Straight from the Hart (7 page)

The celebrated Scottish poet, Robert Burns, once despaired that the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. To that hypothesis, he probably could have added, the best laid plans of wrestling promoters as well.

Although Stomper and Robinson appeared to be a surefire combination, for some reason their eagerly anticipated showdown didn’t seem to get off the ground. Neither one appeared to be comfortable with the other’s style. It went downhill from there and eventually degenerated into a half-assed shoot. As anyone who’s been in our business can attest, shoot matches, under the guise of working, tend to be unadulterated abortions. It certainly proved to be the case with Billy and Archie. After about twenty minutes of clutching, grabbing and blocking, with the fans all chanting “borrrrring,” Stomper, who was pretty high-strung, abruptly stormed out of the ring and was counted out — leaving Robinson as the winner of the so-called match. Stomper then informed my dad he was through and squealed out of the parking lot, which left us with no choice but to then put Robinson into the Stomper’s slot against Funk for the world title the next week.

Stomper’s departure was a big loss, but once in a while, out of the ashes of adversity, another star emerges — much like when Steve Young replaced Joe Montana as the quarterback of the Super Bowl champion 49ers. That’s pretty
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much what happened this time around. Robinson’s match with Funk remains one of the most awe-inspiring performances I’ve ever seen. An edge of your seat, nail biting thriller, it ran the gamut of breathtaking highs and lows and, even as you were watching it, you already knew that you were watching a classic that you’d be extolling the virtues of years later — which is exactly what I’m doing now. I’ve seen a lot of other incredible matches since then, but for some reason that one still remains indelibly etched in my mind. It was one of the things that inspired me to become a wrestler myself.

When we shut down the territory that year for our annual summer break, there was a groundswell of optimism that we could pick up where we left off in the fall. There was just one slight problem, however. None of the key cogs from our glorious run the previous season were around. Robinson was now in Australia and Funk was, of course, back in the States defending the world title.

Beyond that, the Stomper, who’d been our other mainstay, was nowhere to be found. As a result, instead of opening with all the firepower we’d had back in July, we were forced to open instead with a motley crew of uninspiring lesser lights, including such non-household names as Bull Johnson, Steven Little Bear, Danny Lynch, Hans Streiger and Paul Hebert, as well as rookies Dan Kroffat and Gilles Poisson who would later emerge as decent hands but were then in the embryonic stages of their careers.

The consequence was that our business fell to its lowest level since the dog days of l964. Business would continue to struggle heading into the winter, traditionally our strongest time of the year, which gave everyone, particularly my mom, increased cause for concern. Things began to take on a different complexion early in December, however.

First, the general manager of the Calgary Stampeders football team, Rogers Lehew, called my dad and said he had a big defensive tackle named Wayne Coleman, who was looking to break into the wrestling business. My dad had broken in a number of other football players who’d gone on to stardom in the ring, including Woody Strode, Wilbur Snyder, Angelo Mosca and Joe Blanchard, so he was happy to give Coleman an audition in his infamous Dungeon. Coleman was an impressive specimen, standing six-foot-five and weighing 295, with 23

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inch arms and able to bench press over 500 pounds — which was close to the world record at that time. Beyond that, he seemed to have a natural gift of gab and exuded charisma.

While he was getting his feet wet in our territory, Coleman would make the acquaintance of this washed-up old alcoholic named Dr. Jerry Graham, who at one time had been a pretty decent heel. Graham — on the down side of his career at that time, but still a pretty fair bullshit artist — somehow seemed to make a favorable impression on Coleman, because the next thing my dad knew Coleman insisted on changing his name — to Billy Graham.

After his run in Calgary, shortly thereafter, Coleman would explode onto the scene in the States as Superstar Billy Graham — where he would become a huge star, both in the AWA and later the WWF. He would reportedly be the inspiration for a whole generation of bombastic, musclemen types, including the likes of Jesse Ventura, Hulk Hogan, the Ultimate Warrior and the Road Warriors, among others.

Not long after Coleman had hit the scene, my dad received another call —

this time from Jack Britton, who was one of the promoters in Montreal. Britton (whose son Gino Brito later became a star of note) told my dad that he had a prospect named Larry Shreeve he’d been training and asked if my dad could do him a favor by booking him — to give him some seasoning. In the past, my dad had helped launch the careers of a number of guys from Montreal, including Maurice Vachon, Tarzan Tyler, Gilles Poisson, Stan Stasiak and Joe Le Duc.

He told Britton to send Shreeve down.

By the time he arrived in our territory Shreeve had changed his name to Abdullah the Butcher and had his deranged lunatic persona, down pat. Much like a wrestling version of the shark in
Jaws,
he systematically destroyed anything in his path and struck fear into the hearts of wrestling fans with his relentless, bloodthirsty quest for mayhem. That movie would go on to break all existing box office records, and the same was the case for Abby: he would go on to become the hottest drawing heel in the history of our promotion — surpassing even the Stomper and Killer Kowalski.

With Abby and Coleman (Graham) more than fitting the bill as our lead heels, all we needed now were some good faces for them to work with. Shortly
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after the new year, my dad’s wish, in that regard, would come true as Billy Robinson — who’d been working in Australia and Japan since he left Calgary back in July — returned. Robinson would pick right up where he left off as one of the hottest faces we’d ever had.

Combining Robinson with Abby and Superstar, or “Supe” as he came to be known, we had an awesome trifecta and they would be the spearhead for our best season. Even better, they would set the stage for a period of prosperity that would extend for the next several years.

I might add that after they left our promotion, Abby, Coleman and Robinson would go on to have an even more pronounced impact on the wrestling business in the States, Japan and around the world, not only drawing huge crowds, but inspiring a host of other wrestlers to endeavor to emulate them — much like a myriad of clones sought to copy Elvis or the Beatles after they made their big splashes. Unfortunately, Abby, Coleman and Robinson are all remembered more now in a negative context than for the positives that they brought into our business.

Abby’s propensity for bloodbaths, gaffing (blading oneself) and gratuitous violence inspired countless others to follow suit — to the point where it became overkill and it disgusted and turned off thousands of fans. The saturation of bloodshed and extremism replaced wrestling as the main objective and significantly compromised the work rate in the entire industry — something, I’d venture to say, hasn’t recovered to this day.

Much of Coleman’s success was attributed to his awe-inspiring physique, rather than his wrestling ability. He would inspire a host of other bodybuilder types (and misguided promoters) to follow suit, with the end result being a proliferation of anabolically enhanced cohorts. That set the stage for athleticism and wrestling acumen taking a back seat to aesthetics — something that seemed to peak during the days of Hulkamania where looks definitely took precedence over substance. The offshoot has been nothing short of tragic, as a whole generation of younger wrestlers came into the business in the ’80s and

’90s and, having seen the success of anabolic warriors like Coleman, Hogan and countless others, decided to go that direction rather than “saying their prayers,
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eating their vitamins” or learning how to work. We all know how many guys have paid the price for having taken that unfortunate shortcut.

And then there’s Billy Robinson. By any yardstick, he belongs in wrestling’s hall of fame for having been one of the best workers of his era and a cutting-edge trendsetter. Instead though, he’s been more likely a candidate for wrestling’s hall of shame because of his reputation for having been a cheap shot artist and bully. Here’s not to you, Mr. Robinson, heaven doesn’t hold a place for those who prey — if you catch my drift.

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Even though Abdullah, Coleman and Robinson all moved on after 1970, our business remained strong for the next several years, with other dynamic and talented wrestlers rising to the fore: Tor Kamata, John Quinn, Kurt Von Hess, Don Fargo, Greg Valentine, Carlos Belafonte (father of WWE star Carlito), Gil Hayes, Dan Kroffat, Tor Kamata, Bob Sweetan, Bob Lueck and Dan Kroffat, as well as British stars like Les Thornton, Angus Campbell, Geoff Portz and Kendo Nagasaki.

Because our promotion was on such a roll and wrestling seemed like it might be a lot more fun than a conventional nine-to-five endeavor, I began thinking I might like to give it a whirl. There were a couple of obstacles though. My dad was pretty savvy and well aware that wrestling was something of a perilous career choice. He therefore decreed that before any of his kids were allowed to get involved in it, we had to first get our university degrees.

Beyond that obstacle, my dad had always had a thing about size; he liked big cars (Cadillacs, in particular), big houses, big dogs and big wrestlers. In fact, if you weighed under 220, he wouldn’t even consider you. I was a couple of years away from getting my university degree at that time, but, more distressingly, I was kind of a runt. Even though I’d been drinking protein shakes and eating ’til I
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felt like puking, I couldn’t seem to put on any weight. I was stuck around 170. As a result, it didn’t look like I’d be living out my dream of being a wrestler anytime soon. Even so, as Rod Stewart once rasped, “Never give up on a dream.” Although my dad wouldn’t let me wrestle, I was able to persuade him into letting me referee in some of the small towns, like Red Deer and Lethbridge, as a means of earning some walking around money. The refereeing gig actually proved to be a great learning experience, as I had a chance to see firsthand what was getting over and what wasn’t — how and why. As well, it gave me insight into the interactive elements and would also alleviate most of the stage fright rookies tend to have, because I’d already been in front of an audience many times as a ref.

Aside from gleaning bits and pieces from being in the ring, I probably learned even more about the wrestling business from riding around with the wrestlers and “picking their brains” on the way to and from towns. Unfortunately, road trips are pretty much a thing of the past and one reason, I’d venture to say, why the quality of work has deteriorated so much.

Even though it didn’t appear I’d be getting in the ring anytime soon, I used to eat, drink and sleep wrestling and was able to get this old Mexican heel named Frank Butcher to start training me down in my dad’s Dungeon. In time, a few other young guys also joined us for our workouts, including Rick Martel, Kim Klokeid and, later on, guys like Afa and Sika Anoia. Initially, all Butcher had us doing was taking bumps, bumps and more bumps, which is wrestling parlance for break falls — body slams, hip tosses, head mares, arm drags, tackles, suplexes, you name it. He stressed that before you do anything else in wrestling, you need to know how to fall properly, otherwise you’ll just get injured and if you’re on the shelf or in constant pain, what’s the point?