Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (44 page)

On the other hand, most of us couldn’t stand Warrior, who had blossomed into a grunting prima donna. He flew first class with a paid valet, traveled to the arenas by limo and had his own private I’m-the-star dressing room. He never sat with us in the locker room bullshitting or playing cards. In the war Vince was launching, we were still rooting for Hulk.

I lasted through another hectic winter in the WWF, frustrated at doing jobs in both tags and singles. I tried to convince myself I was climbing the ranks whether The Emperor liked it or not. My matches were often quite dramatic, especially when I worked against such muscled monsters as The Powers of Pain, who were Warlord and Barbarian. Despite their savage appearance, they were two of the friendliest guys in the business. Sione Vailahi, billed as Barbarian, was a Samoan from the island of Tonga who reminded me of a muscled-up Grover from Sesame Street, complete with the lovable animated accent. Terry Szopinski was The Warlord. He was six-foot-five and over 320 pounds of nothing but muscle, but he had the disarming facial features of a cute, bald-headed baby. He’d squeeze me like a bag of groceries as I’d violently try to fight my way out, lashing my forearms across his giant back and shoulders. I’d have a good sweat going and I could make it look like I was crying.

Kids in the audience would chant, “Go Bret Go!” All the heels loved working with me, and all I needed was a break.

The Hart Foundation was also busy putting over the new tag champions, André and Haku. Haku was from Tonga, thickly built and quick, and most of the time easygoing. When provoked he could get mad enough to bite your nose off, like some drunken idiot found out one night in Baltimore. André loved Haku.

These matches with us would turn out to be some of André’s last great moments in the ring. André seemed pained, sad and longing for the good old days. He was pale and sickly, and many of us wondered whether he was trying to drink himself to death. Haku carried the load for him, but he still loved going out and working. He made a point of making Jim and me look strong: selling, tying himself in the ropes, even letting me do a sunset flip on him. Afterwards, I’d draw our matches on the blackboard for André. His ass, as big as a piano, teetering above me, was a funny but scary vision that few people ever got to see! It was strongly rumored he’d be done after the big Japan tour that was coming up right after WrestleMania VI, on which I was also booked.

Any hopes The Foundation allowed ourselves about winning the belts from André and Haku were dashed when we learned that The Demolition would be getting them back at WrestleMania VI, which was going to be held at SkyDome in Toronto on April 1.

In March, after working in Auburn Hills, Michigan, I was whisked away by Lear jet to South Bend, Indiana, to wrestle again that same night, taking The American Dream Dusty Rhodes’s place against Macho Man in a main event with a packed crowd. Since the last time we had worked together, Randy and I had wanted another match, but with no time for preparation, this one would hardly count. I’d kept my gear on and literally jumped out of the limo and ran straight down the aisle into the ring, through a frenzied crowd that had waited nearly an hour to see the main event. Randy and I clicked like we’d worked a million times together—and saved the show. It was proof that I was over enough to work a main event singles match and not disappoint the crowd. The office surely had to be realizing that I had the versatility to have great matches, playing babyface heel one night, pure babyface the next, in tags or singles. I tried hard to keep the faith that my day would come.

Julie was far too pregnant to come to WrestleMania, so I invited Stu and Helen. The afternoon before the extravaganza, The Hart Foundation did an autograph session at a shopping mall. I only say it because it’s true, but we had the longest line of all the wrestlers. Helen and Stu had a great time with the fans, and with each other. My mom’s wit and Stu’s old-fashioned boyish innocence made them a gifted comic team, and they’d had years to perfect their act. Many of the local fans knew Stu because Stampede Wrestling aired across Canada. Others had become acquainted with him through Jesse Ventura, who never missed an opportunity to say I’d come from Stu’s dreaded dungeon, the toughest wrestling pit of ’em all. I could see it meant the world to my parents that the fans regarded them kindly.

That evening in the lobby lounge, Stu and Barry Darsow took to rolling around on the carpet, even knocking chairs over. The wrestlers were cheering, and Barry had the look on his face of a guy who didn’t know what he’d gotten himself into. He was grateful when my mom broke it up.

In the bar that night the big buzz amongst the wrestlers was about Dr. Zahorian, who had been busted by the FBI three days earlier. Some felt bad for him, but I thought he got what he had coming.

Pat had told me that our WrestleMania VI match with The Bolsheviks would only be about fifteen seconds long; it seemed a shame to me to be such a non-factor in a big show in Canada. But with the pressure off, I could relax that night, lying in bed leafing through the Toronto Sun. It made me smile when I read sportswriter Frank Zicarelli’s comment, “The Hitman is the best wrestler in the world today.” Buddy The Heartthrob had come a long way. But then a strange thought crossed my mind: Were the two giant stone gargoyles perched outside my window, with their tongues hanging out and their thumbs in their ears, laughing at me?

I’d had a four-day break at home before the big show, during which I spent many hours working on a special cartoon for André, a montage of every name wrestler who had worked in the WWF since I’d been there. In the dressing room before my WrestleMania VI match, I passed around the framed drawing for all the wrestlers to sign. Finally I brought it over to André, who grasped it in his big hands and turned it over in order to sign it too. I stopped him and said, “It’s for you, boss. That’s you there, right in the middle, carrying everyone on your back.”

Suddenly I realized that André was fighting back tears and frantically looking for an escape: He had way too much pride to break down in front of the boys. I quickly pointed out to him, and everyone else who was staring, my caricature of Adrian Adonis with angel’s wings atop a cloud plucking a harp.

André gave me a big smile and said, “Thank you, boss.”

Minutes later The Hart Foundation got a huge pop when we beat The Bolsheviks with our finish in less than nineteen seconds in front of a record crowd of 67,-678.

Later that night Hogan went out and put over Warrior right in the middle of the ring, just as Vince had dared him to do, leading him through the whole match. The torch had been passed and only time would tell whether Warrior could carry the WWF as its new champion. After the match, Hogan said to me, “You watch. Warrior will fail. And Vince’ll be calling me, begging me to come back.” I liked Hogan, and I hoped he was right.

How very strange. That’s what I thought to myself as I took in the spectacular sight of 53,742 much louder than usual Japanese wrestling fans inside the cavernous Egg Dome on April 11, 1990. I rested on one knee trying to catch my breath, while keeping a headlock clamped tightly on the furry, catlike head of the new Tiger Mask. This young boy, Misawa, was nothing close to the original but, in all fairness to him, those were a mighty big pair of shoes to fill. For me it was like being in a time machine.

The flight over to Japan had been packed with a crew of huge wrestlers taking up all the seats in business class. After clearing our way through customs and immigration, we were herded onto a little bus for the hour-and-a-half ride to Tokyo. By the time Curt Hennig and I climbed on the bus, there were only two seats left, one at the very front and one at the very back. Just then, the sliding doors of the airport parted and out lumbered an extremely inebriated André the Giant! Curt and I locked eyes realizing that the front seat was always André’s, and we simultaneously raced for that last seat in the back, scrambling, laughing and fighting, the other wrestlers cheering us on. I guess that’s why they called him Mr. Perfect, because he got there first! The only spot left for me was the six-inch space next to André, who was just coming up the steps of the bus. There was a big grin on Curt’s face when I finally wedged myself in beside the giant. By the time I got off the bus I was carsick and soaked in sweat. In the hotel lobby, Japanese fans thrust old photos at me: “Please sign, Breto Harto.” I shuddered, remembering my early days there.

That night, after the show, high up in my hotel suite, I peered out at the now familiar skyline of Tokyo. I took a sip of Kirin beer that I’d brought back from the dressing room, appreciating the thought of Inoki’s old general, Sakaguchi, who approached me and offered me a job with New Japan when I finished up in New York. One of the Japanese fans had handed me an old photo of Dynamite, Davey and me: There was Tom looking mean, Davey with a big naive grin and me looking envious and desperate. I had finally passed Tom and Davey, the dark horse of the three of us.

Superimposed on the flickering neon of a Tokyo night was the shimmering reflection of a violent kids’ cartoon from the TV. I clicked the remote just in time to catch my favorite sumo wrestler, Chino Fuji, tossing some opponent on his ass. When I was first in Japan, Fuji was a nobody, but now he was Grand Champion. Good things come to those who wait.

While I was away in Japan, Dean’s girlfriend Tammy had given birth to a little girl, named Farrah.

After I got home I went for my usual visit with my parents to find my mom very worried for Dean. His doctor had called to say that he had not been following his rigid diet and had missed numerous dialysis appointments. Mom hoped his baby daughter might help him stay focused on what he needed to do to stay alive.

Stu put on the usual pot of tea, and then asked if there was anything I could do for Davey. I told him I’d already mentioned Davey to Pat, who seemed more than a little interested. My mom also asked whether I could please put in a word for Bruce, saying he’d take anything. All three of us knew that Bruce was a much harder sell: Chief and the others had little regard for Bruce because of the way he’d screwed up for the WWF the first time round and undermined Stu’s business with his horrible booking. But Bruce had two kids to support, and another one on the way, all on what he could earn as a substitute teacher. So I promised that I’d try.

My last day at home found me looking out my picture window watching Jade and Dallas flying down the driveway on their new bikes past a For Sale sign. Sometimes I felt a lot like my dad, who used to pull the For Sale sign down and then put it up again, depending on how his finances were doing.

As I packed for the next trip, I looked at the dozens of pairs of pink and black tights hanging in my closet and wondered whether Superman’s closet looked like mine. I smiled at the three hearts embroidered on the right leg of my tights, one for each kid, thinking about how I’d soon have to add a fourth. When I signed autographs, I made one dot for each of them, trailing off above the word Hitman. Most fans probably thought they were bullet holes, but commemorating my kids with every signature was my way of reminding myself why I was doing all this.

As I folded my gear into my suitcase, my distress built because the moment was fast approaching when I’d have to say my big good-bye again. Dallas stood tall and handsome. “This makes you the man of the house till I get home.” Jade with her long legs, long brown hair and big brown eyes fought to hold back tears as she gave me a tight squeeze. Little Beans, unable to meet my gaze, tried not to crack, then blurted out, “Bye bye, Daddy,” before falling apart, tears trickling down her chubby cheeks. I hugged her gently. Then, like a sliver, I pulled myself out, kissing a very pregnant Julie good-bye.

On June 2, Bill Eadie—Axe of Demolition—was diagnosed with an erratic heartbeat. If he took his medication, he was at no risk at all, but his fate had already been decided. Vince didn’t want the complications of Bill dying in the ring in front of the fans. He brought in Brian Adams, an ex–air force amateur boxer from Hawaii with long, black hair and a six-foot-five frame, to become Crush, the third member of Demolition. Bill was led to believe that they’d be a three-man team from here on.

Like André, Bill was being put out to pasture, but Vince didn’t bother to tell him.

On June 5, Julie’s water broke, and I was on a plane home, determined to be there for the birth this time.

As I raced down the hospital hallway a nurse directed me to Julie’s room, but when I arrived the door was closed and I was not sure I had the right place. As I waited just outside the door, I heard a slap and a good strong cry. When I walked in, Julie’s sister Sandy handed me my son. I gazed down into the eyes of a dark-haired, serious little baby who looked like he’d come out swinging. I called home and told the kids. Jade laughed excitedly, “Dallas is so happy that he’s dancing on the kitchen table!” Then I called my mom and announced she had a new grandson, “an eight-pound baby boy, named Blade Colton Hart, just like I ordered.”

That night a perfect day was capped off when I answered my phone and Jim said, “Congratulations, daddy. I just finished talking with Vinnie Mac. We’re getting those belts back at SummerSlam.”

I spent my thirty-third birthday wrestling Curt Hennig in Amarillo. Chief had orders for Curt to beat me, but Curt went to him on his own and insisted that we do our usual draw instead. Curt liked our match just the way it was, especially the bit at the end where he jumped me after the bell. He thought it got him far more heat than if he simply beat me. Few wrestlers but Curt would have done that for me.

Rude was carrying Warrior through every match. That night he found himself wrestling him to the mat, whispering in his ear that if Warrior potato-ed him one more time he’d rip his head off and shove it up his ass. Warrior, who never showed much regard for his fellow wrestlers, melted like putty. Maybe that was why, in an unexpected moment of generosity, Warrior allowed the boys the use of his limo after the show so we could go out and celebrate my birthday.

In the wee hours of the night Jim, Curt, Rude, Beefcake, Superfly Snuka, Mike McGuirk and I were guided to a hotel room by our old friend Jack Daniels. Mike, a petite blue-eyed blonde, was our on-road ring announcer and the daughter of legendary wrestler and promoter LeRoy McGuirk out of Oklahoma. He’d wanted a boy so badly that he always called his little girl Michelle Mike. Soon a joint was lit and passed around, the beds were moved out of the way and we all took to wrestling on the rug. Both Curt and I were decent amateurs in our day, but we couldn’t budge Rick from his all fours position; he was incredibly strong. I couldn’t have spent a birthday with better friends. Even Jim good-heartedly got on all fours, only to be pinned in seconds by Curt. Beefcake, who admitted to having no wrestling skill, wanted no part of it, even when we encouraged Mike McGuirk to take him on. Being the daughter of a legit shooter and an Oklahoma girl at that, there was more than a good chance that Beefcake would have had his hands full, and he knew it!