The Road Warriors: Danger, Death, and the Rush of Wrestling (2 page)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, I would like to thank the wrestlers who paved the way for Hawk and me to have the opportunity to become wrestlers. Some are still with us, and some have passed but should never be forgotten. Without them there would be no wrestling business. Because of them, there is a Road Warriors story.

I would like to thank my wife, Julia, and my three children, Joey, James, and Jessica, for their patience and understanding with this project. They were my motivation.

I would also give thanks to Bernie J. Gernay of PSI Marketing Group, along with Margaret O’Connor-Chumley of Renaissance Literary & Talent Agency, for believing and realizing the potential for success from the start. Andrew Wright should be a brother in paint, as he researched and delivered an amazing Road Warriors book; his knowledge and impeccable job writing add to its without-a-doubt success. Adam Mock, a true believer whose friendship and understanding of the wrestling business were so instrumental in this process. The Medallion Press staff, great people and a pleasure to work with; I can only hope this is the first of many creative projects to come.

Thank you. God bless!

—Joe Laurinaitis, Road Warrior Animal

I’d like to thank my parents, John and Martha Wright, for their unending love and support; Bernie J. Gernay and Margaret O’Connor-Chumley for helping take the vision of this book to Adam Mock at Medallion Press; and, lastly, Joe Laurinaitis for the opportunity to capture and present the career of the Road Warriors for all time.

—Andrew William Wright

PROLOGUE

August 26, 1991. SummerSlam. New York City. There we were, Hawk and Animal, the mighty Road Warriors, the Legion of Doom, putting our gear on in the dressing room at Madison Square Garden. Then it hit me: we were taking on the Nasty Boys, Brian Knobbs and Jerry Sags, for the World Wrestling Federation (WWF) Tag Team Championships. I looked at Hawk, who was strapping his boots up tight. “Hey, man, can you believe this?”

“Animal”—Hawk looked up with a smile—“I’m shaking, brother.”

I looked at his hands as he buckled the last strap. They were trembling. I looked at mine. They were shaking, too. It was crazy.

There was a knock at the door, and Captain Lou Albano came barging in. He reeked of booze. “Hey, Animal. Hey, Hawk.” He was huffing and puffing, out of breath. “Holy shit, fellas, did you see the crowd out there?”

We hadn’t.

“Twenty thousand. Sold out,” he said. “They’re hanging from the rafters.” His eyes were wide, and he was nodding. “Kick some ass tonight, boys.” And he bolted out the door.

Hawk and I started laughing.

Then there was another knock. The door barely cracked open when a voice announced, “Five minutes, guys.”

This was it. Hawk and I stood up from the bench and grabbed our trademark spiked shoulder pads. We slipped them on over our heads, snapped the clasps, and walked into the hallway.

As we marched down the corridor to the staging area, everyone saw us coming and pressed their backs against the walls to give us room. We could hear the sound of the fans. The people in MSG sounded like they were having a full-scale riot above us. You could feel the stomping of their feet shaking and swaying the foundations of the building, like 20,000 soldiers marching across a small suspension bridge. It was pandemonium out there.

When we finally came to the Gorilla Position,
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our boss came up to wish us well. “Good luck tonight, boys,” Vince McMahon said in his deep baritone voice. A big smile stretched across his face. “This is your night. Remember this moment.”

The Nasty Boys had already gone down to the ring for their entrance and were getting booed relentlessly, giving us the perfect setup. In a flash, I heard our theme music start with Hawk’s unmistakable growl, “Oooooooohhhhhh, WHAT A RUSH!” When the guitars and drums kicked in, the MSG crowd erupted into a deafening crush of noise. My arms and back exploded into chills.

Hawk yelled, “Are you ready for this?”

I hollered back, “Hell, yeah,” and we burst through the curtain.

Hawk led as we stormed the short distance to the ring, making our way through a sea of reaching arms and open hands. When we climbed through the ropes and looked around at the crowd, it was overwhelming. I remember thinking,
It doesn’t get any bigger than this.

And it doesn’t. MSG was the holy Mecca of professional sports, and so many great moments happened there. Ali feuded Frazier for the first time there. WWF legend Bruno Sammartino wrestled “Nature Boy” Buddy Rogers there. WrestleMania started there. And now the Road Warriors were there.

After we climbed through the ropes, Hawk and I each went to a corner and climbed the second turnbuckle to pose for the crowd. When we hopped down, I looked over at Knobbs and Sags, who were defiantly staring at us and yelling trash from the other side. I said to Hawk, “Let’s throw ’em out!”

We ran over, grabbed each one of them, and sent them sailing over the ropes to the floor.
Boom!
The match was on.

I went after Knobbs while Hawk went for Sags with vicious chops and punches. I quickly took Knobbs by the neck and rolled him back into the ring and followed. He was waiting for me and we locked up, with Knobs whipping me into the ropes. I came running back full steam, ducked his clothesline, hit the ropes on the other side, and came back with a big kick to the stomach.
Bam!
While he was bent over, I shoved his head between my legs and picked him up for a huge powerbomb, then smashed him down. I went for the cover but only got a two count before Sags kicked me in the head.

From that point, the action was all over the place and completely nonstop. This particular match was a Chicago Street Fight, a no-rules contest we specialized in, named after our hometown billing of Chicago. Within seconds, the crowd was chanting “LOD, LOD!” and it was the only thing we could hear. I remember Sags had Hawk in the corner at one point. Knobbs and Sags’ manager, “Mouth of the South” Jimmy Hart, threw a can of hair spray up to Sags, who sprayed Hawk all over his face. Blinded, Hawk dropped and rolled out of the ring as if he were on fire.

In one of the most memorable spots of the match, Sags followed Hawk down to the floor, reached for a big cooler of freezing cold ice water and soda, and dumped it all over him. Hawk was writhing in agony, still blinded, and tried to get away by rolling back into the ring. For the next five full minutes, I watched helplessly as the Nasty Boys double-teamed my partner over and over while Hart distracted the ref. Every time I came charging in to help, I’d get sent back to my corner. The crowd was going insane, and so was I.

Finally Hawk was able to make it over to me and fell down as he gave me the hot tag. The people went nuts as I jumped through the ropes and took both Nasty Boys on at the same time. Punches, kicks, and clotheslines were flying everywhere as I cleaned house. I threw Knobbs into the ropes, caught him with a great powerslam, and went for the pin. Only two. I took Sags’ boot to the head and was now getting double-teamed.

As Hawk was still recovering down on the floor, Jimmy Hart threw a motorcycle helmet up for Sags to hit me with while Knobbs kept me down. Knobbs covered me, and I kicked out at the two count. I pushed Knobbs up so hard he went flying out of the ring. While I was trying to get my bearings back, Hawk was back on his feet and went running after Hart. He threw him to the ground and grabbed the helmet Sags had been using. Hawk launched it into the ring. As soon as I caught it, Hawk smashed Sags in the back of the head. This was it!

As Sags hit the mat, I looked at the capacity crowd and gave them a double thumbs-up high in the air. They knew what was coming: the Doomsday Device. The Doomsday Device was our finishing move: I’d duck down behind an opponent and pick him up on my shoulders. As soon as he was balanced in an upright position, Hawk would come off the top rope with a big clothesline and knock the guy for a backflip. Our victim crashed to the canvas in a spectacle that more than lived up to its name.

With adrenaline pumping through me, I grabbed Sags and lifted him up so quickly he felt like a little kid, and Sags was a 280-pound guy! As I saw Hawk jump up from the floor to the side of the ring, I turned Sags to face the nearest corner. In a flash, Hawk was on the top turnbuckle and leapt into the air, catching Sags with a perfect clothesline. Sags went head over heels in a spectacular flip, landing in a crumpled heap. I pinned him. One, two, three!

Announcer Howard Finkel came over the PA system with an announcement I’ll never forget: “Here are your winners and new WWF tag team champions, the Legion of Doom.”

Pandemonium erupted.

Hawk and I hugged as the people in MSG gave us the most uproarious standing ovation we’d ever received up till that point.

“Never forget this moment, Animal,” Hawk yelled to me.

And I never would.

As we stood in the ring on that fateful summer night making history, I thought of how far we’d come. Hawk and I had been in every major wrestling organization across the world and won every championship dangled in front of us. Winning the WWF titles was the last of the great accomplishments we had yet to achieve. This was the pinnacle, the top of the world.

But things weren’t always this great. There was a humble beginning. In the ’60s, the seeds of a future Road Warrior Animal were planted in a punk kid on the streets of Philadelphia. That’s when and where I cut my teeth.

I can remember it like it was yesterday.

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ANIMAL’S ABRIDGED PREHISTORY

I’m no dummy. There’s no question that everyone who picks up this book wants to jump right into the story of Animal and Hawk and read the tales of the Road Warriors through the good, the bad, and the unbelievably ugly. So I’ve smashed my early years down to size for you here.

I was born Joseph Michael Laurinaitis to proud Lithuanian parents Joseph Anthony and Lorna Ann in Philadelphia on September 12, 1960. Following not too far behind me were my two brothers, John (1962) and Marc (1965).

As I grew up, I had memorable times learning how to play street hockey and football, squashing everyone who got in my way, including my poor brothers, and girls, too. I also developed a monstrous taste for fighting anyone who messed with us, whether they were coming from rival streets to take our toys or making fun of my last name (you can imagine). I also went to Catholic school, where the nuns’ rulers brutalized my knuckles. My offense? Being my good ol’ charming self.

When I was thirteen, we moved from Pennsylvania to Tampa, Florida, where I perfected my baseball skills, was voted best-looking guy in school, and discovered the world of weight lifting. The last discovery changed my life forever.

But as I was settling in, not even two years later, I had to trade my flip-flops for snow boots as my dad was transferred again, this time from Florida to Minnesota. It was like moving to Mars. I hated it . . . at first.

Everything started making sense when I quickly proved myself at Irondale High School in Minnesota. At sixteen years old, I bench-pressed 300 pounds, beat out the baseball team’s captain for his catcher’s position during tryouts, and on the football team went from tight end to starting fullback my senior year. I was also still beating the hell out of anyone who messed with me and my brothers. Ask the poor sap who thought it would be funny to egg John’s prized ’66 Mustang.

In 1978, after being offered a partial scholarship to the football program, I entered Golden Valley Lutheran College in Golden Valley, Minnesota. By now I was six feet one and 225 pounds. As offensive guard, I was slamming the defense, helping our team go 6–0 my first year. By the end of my second and final year, I was twice named First-Team Junior College All American guard and a Second Team linebacker.

While at Golden Valley, I also met a guy named Scott Simpson, my cocaptain, my best friend, and the future National Wrestling Alliance (NWA) professional wrestling star “The Russian Nightmare,” Nikita Koloff.

But everything changed before I was to begin my junior year at Brigham Young University. My serious girlfriend from Golden Valley, Nancy, was pregnant. I dropped out, got a dead-end job, married Nancy, and on February 22, 1981, welcomed my first son, Joey, into the world.

After six months, both Nancy and I realized we were in way over our heads and agreed we could do the best job raising Joey separately. We shared equal custody.

At twenty-two years old, I was making a name for myself as a potential powerlifter. I weighed around 250 pounds and was benching 500 pounds. A couple of guys at The Gym, the most popular facility in the area, introduced me to the anabolic steroid Dianabol. Soon my strength and size skyrocketed even further.

At this point, my life really picked up steam, so hold on tight and prepare yourself for a hell of a ride . . .

I WAS ONE CLUELESS ROOKIE IN GEORGIA CHAMPIONSHIP WRESTLING AS THE ROAD WARRIOR. 1982.

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BOUNCING AROUND AND TAKING A CHANCE