Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (35 page)

Owen was a high-flyer, which meant that in order for him to have a great match, I needed to catch him on everything, to be his net. I’d never really seen him work, but I was determined not to fail him.

He explained to me how to be there for all his high spots, which were complex and high-risk, but I had no problems with any of them, and soon we were in the ring.

The crowd at the McNichols Sports Arena cheered loudly from the opening bell as Owen launched into some great moves. As soon as we locked hands I supported him as he ran up the middle of the ropes like steps, standing on the top one. From there he jumped up, landed with the seat of his ass on the top rope and bounced off into a backward somersault, landing smartly on his feet. He hip-tossed me across the ring, and in seconds he tore the roof off the building as I threw him into the corner and he jumped effortlessly to the top of the turnbuckle and did a standing backflip. I caught him perfectly, rolling back for a near fall. Finally, Jim and I cut him off and worked him over like a couple of thugs, building some great heat until he hit us with a double drop kick. After Jim staggered to his feet, Owen scrambled through Jim’s legs and tagged S.D., who made a New York–style comeback before tagging Owen back in.

When we cut Owen off again I could hear disappointment in the crowd, which was totally behind him and excitedly wondering who this blond-haired phenomenon was. Jim held him in the bear hug as I pulled him to the mat with our running clothesline for the one . . . two . . . three.

“Thanks, Bret,” Owen whispered as I rolled off. He was all smiles. Not one flub. That was our first match together. He was far better than many of the top babyfaces working the WWF. I told him I’d work on getting him a tryout soon where Vince could see him. But Chief was reluctant to put Owen over too strong, even though all the boys raved about him.

Chief had been in a miserable mood since Pat Patterson was chosen over him to replace George Scott as the new booker. It was Roddy who told me that I had to start dealing directly with Vince. I figured I would: There was Owen’s future and mine to discuss, and I’d also heard from my family that he had decided the WWF would return to Calgary.

The following day at the TV tapings I knocked on Vince’s door, and he invited me in. I asked whether he was happy with my performance, and he said he was, so I asked what I needed to do to get more of a push. He said who got pushed was his call, and that I needed to work on my interviews more. I suggested that he might consider letting me and Jim do more of them, and possibly a SNME spot. He said he’d think about it. I raised the issue of the WWF going back to Calgary, and he immediately volunteered that he’d never run Calgary, or any of Stu’s towns, without giving Stu his arranged percentage. I asked him whether there was any way that he could move the upcoming WWF show in Calgary ahead one week, because Stampede Wrestling was doing a big blow-off angle—the climax of a long storyline—at the same time his show was scheduled to run. He said he wasn’t involved with scheduling and that the dates were set months in advance. Vince’s WWF show would kill Stu’s struggling Stampede show, and we both knew that. After an absence of almost two years, the WWF, with Hogan, The Bulldogs and even The Hart Foundation, was sure to sell out in Calgary now on any night of the week.

As I stood up to leave, I mentioned Owen to Vince, telling him that he was really good, better than me. Vince said that Owen was too small, that he could only be a babyface and that he had no room for another babyface. I suggested that as there were no masked wrestlers in the business anywhere, Owen could be the WWF’s version of Tiger Mask, and Vince could get big merchandising out of a masked hero. Vince liked the idea and told me to have Owen come to Rochester TVs for a tryout. As I left I asked him whether I could come see him now and then and get a report card on how I was doing and what it would take for me to climb up the ladder to the bigger matches. He said he was always available at TVs. I was more than pleased with myself as I stepped out the door past the lineup of wrestlers all looking to make their pitch, hopeful that Vince would throw them a bone.

That night, I called Stu and told him what Vince had said about their deal and that I got Owen booked. Losing Owen to Vince would practically put Stu out of business, since Owen was clearly Stu’s best hand. But Stu understood that Owen deserved a break like anyone else. He also asked me to tell Vince about his latest pet project, a kid he wanted him to look at named Tom McGhee, who was one of the world’s strongest men. It was just like my dad to try to ensure that McGhee would have a bright future with Vince even though he knew what losing a top star would do to his own business.

As a favor to Stu, Davey and I made another brief appearance for Stampede Wrestling on September 29. I stood in the bathroom of the Victoria Pavilion thinking that Owen reminded me a lot of how I used to be not so long ago. While he soon would be briefly stepping into my WWF wrestling world, on this night I was briefly stepping back into his—to find Bruce doing all the same shit to Owen that he’d done to me. That night Owen looked as mad as I used to get.

After Davey had come back from doing his interview with Ed Whalen, Ross asked me to go out and do mine. WWF TV was over strong now, and both Davey and I were considered larger-than-life superstars. As I climbed through the ropes my old Calgary fans chanted, “Bret! Bret! Bret!”—which was not the reaction I wanted, seeing as I was now a total heel. So as Ed interviewed me I overplayed an obnoxious cocky attitude, wearing my mirrored shades and ranting about how The Hart Foundation was the greatest tag team ever to come out of Calgary, not The Bulldogs, that the WWF tag championship should rightfully be ours and it was only a matter of time before we’d prove that. I ripped into an astonished Whalen and my old fans for not having enough respect for me. By the time I left the ring the fans were booing. It felt weird.

As I left the dressing room that night I turned to Owen and said, “See ya next week in Rochester.” I couldn’t help but notice the handsome, muscle-headed rookie, Tom McGhee. He couldn’t walk across the ring without tripping.

I flew Julie into Sacramento for a four-day run in California. After a two-hour drive we checked into the San Francisco airport Amfac hotel just after midnight. We’d barely got into the room when Roddy called to invite me down for a beer, not knowing that Julie was there. I hated to miss the opportunity to talk with Roddy, because I learned so much from him every time I did. Julie was tired and said she didn’t want to get in the way, so I told her I was going down for one beer and I’d be right back. What a mistake.

It was 3 a.m. by the time Roddy and I staggered out of the lounge and into the elevator, headed up to his room. The bartender let us each take one beer with us. When we got to Roddy’s room he tackled me from behind and we had a full-scale brawl, knocking over anything that wasn’t nailed down. Just when I thought I had Roddy pinned, he’d manage to put a thumb in my eye and go on the offensive again, sending us crashing into the walls. It was while we were struggling on the rug that we noticed a pair of feet and looked up to see a skinny hotel security guard looking down at us. This polite little man pleaded with us to call it a night. Roddy promised him that we would if he would only go and get us one more beer apiece. I was thinking that’s exactly what we didn’t need. The security guard took off and returned with the beer only to find that we were at it again and had tipped the bed over! He pleaded with us to stop because we were going to get him fired. I stood up to leave, but Roddy tackled me again, this time taking the guard crashing into the wall with us! When another guard showed up, I managed to escape and head four doors down the hall to my room. Julie hadn’t gone to sleep after all, and had been waiting for me all this time. The fury that awaited me when I opened the door to my room was far worse than anything I’d left behind back in Roddy’s room!

The next morning, when Roddy saw Julie in the lobby, he was quick to apologize to her, taking all the responsibility like a perfect gentleman. I never heard a thing about it again.

As soon as I set my bag down in the dressing room in Rochester, I spied both Owen and Tom McGhee anxiously getting dressed. Chief approached me, sullenly. “Ah, Stu, you’re working with McGhee and we need him to catch one on ya.”

“What?” I asked in disbelief.

He shrugged. “Vince wants him over.”

I went straight to Vince’s room, walked right in, and asked why he wanted me to put over an unproven guy in one of my regular towns when he had a whole backstage full of jobbers. It was a wrestler’s right to consider who he lost to. If bookers sensed he didn’t care, he might find himself losing all the time.

“You’re the only one I can trust to get him over and show me if this guy can draw me money,” Vince replied.

What was I supposed to say to that? “Vince, if he’s any good, you’ll see it after I’m done; if anyone can get him over, I can.”

He promised me that the match would never air on TV anywhere.

I found McGhee with Owen, and told him that if he trusted me, I’d get him over, “Give me your three absolute best moves. If you have a good match, Vince will have big plans for you.” I designed a match that was really simple, inserting his big moves at just the right times. While I worked out my match with McGhee, Owen did his best to design a match with a chubby jobber who clearly didn’t have the skills he needed. I knew that Owen, coming from a Stampede background, would struggle with the concept of eating up a jobber in four minutes.

Owen went into his first spot, where he ran up the ropes like steps, but the jobber didn’t support him and he slipped and fell flat on his ass. It went downhill from there. Finally, Owen came off the top with a beautiful dive for the pin fall. As he came back into the dressing room I saw the disappointment in his eyes.

Minutes later I walked out with Jimmy Hart to a chorus of boos. Then McGhee came out looking like a handsome, well-muscled statue with curly golden locks. The crowd cheered as he jumped straight up to the ring apron and skipped right over the top rope. Once the bell sounded he did everything exactly as I’d told him. As good as he looked, he was horrible, pathetically phony. I struggled to maneuver him into place without the fans realizing his shortcomings, putting on an absolute clinic for anyone who ever wanted to know how to make a big green guy look great.

When I came back through the curtain, Vince and Pat had swarmed all over McGhee. Afterwards it was Tom who told me that Vince nearly wet his pants while watching the TV monitor, as he exclaimed loud enough for all to hear, “That’s my next champion!” I felt bad that Owen had been completely ignored while McGhee not only got hired, but appeared like he was going to be elevated to superstar status! Not only that, Vince seemed to think McGhee did it on his own.

Back at the hotel, Roddy told me I should have made McGhee look bad, but I just couldn’t do that.

The next morning Owen went home totally dejected.

In late October, after an arduous sixteen-day run, I was stretched out on the carpet in front of the fireplace playing with Dallas and his growing set of WWF action figures when Tom called from somewhere on the road to tell me that Jim and I were getting the Tag Team belts in January. “Vince wanted Davey and me to drop them to Sheik and Volkoff, and I told him fuck that, we’d only drop

’em to the hardest working team in the territory, so there ya go, Gabe! The Push Brothers are getting the belts!”

I thanked him. I had no doubt that it was only because of Tom that The Hart Foundation would finally get a serious push.

Little did anyone know—least of all Jim, Tom, Davey and me—that The Hart Foundation and The British Bulldogs would have one of our last great matches on November 1, 1986, at the old Boston Garden.

We huddled together in the damp, sweaty dressing room going over the finish that Pat had given us.

As usual, Davey and Jim sat with blank, empty stares as Tom and I envisioned it all for them. The Bulldogs were going over, as always. I had a couple of new spots I wanted to experiment with, and I laid them out to Davey while Tom threw down a couple of Percocets with a gulp of coffee. Pat gave us the nod and out we went, wearing our new black gear with a pink stripe down the side of each leg.

The Bulldogs marched out with their new mascot, an actual, ancient Bulldog named Matilda, who was only slightly cheaper and caused only slightly fewer headaches than their now ex-manager, Lou Albano. Lou was always getting drunk backstage and at Tom’s urging, more as a joke, Lou told Vince to go fuck himself—as it turned out, one time too many.

As we went into the finish, Anvil hoisted Dynamite up and slammed him hard to the mat. Tom grimaced as he moaned, “Ooh me fooking back!”

Afterwards, in the dressing room, when I asked him whether he was okay, he told me it was just a spasm. He would turn out to be very wrong. Back at the Ramada bar Tom seemed to be fine as he chatted it up with a couple of the regular ring rats, Grizelda and Slippers. The ten Percocets he took throughout the night made the sharp pain go away long enough for him to pretend it was nothing to worry about.

Judy, the seamstress who made our wrestling gear for us, had mentioned to me that she had a nice new color she wanted Jim and me to try: neon bubblegum pink. After careful consideration we realized wearing pink would get us instant heat and give us a new look for our SNME debut. Still, in the dressing room in San Diego where we were doing pre-tapes for SNME, Jim and I felt funny pulling on those pink tights.

I was dressed and picking up my tray in the cafeteria when Vince, who was sitting with Dick Ebersol, head of NBC sports, yelled at me, “Stop! Don’t move!” Heads turned. It got suddenly quiet. I thought we were in some sort of trouble, and I couldn’t imagine why. Vince stood up and circled around Jim and me grinning, “Don’t ever change that color! That color is you! It’s what you guys have been missing all along! From now on I don’t want you to wear anything but pink!”

The following night in L.A., Jim and I had an excellent match with The Bees, building great heat on Jim Brunzell. For the finish The Bees put on yellow and black masks, and Brunzell switched places with Blair underneath the ring apron while I provided a distraction for the referee. Tagging back in, I confidently dusted my hands off and dragged the guy I thought was Brunzell to his feet for a body slam when Blair small-packaged me for an easy one . . . two . . . three. The L.A. Sports Arena exploded. In my opinion we’d had the best match on the whole network special. As we came back through the curtain, a beaming Dick Ebersol jumped up and gave us a high-five.