Straight from the Hart (14 page)

neither of whom weighed much more than 200 at that time either.

Although Dynamite and I weren’t thrilled, at least we knew where Art stood.

We decided to head to Germany where we’d been invited back for the Hanover tournament. Art then imported a whole crew of these long-in-the-tooth, heavyweight cronies from the States to work in the main slots, including “The Professor” Dale Lewis, Mr. Pogo and Don Gagne, and he put the singles strap on himself.

The second go-round in Germany proved to be even better for Dynamite and me, as we were given a lot better push by the new German promoter, Heinrich Kaiser. Dynamite continued with his practical jokes — something he was gaining notoriety for. Dynamite also hooked up with some German doctor over there, who introduced him to the anabolic steroid, Primobolan — which, at
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that time, was considered the Cadillac of ’roids. Dynamite would definitely get bigger, but, contrary to what they say about ’roids being performance enhancing, I’d vehemently argue that his performance would only decline — as would his health.

When Dynamite and I returned to Calgary in mid-November, Art was still in charge, but business was down and morale was as well. Bret and Keith were not pleased with the way they were being used and a lot of fingers were being pointed. Dynamite and I figured that since Art hadn’t been setting the territory on fire with his heavyweight pals he might be inclined to use us a bit more. That didn’t prove to be the case, however; on our first night back, he had us in the prelims, working in inconsequential matches.

Around the same time, my brother Dean, who’d been living in Hawaii and helping new promoter Peter Maivia get his outfit off the ground, called and said that business was great and that we could make more down there than we could back in Calgary. He also said that the promotion would provide us a luxury condo on the beach, free of charge. That sealed the deal for me and Dynamite

— we were soon headed back to Hawaii.

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Upon our arrival, we found that my brother Dean had stretched the truth a bit.

The luxury condo he’d mentioned was a cockroach infested dump inhabited by derelicts and drunks. Dynamite and I soon found that business, which Dean had told us was great, was in shambles; promoter Peter Maivia had recently lost his television show and gates were abysmal. I probably should have jumped on the first plane out of there, but I felt kind of sorry for Peter and company.

Having seen my dad go through similar trials and tribulations, I could relate to what Peter was going through. Dynamite and I decided to hang in there.

Peter lived in the same apartment building — on the floor directly above us, in a slightly larger but equally squalid place. Peter lived with his wife, Lia, his son-in-law Rocky Johnson (who’d wrestled for my dad back in the ’60s), his daughter Ata (who was married to Rocky), and their teenaged son Dwayne, or Dewey, as they called him back then. (Today he’s better known to most of you as simply the Rock.)

Although we didn’t make much money, Peter treated us well and started giving us a pretty good push. For some reason, he had me wrestling as a heel and though I was a fair bit smaller than Peter, Rocky and other babyfaces, such as Don Muraco and Haku, he put the Polynesian heavyweight strap on me
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and had me going over every night. I also worked a pretty hot program with Dynamite, who was a face over there. Business began to improve.

Unfortunately, they were only running two shows a week, so our salaries were still quite lean. Dynamite decided to head back to Calgary and urged me to do the same, but I had no desire to work for Admiral Nelson. I also wanted to repay Peter and Rocky for having had enough faith to put the belt on me.

In March, my brother Keith came down to Hawaii for a few matches. Like me, he’d been given the big sales pitch by Dean. For a bit of fun in the sun he also brought along my brother Owen, who was on Easter break from high school.

On Keith’s first night over there, he and I were booked in some kind of grudge match against Peter, the High Chief of all Samoans, and tag partner Rocky Johnson. Peter set up this finish where Keith and I were supposed to bust him open with a foreign object. He was supposed to do the mega sell and then give Rocky the hot tag — at which point, Peter would be helped back to the dressing room to get patched up. In the meantime, Keith and I were supposed to stop Rocky and bust him open also. We’d start getting strong heat on him as well — until Peter, taped up, was supposed to come back and kick our asses. At that point we were supposed to flee — like chicken shit cowards

— and then they’d shame us into accepting a lumberjack tag match.

Anyway, to make a long story short, the match went pretty well according to plan, but when Peter bladed himself, he must have hit an artery and was bleeding so bad that he really did have to be taken back to the dressing room for repairs. When Rocky tagged in, he was supposed to get juice as well —

which, given how hot the crowd already was, probably wasn’t a very good idea.

He, however, gaffed himself shortly after the tag and no sooner than he began his sell, I noticed that the ring was surrounded by irate Samoans — most of whom were the size of Umaga or Rikishi. Making matters worse, nearly all the security guards were also Samoans, so we weren’t likely to get any support from them.

As I surveyed the increasingly dire looking scenario, I recalled something that Abdullah the Butcher had told me when he was heeling for us. He said that the one thing the fans were afraid of and didn’t want any part of was someone they
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figured was completely deranged or crazy and that he always made out to be a lunatic — especially if he had to fight his way through the crowd.

In any case, I turned to Keith — who looked like he was scared shitless —

and kind of laughingly asked him if he remembered that scene at the end of
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
where the Bolivian army had surrounded them. He glared angrily at me and muttered this was a hell of a time to be talking movie trivia.

I then told him that, just like Butch and Sundance, we were going to make out to be fearless, deranged lunatics, bent on wreaking havoc on the mob. Keith gave me this wide-eyed, disillusioned look, as if to say, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” I reassured him that everything would be cool and to just follow my lead. We then waded out through the teeming throng, acting like a pair of lunatics, and, lo and behold, the lynch mob suddenly began parting like the Red Sea. We made it back to the dressing room, completely unscathed. (I owe you, Abby!)

The only injury we sustained that night was when my brother Owen, who was trying to come to our rescue when the heat was on, got sucker punched by some irate Samoan — something which was noted in the Rock’s biography. I felt bad for Owen, but with his typical good humor he laughed and seemed half proud of his first war wound.

Peter and Rocky began having me handle all the finishes and story lines for them and business began to improve each week out. I’d seen what worked and what hadn’t in Calgary and, whatever I did, I always endeavored to have some ostensible rationale or purpose for having done it — which should always be rule number one for any booker.

Beyond that, one of the other things I’d come to learn from having watched other wrestlers who were also booking was to lead by example. Quite often I’d see bookers ask wrestlers to do things that they weren’t prepared to do themselves: be it doing a job (losing), getting juice (blood), putting in time or whatever.

Having been on the other side of the fence, I used to hear the wrestlers bitching or whining that the booker was asking them to do things that he wouldn’t do. I never asked the boys to do anything that I wouldn’t do myself and that seemed
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to go a long way to establishing the respect of the boys — which is essential for any booker to be successful.

While things were going pretty well in Hawaii, I’d been told by my brother Owen — who, even though he was just a teenager, had a pretty good grasp of the business — that things back in Calgary were in a state of flux. To no one’s surprise, Art Nelson’s my-way-or-the-highway approach to booking had begun to wear thin and he’d been replaced as booker — by Bret.

According to Owen, Bret was trying hard and was having some great matches

— in particular with veterans like Leo Burke, Mr. Hito and this big black heel named Kasavubu. Gates, however, remained sluggish. Owen attributed the slump to Art — whose story lines had been pretty tepid — but also to the fact that Bret was going to the well too often by having ladder matches, lumberjack matches, chain matches and, his personal favorite, wrestlers having ten round boxing matches. Usually these were for no apparent reason, and, as a result, the fans had begun to lose interest.

I was hoping Bret might start getting the hang of things, because I knew from before that if my dad continued to lose money, my mom would be renewing her quest for him to get out of the business, something none of us wanted.

In the meantime, I continued doing my thing for Peter and Rocky.

While we weren’t running enough shows for anyone to get rich, the fans had started to respond to our story lines. It didn’t hurt that Peter, his wife Lia, Rocky and his wife Ata couldn’t have been nicer — always inviting Dean and me up to their place for dinner and virtually giving me carte blanche control over the booking. It was all very gratifying.

In May, I was kind of surprised to receive a call from my dad. He said he was just touching base to see how I was doing. Even though I loved my dad and he loved me (or, so I’d like to think), for some reason we never chatted much.

Naturally, I was kind of wondering why he was calling.

After some precursory bullshitting, he cut to the chase and told me that several of the wrestlers — including Bobby Bass, Len Denton, Tom Stanton, Luke McMasters, Steve Wright and Bobby Fulton — had walked out. He wasn’t sure whether it was because they didn’t agree with Bret’s booking, or if they were just malcontents, but in any case, our roster was pretty thin.

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Beyond that, he said that Bret had notified him that he was heading to Japan in June, after which he was going to work in New Zealand and Australia. Bret, Keith and my mom were of the opinion that we should shut the territory down for the summer and reopen in the fall — supposedly with a new head of steam.

He was curious as to what I thought.

I told him that, in my opinion, if he were to shut down for the summer, not only would he lose Dynamite — who was probably the best worker in the business at that time — but my mom would likely do everything in her power to make sure he didn’t open up again in the fall. My dad told me he felt exactly the same way. He then paused, for what seemed like a long time, and said he’d heard, from Dean and Owen, that I’d been handling the book for Peter and reportedly getting good results. He paused again, and I kind of sensed where he might he heading; he inquired whether I might be interested in handling the book back in Calgary.

To be honest, after having been bypassed for several years by unproven younger brothers, overrated old retreads and assorted other nondescripts, my initial inclination was to decline his offer. I sensed though, that if I did, he probably would just shut the territory down and that, unfortunately, would be the end of the line for Stampede Wrestling. As a result, I told him I’d take the book but felt quite bad about leaving Peter and Rocky in the lurch — especially after they’d shown so much faith in me and treated me like family.