing everything, dawling.” Then she’d wipe her nose with a Kleenex and I’d sit with her and Stu in the kitchen and tell them stories about my travels. Stu would sigh, relieved to see my mom smile for a change.

One afternoon, Owen walked into Stu’s kitchen looking great, like he’d been spending time in the gym. He asked me whether I still thought he should get into the business, and I told him, “I’ve heard that in the few shows you’ve done, you were really good. The sooner you get into the business, the sooner I can get you down to New York, where you can make some big money before it runs out.”

Within a few weeks, Owen was wrestling full-time for Stu.

On the road, Jim and I might as well have been chained together at the ankles, convicts in a moving prison. We spent more time with each other than we did with our wives, and we never had an argument. Other tag teams weren’t so lucky, usually ending up with deep-rooted animosities and bitter falling-outs. But we had a custom of cracking each other’s back before every match.

Sometimes, just before we went through the curtain, I’d reach over and gently hold Jim’s hand.

Sometimes I’d start to skip. Soon he’d join in, and we’d burst out laughing. Then we’d march through the curtain all serious, as heel as ever.

He preferred to leave the handling of the specifics of our matches up to me. I used reverse psychology on him, and it worked every time. If I told Jim he couldn’t do something in the ring, he’d go ahead and do it just to show me he could. Like war buddies, Jim and I kept each other’s hopes alive.

My pay for WrestleMania II was a disappointing $2,000, the same amount I got for my match with Ricky The Dragon Steamboat in Boston. That was generous for a house show, but not for the biggest show of the year. When I heard that other guys in the same battle royal were paid four and five times as much as I was, and that The Bulldogs got $20,000 each for their tag-title match, I wrote a note and handed it to George, along with my check. The note read, “I’m sorry but I feel slighted and would rather not accept it at all. This does not reflect my partner’s view or my feelings toward you and the promotion. I’m grateful to be here and will continue to give you everything to the best of my ability.”

George handed me back my check and told me he’d see what he could do. In the end I received double the amount and so did Jim, but in hindsight I can see that the real favor George did me was in not showing my note to Vince. I probably would have been fired.

As it turned out, it was George who was fired, on June 20 that year. The word in the dressing room was that Hogan and Roddy had taken against him. They didn’t like his booking, perhaps because he was always pushing his Carolina boys, and had said to Vince, “He goes or we go.” Just like that, George was gone. I will always be grateful for the crack in the door he opened for me.

After Rosemary, I had sworn to change my ways, but it didn’t take me long to realize that Julie could never truly forgive me. And I still couldn’t take being alone. I became even closer to my wrestling family, but unfortunately too many of them were in love with cocaine, and I wanted to stay away from that.

There was plenty of truth to the adage that bad girls make good company. So I played a game with myself. After the shows, I’d walk into a bar trying to stay under the radar. I’d sit in the gunfighter’s seat and scan the room looking for a girl into whose arms I’d like to fall at the end of the night. I would zero in on the prettiest one, challenging myself to see whether I could win her over in the few short hours I was in town. If I struck out, it really didn’t matter to me.

I’d swoop down, friendly and yet at the same time elusive, and often ended up surprising myself, waking up with some beautiful girl curled up beside me. I have never forgotten the blue-eyed mulatto with ringlets in her hair. Or the model who could play classical piano. Or the beautiful French dancer who pranced around my room like a cat. It’s hard for me to hate the memory of her panting phrases in my ear and me not understanding a word of it.

I was proud and guilty all at once; in this dichotomy of conscience the guilt never diluted the pride. I suppose some may judge me harshly; if only they could walk a mile in my shoes, they might be surprised to find that they couldn’t lace them up fast enough. When all was said and done, my fondness for women kept me out of trouble. It may have even saved my life, when you consider how many wrestlers died from their drug and alcohol addictions.

Early in September, Chief mentioned to me that they were short one wrestler for a west coast swing and asked whether I knew anyone who could work on short notice. I suggested Owen, who was getting raves as a new high-flying sensation for Stampede Wrestling and had been named rookie of the year by wrestling magazines and the marks who wrote newsletters. Chief gave me the go-ahead.

Owen was stunned that I delivered him the chance to impress the WWF and maybe to get hired fulltime.

But the future looked tenuous for me and Jim. There was a buzz in the dressing room that The Bulldogs were going to lose the belts, and it was doubtful that The Foundation would get them. This was despite the fact that we’d had the best bouts by far with all the tag teams, including The Rougeaus, one of whom was the same Jimmy Rougeau I started out with so long ago, who was now called Jacques. The Hart Foundation had yet to have a single photo in the WWF’s monthly magazine or program, and we never won a match on any of the house shows.

Jim referred to us as “pseudo superstars,” an expression that I thought was an astute description of our situation. We were on TV just enough to be recognized everywhere we went, but we didn’t make the money that most TV stars made. We had bought big houses that we were rarely able to enjoy and that were actually owned by the bank. I was sick of the whole routine, but I had too much at stake now. The only way I knew how to provide for my family was what was keeping me away from them.

I could sense an excited nervousness in Owen as he introduced himself around the dressing room in Denver. He’d come a long way fast from doing backflips off the top turnbuckles in the ring that was always set up in Stu’s yard. He wore turquoise tights with silver lightning bolts up the legs. He looked thick and muscular, and his long blond hair hung in his face as he laced up his boots. He would work under the name Owen James, and team up with S.D. Jones against me and Jim.