Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (43 page)

A troubled and bewildered look came over Bravo’s face when he was told that he was losing to me, and I tried hard not to look too happy, though I was. I hated losing to inferior workers, especially in Canada, and in Toronto, which was such a hot market.

It’s not as though Dino Bravo was that bad, but he sure wasn’t great. I have my own theory on the three qualities it takes to be a great pro wrestler. The first one is look or physical presence. On a scale of one to ten, Hogan, being such an awesome specimen, might rate a ten, for example.

Although it always helped, it wasn’t as important to be tough as it was to look tough, especially if you were a heel. The second quality is the ability to talk, to sell yourself; Hogan might score another easy ten, whereas a guy like Dynamite would have to work to earn a two. The third is wrestling talent, the ability to work. Here it would be just the opposite: Hogan would rate the two and Dynamite would get the ten. A score in the high twenties adds up to a great wrestler.

To me, Dino Bravo had low numbers. He looked sluggish, had no personality and was a so-so worker at best. If I had to rate myself at that time, I’d say I had a good, muscular frame warranting about a seven. On mic skills I’d be lucky if I was a four. But on actual wrestling ability, I’d give myself a ten.

While the earlier matches were on, Dino came to me wondering if I’d do the high spot he’d seen me do with Curt Hennig, where Hennig catapulted me off the apron and into the steel railing on the floor. I hesitated, remembering how only a few years before, I was working with the Hillbillies in Toronto and crashed into the fence doing the same spot, cutting my mouth up. “I’m not really up for that, Dino,” I said, then, seeing the disappointment in his face, I allowed myself to be talked into it.

I’d regret not following my gut instinct.

Dino and I did our usual dance where I eventually wound up on the floor outside the ring. Lying on the mat next to a heavy microphone stand, with a WWF cameraman peering down at me, I was directly in the line of fire of this one female fan from Toronto who always hated me, and now spewed angry curse words in my direction: Didn’t she know I was a good guy now? I gallantly pulled myself up onto the apron, only to be met by a barrage of Dino’s forearm smashes across my back.

The referee, John Bonello, stepped between us, pushing him back, and it was while I was standing on the apron with my back to the crowd, knowing the spot was coming, that I realized it was quite some distance to the steel fence, that it was bolted to the floor and that it wasn’t going to budge when I hit it. But it was too late! Dino, right on cue, rushed the ropes and launched me backwards into the air. As if in slow motion I twisted and braced myself, but my foot was tangled in the cord from the mic stand, and I feared that it would catch and pull me downwards, head first into the fence.

Somehow, in a milli-second, I was able to shake my foot free then—wham!—my chest hit the top of the fence, and I crumpled to the arena floor. In very real agony, I was unable to catch my breath. My first thought was, Don’t die, don’t die. It felt like I’d crushed my rib cage or maybe even punctured a lung. As I twisted around on the floor, nobody seemed to realize this wasn’t part of the show! I thought, Just hold on . . . somebody will know I’m seriously hurt. Oh no they won’t . . . my selling is realistic, so nobody realizes I can’t breathe. . . . I might die here on the floor of the Maple Leaf Gardens. God, what an awful way to go.

Over a full minute went by before Dino came out to get me and bent over to ask if I was okay. I was unable to speak. For some reason he took that to mean that I was fine and began stomping me on the back! With no alternative I pushed myself up, and Dino happily rolled me under the bottom rope and covered me for the pin. To give you an idea how much it meant to me not to lose to Dino anymore, instead of just lying there so help would come, I actually kicked out. I rolled back out to the floor, where I lay flat on my back. Now it was apparent to most everyone in the arena except Dino and the ref that I was seriously injured. I could feel my sternum jutting to a point in my chest, and I was still only able to make short, rapid gasps for breath. But Bonello hadn’t caught on, and he stalled, intentionally breaking the count for the second time. It seemed to take forever until, but at last I heard eight . . . nine . . . ten, and the bell sounded to a chorus of boos. While I struggled to breathe through clenched teeth, Dino had his hand raised in the ring. Finally some ushers were kneeling beside me and Bonello waved for help. Bonello’s eyes offered reassurance that I wasn’t going to die on a sticky blue mat.

I was rushed by ambulance to the hospital where, hours later, I was diagnosed with a fractured sternum, five cracked ribs and a bruised heart. Doctors advised me that I’d be out of action for at least three months.

The next day I flew home, desperately wondering how I’d make ends meet. No work: no pay. Pat called to tell me not to worry, saying that Vince would look after me financially while I was recuperating because they had big plans for me. That night I literally breathed a little easier with Julie nestled next to me. I winced as I rolled over on my side, and I couldn’t help thinking that the man who never gets hurt just did.

24

BROKE AND BROKEN

VINCE’S GENEROSITY EXTENDED TO $200 a week while I healed. Luckily my $10,000 SummerSlam 1989 check arrived to cover me. Still, I found myself going back to work after only eighteen days. My ribs would bother me for years, and I had to be careful taking hard falls and turnbuckles. There’s a certain art to being able to work hurt and not disappoint your fans. I’m proud to say that nobody noticed a thing.

But my health issues were nothing compared to what was going on with my brother Dean. He had been urinating blood for years, we found out later, but had been too afraid to get it checked. Instead he chose to ignore it, persuading himself that it would go away. But then he began to have fainting spells and, by the time he was diagnosed with Bright’s disease that fall, his kidneys had lost 95

percent of their function. In December 1989, he had a dialysis tube inserted in his arm and had to undergo treatments almost every day. The family talked incessantly about who could be a kidney donor for Dean; the doctors told us that anyone who needed to be physically active to make a living shouldn’t even consider it. Those who were left gave it some thought, but each waited to see whether the others would step up.

The truth was that for years the whole family had been keeping a cordial distance from Dean. He had ripped off a lot of people with various schemes, more often than not his own siblings, friends and even Stu and Helen. It sounds harsh to say, but whenever I went to visit Hart house, where Dean still lived, I made sure to lock my car, otherwise who knew what Dean would be tempted to do. I resisted the urge to have him over to my house, as did everyone else; he couldn’t seem to stop himself from ripping people off. We all felt sorry for him, but he was no longer the charming, handsome, funny guy we all knew as kids. Like Smith, Dean had burned every one of his bridges. On one of his trips to Hawaii, he’d got beaten up—we never got the real story as to why—and after that he’d become spaced out, gaunt and uneasy. In recent years he’d also become a bitter opponent of both Bruce and Ross, envious of their roles in Stampede Wrestling.

When I saw him, Dean would always tell me that he loved my work, was a big fan of mine and was proud to tell people he was my brother. He also made a point of introducing me to his new girlfriend, Tammy, a woman from the Morley reserve. Then Dean got Tammy pregnant. Although this was another worrisome arrow in my mom’s heart, her bigger concern was his health.

Roddy Piper had recently resurfaced in the WWF. He was one of the few people I trusted enough to confide my deepest personal affairs. I told Roddy about how Dean was withering away and about how cowardly I felt not offering to donate a kidney to my own brother, hoping that perhaps Smith, or one of my other non-wrestling siblings might step up to the plate instead. It was a relief to have someone who would listen to me compassionately. Roddy told me that he had come out of retirement because home had proved to be a hard adjustment for him; he was miserably glad to be back with his brothers on the road. It wasn’t as though Roddy had problems back home, it was more like he was beginning to fear that he was the problem back home. While trying to fit in he was upsetting the balance. I could easily relate.

On December 15, 1989, Stu finally gave in and pulled the plug on Stampede Wrestling for the last time. He’d blown most of his fortune over the last four years. He and my mom finally told me that Vince had not fulfilled the terms of their deal, and Stu hadn’t wanted to confront him on it. He and my mom were worried that if he got into a conflict with Vince it would cost me my job. Like an old king, Stu was drummed out of the business with no fanfare, a heart filled with memories and an empty till.

That Christmas, Hart house was covered in deep snow as my mom did her best to carry on the traditions of the season. I limped up Stu’s back steps, my ribs still sore and having injured my knee in a match with The Rockers. I’d iced it and wrapped it and kept on going, finishing all my bookings because I couldn’t afford to be off. My mom’s face lit up as I came through the kitchen door with Julie and the kids. And she sat with me in the kitchen as Bertie, a giant, white King Kong Bundy of a cat, hobbled into the kitchen with his front leg in a cast. He was a recent adoptee who had belonged to an elderly wrestling fan from Manitoba who had passed away: He’d been dropped off with a broken front leg and in need of a home. Bertie would knock on my mom’s bedroom door with the cast and she’d call out, “Who is it?” She’d get a big smile on her face when she opened the door to find him patiently waiting there.

Looking around to make sure that no one else could hear, my mom confided that Dean and Ross had recently got into a scuffle on the back porch. Dean had welcomed about a dozen of his friends from Tammy’s reserve to flop at Stu’s house, sleeping on couches and all over the place. Finally Ross and Alison confronted Dean about it, on behalf of my mom and dad, and he and Ross ended up going at it. When it was over there was no real damage to either of them, but that didn’t stop Dean from phoning the police and having Ross charged with assault. The local media made a news story out of it, which, with Dean’s kidney problems and the end of the business, hadn’t made Stu and Helen too happy.

My knee throbbed as my mom took me into the living room to show me her Christmas tree. I adjusted a stray strand of tinsel thinking that with all the chaos around here at least let my mom have her perfectly decorated tree. Then Owen walked in with Martha, who might as well have been holding her nose it crinkled so much at the odor of cat pee that permeated parts of the house. She and Owen had recently paid cash for a brand-new house, which was something the rest of us only dreamed of. Both of them had worked very hard, saving every penny.

Owen shook my hand with a big smile that brought about even bigger smiles from my mom and dad.

He scooped Beans up in his arms laughing, “She’s sure getting big!” We all had tea with gobs of honey in it as Stu turned up the volume on the TV so we could watch flickering images of Germans hacking down the Berlin Wall. Owen announced that he was going to work in Germany, just after the New Year. We couldn’t help but compare the political situation in Europe to the crumbling wrestling territories over there. The European promotions were still in business, pushing feeble old stiffies such as Axel Dieter and his cronies, but with the flash and glitter of the WWF wrestlers seen on TV

everywhere, Vince would be taking over soon enough.

By Christmas Day I still couldn’t walk, so I called up Terry Garvin, Vince’s talent coordinator, and told him I was in too much pain to make the Christmas Day show. For the first time ever, I got to spend Christmas with my kids.

But I was always job scared, waiting for the ax and trying to avoid it, and from the tone of Garvin’s voice I figured he hadn’t believed me. On Boxing Day I climbed on a plane. I hobbled from California to Nebraska to Ohio, wrestling in such pain that by New Year’s Eve I finally gave up and came home again. I limped silently through the front door and snuck upstairs shortly before midnight. Julie was curled up in bed dozing, waiting for me to call home. A kiss was all it took to make her year: We celebrated our first New Year’s Eve together since 1985. Beans woke up thirty-four seconds before midnight causing Julie and me to miss the countdown. But as Beans danced around the room in her pajamas, I couldn’t think of a better way to kick off 1990. This was my year to bounce back and change my fate.

I took time off to heal. My knee doctor told me that I’d worn the cartilage down to the bone, that I had the knees of a sixty-five-year-old man, and that I’d need to have plastic joints put in within ten years. The very thought put a deep scare into me, but by January 8, I was back in the ring jumping off the second rope and landing on my knee the same as always.

By Valentine’s Day that year, signs of strain between Emperor Vince and The Hulkster, those former soulmates, had begun to show. It looked like Hulk’s incomparable star power was starting to drive Vince crazy because it gave Hulk power over him. Vince, being Vince, prepared a first-strike policy, though the war was still in the head-game stage and Vince was fairly subtle about it. He let Hulk have control of his own bookings while he devoted all his time to Warrior; he had always been a mark for bodybuilders, and Warrior was a prime specimen. Vince would send little zingers Hulk’s way, joking that he was too old, too slow, always with a needle in it under the laughs. Since he had given Hulk control of his own schedule, it was hard for Hulk to complain.

Then Vince told Hulk to put Warrior over in their championship match right in the middle of the ring at WrestleMania VI. This was him practically daring Hogan into proving he could actually do a job straight up. Hogan agreed to do it but showed up in the dressing room with a long face and a distrustful look in his eye, clearly afraid that this was a sign that he was on the way down. It was the first time I saw Hulk Hogan second-guess himself. He was still the WWF’s biggest draw and worked whenever he felt like it. He still flew on a Lear jet and had his own limo, and a manservant named Brutus Beefcake who carried his bags. Basically he was in, out, and gone. Although Hogan was still deeply respected, to the boys he had become a guy we used to know.