Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (11 page)

I was too sore that year to notice Christmas. I could barely move, every bone in my body hurt, I had two black eyes, my lips were cut and swollen and I had a scar on my forehead near the hairline. I’d recently bought this great new invention called a VCR and, on New Year’s Eve 1978, I sat watching a tape of myself for the first time, the televised match where Dynamite and I beat the hell out of each other. Ed Whalen, who’d become the most realistic play-by-play announcer of them all, said, “I am going to apologize to you right here and now. I have been sitting here for forty-eight minutes with my mouth open, watching one of the finest fights I have ever seen. I do not exaggerate.” He wasn’t.

If only Tom would work with me, it’d be magic. Stu was still losing money. Unlike many of the other promoters, he was sincerely devoted to the talent: He always paid his wrestlers, no matter what.

And if one of his rising stars got a break elsewhere, he’d encourage him to go, even if it meant that the Stampede territory limped along. For the most part, this earned Stu the loyalty and respect of his crew, who in turn tolerated the brutal weather, being packed in like sardines on seemingly endless drives and being paid in Canadian dollars. But by this point in his life, I think Stu was always hoping that his sons would step up and take over. Which is the only way I can explain the fact that after Smith got back from Germany, he persuaded Stu that he needed to hire a real booker: his old pal from Puerto Rico, Dick Steinborn. I don’t know how Stu managed to overlook Dick’s track record outside the ring; desperate men do desperate things. Dick started work on New Year’s Day 1979.

Steinborn was a clever operator with survival on his mind: He was walking into a minefield of brotherly rivalries between the real siblings and among the brotherhood of the ring. He clearly checked out all of Stu’s sons and soon saw that Helen still had a huge soft spot for Bruce, and that Bruce, also back from Germany, truly believed that we could book the territory ourselves and resented anyone else being brought in. Before long, Dick was describing to Bruce how he would build him into a superstar beyond his wildest dreams, the centerpiece of richly layered angles, and victory after victory. Dick knew that all it would take to get Bruce’s support was to promise that he’d make him a star. And that flattering Bruce would get him good with my mom too.

As for me, Dick told me straight out that even though I was a better worker than Bruce, I was younger. From now on I’d be playing the role of the weak little brother. “It’s just business, kid,” is how he put it to me. I didn’t see how it would help business to turn me into a jobber, but what did I know?

It turned out Dick had some pretty good ideas. He had Keith and me lose to my old teachers, Hito and Sakurada, in Edmonton: We all agreed it would make sense to put the tag belts on a heel team.

He reinvented John Foley as J.R. Foley, a corrupt millionaire manager character who could buy anyone’s loyalties—or could he? It turned out to be a great boost to all the angles.

Dick’s next brainstorm was to turn Tom heel, have J.R. manage him and have him work against Bruce. Tom almost fell off his chair when, despite the fact that for the past three weeks his matches with me went thirty minutes to an hour, Dick told Bruce to pin The Dynamite Kid in less than five seconds with a simple, small package. I saw some sense in it because it was so unexpected that the fans would really pop—which they did. But Tom was furious. I didn’t think he could get any angrier—

until the next week, when Dick had Bruce do it again!

We couldn’t afford to lose Dynamite, so Ross brought Marty Jones into the territory to appease him.

Marty came from Manchester, and he had been Tom’s chum and mentor. But when he got to Calgary, Steinborn told him he wanted him to be an Australian Kangaroo.

“A fookin’ Australian what?” I heard from the other end of the dressing room in Marty’s thick Manchester accent.

I didn’t think it would be so bad to be a Kangaroo, and I thought it was funny watching Marty walk around the dressing room wearing an extra set of Norman’s gear, that silly hat folded up on one side and carrying a boomerang. When Keith and I wrestled against this reincarnation of the Royal Kangaroos, Marty and I clicked, and between the four of us we tore the house down.

My back was killing me while working this match with Marty, and as a result I happened into a move that would become an intricate part of my wrestling for the rest of my career. As Marty threw me hard into the turnbuckle, I couldn’t will myself to turn into it with my sore back, so instead I hit it full force with my chest and bounced back to the middle of the ring. The crowd gasped! It looked like I had broken my neck, and even Marty bent over and asked me whether I was okay. I was more amazed than he was to say yes. To the best of my knowledge, this move had never been done before. From that point on, I used it all the time to change the momentum of my matches. Nobody could take a front turnbuckle like I could. Nobody.

Despite being peeved about the Kangaroo gimmick, when we got back to the dressing room that night, Marty was lit up. So was I, especially when a tall, lanky kid from Louisiana approached me and drawled, “Unbelievable, brother. Y’all had a helluva match. Solid as hell.” His name was Jake The Snake Roberts. For any young guy in the business it meant a lot when anyone took the time to watch your match, especially one of the American wrestlers. I took an immediate shine to his sly air and his smooth-talking demeanor and soon invited him to stay at my place. Jake could pay a little rent and it would be cheaper and better for him than staying at the Regis Hotel, where the rest of the wrestlers always stayed when they were in Calgary. He moved in with me the next day.

In Regina the next night, Keith and I were getting worked over good by Hito and Sakurada. As I waited to tag in, I twisted my head around to stare at a pretty girl in the front row. Even Hito and Sakurada were surprised when I launched into an exceptionally long and explosive comeback. When the match was over, I couldn’t take my eyes off the girl as I walked past. The head security guard, Gil, a big old friendly guy, brought her back to the hall by the babyface dressing room so I could meet her. She was even prettier up close, with light-brown, shoulder-length hair and greenish-brown eyes.

She told me her name was Julie, and she seemed excited to talk to me. But not as excited as I was to talk to her.

That night as I took over the wheel of the bus for a while, the moon was full, high and white, and as the snow streaked by I felt like I was piloting a spaceship in hyperdrive. The miles passed easily as sleepy, snoring heads rolled from side to side behind me. I thought about the girl named Julie and felt glad that I’d be back in Regina again next week. I almost didn’t recognize my own face in the rearview mirror, I’d changed so much in one year. I hardly saw my old high school friends anymore.

Either they weren’t interested in wrestling, or they sensed it was awkward for me to talk about it.

My life was full of the strangest characters now, and it was all so oddly inviting. I was beginning to understand why all my big brothers were involved in wrestling; the camaraderie, mutual respect and sense of belonging did wonders to mend lost and battered souls. But what I didn’t see, as I followed the broken white line home, is that life as a pro wrestler is highly addictive. Once you get a taste for it, your old life fades away and disappears.

Dick Steinborn now began building Jake The Snake for main events with Big Daddy Sylvester Ritter, who later became known as The Junkyard Dog in the WWF. Smith and I first met Ritter when we were working Puerto Rico. He looked like a friendly black bull mastiff, and although his work was really green, as a heel he was good enough on the mic to become our North American Champion. I was shy in front of a microphone, but I understood all too well that I’d have to become a better talker if I was going to make it to the top.

Then, just three months after he arrived, Dick was suddenly gone: His ideas were good, but the gates hadn’t come up. I can’t say that I was sorry to see Dick go; I was more than happy to say good-bye to the little brother role he’d stuck me in. And despite the potato harvest when we’d worked those three weeks together, I wanted to be put with Dynamite again.

There was the possibility that could happen, as he was getting fed up working with Bruce, who was wild and stiff and all too often exploded with reckless abandon, without consideration for the guy he worked with. When doing his finishing move, the flying clothesline, he would hook your head on delivery, which made it impossible to take without bouncing your skull off the mat. Dynamite was stiff on purpose, whereas Bruce never had a clue. It was only because Bruce was Stu’s kid that most wrestlers took their lumps from him without complaint.

Finally, Tom watched me work a terrific match with Marty Jones and realized what I already knew, that he and I could have the best matches in the territory.

All that winter and into the spring of 1979, Stu was personally breaking in a kid named Jim Neidhart, who had come to Calgary from the United States clutching Stu’s phone number in his hand. He was a high school all-American shot-putter and foot-ball player, rumored to have been the final guy cut from tryouts with the Dallas Cowboys. Stu had a passion for turning athletes into wrestlers, especially when they were bigger than him, and he took a liking to Neidhart right away.

Though he didn’t travel the circuit anymore, Stu always came to the Edmonton show on Satruday night. The first time Jim came with us, Stu detected the aroma of marijuana on the bus. He jumped up out of a dead sleep and barked, “Who the hell is burning tea leaves?”

It was never a good idea to get Stu mad, and Wayne and I exchanged glances that said, Better Jim than us! Jim, having no idea of the lion he’d just unleashed, casually answered, “Oh, I sometimes like to smoke a small amount of marijuana to relax me, Stu.” My dad made him throw the joint out the window, then gave Jim the first of many lectures about how an athlete shouldn’t pollute his body with drugs.

Wayne and I were surprised Jim got off so easily. But the next day we heard poor Jim, as big as he was, screaming for his life down in the dungeon. It was a good thing Stu liked him!

Neidhart was one of the many to get his first break from my dad, but one of only a few who can honestly say that Stu Hart taught him how to wrestle. He spent a lot of time on his belly in the bowels of Stu’s dungeon, as the old octopus squeezed the life out of him. When they were done, Jim would shower, then come upstairs and hang out with the Hart brothers. Though we soon realized it was my sister Ellie he was hoping to see.

Jim and I were talking in the living room once when Smith sat down and yanked Heathcliff the Siamese cat up into his arms by the tail. Heathcliff screeched, but Smith continued to agitate the cat.

Ellie yelled from upstairs, “Whoever is hurting the cat, leave him alone.” Smith carried on, and we all knew where this was going, except for Jim. Sure enough, before long Ellie stomped down the stairs in a rage, yelling, “Leave the goddamn fucking cat alone!” Smith, with perfect timing, tossed Heathcliff into Jim’s arms just as Ellie burst in.

“Listen here, you stupid son of a bitch, leave the cat alone!” she yelled at him.

Jim’s mouth fell open, Heathcliff leapt to freedom, Ellie stomped off and the rest of us howled in laughter. Big Jim had just got his first dose of Ellie’s temper.

On the next trip, we had to go by old Caddie and van again because the bus got totalled in a run-in with a moose. I was driving the van, with none other than the legendary Gene Kiniski up front, right next to me. Long retired, Kiniski was still a large man and in great shape, and famous for being one of wrestling’s best blabbermouths. He sported a flat-top, and his gnarly face and big, round nose were framed by two large, floppy ears.

The Calgary territory held many memories for Kiniski. And I remembered him having some rugged matches with O’Connor, Thesz and The Stomper when I was a kid. Gazing out the van window, he had to be thinking about his days growing up in Edmonton. He’d met my dad there playing Canadian football, and it was Stu who helped break him into pro wrestling, where he eventually rose to the top, winning the NWA World title from Lou Thesz.

Someone yelled from the back of the van, “Has Gene ever seen the statue of Stu?”

For as long as I’d been making this trip, the statue had been a rib on the rookies. The small town of Drumheller, in a deep, desert-like valley, had become world-famous for some of the world’s greatest dinosaur finds. “Stu was actually born down here,” I bullshitted Gene. “Then his family settled up in Tofield. They built a statue of Stu in the Drumheller town square in recognition of all the work he’s done in the community.”

Gene was flabbergasted, “Well, after all these years, your dad never told me that! Have I got time to take a picture?”

“Sure, Gene, we’ll be seeing it just up around the bend . . .”

The van rounded the corner. “There he is, Gene!”

Everyone exploded in laughter, especially Gene.

With the same big eyes that stare right into you, glaring teeth and huge legs braced like a rotund wrestler, there stood a thirty-foot-tall Tyrannosaurus rex—looking eerily like my dad. From the back, Wayne piped in a superb imitation of Stu, “Eh, c’mon, ya big bastard!”

The ribbing moved on to Jim, packed in the backseat with Norman, J.R. and The Cuban.

“Hey, Jim,” I said innocently. “What the hell did you do to Stu’s cat?” All ears went up.

Jim, defensive, said it was Smith who had stuck his finger up the cat’s ass, not him.

The Cuban paused a beat and said that Stu worshipped Siamese cats, especially Heath-cliff.

Dynamite added that Stu had once fired a wrestler simply because the guy was allergic to cats. J.R.

said that when he’d spoken with Stu that morning, he’d never heard him so angry.

By the time we got to Saskatoon, Jim was convinced that Stu thought he’d mistreated the cat and that his days were numbered. And what was Ellie, the object of his desire, thinking? It made him very grumpy.