Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (76 page)

One warm, beautiful night, Blade got upset while I was putting him to bed and started stomping around slamming doors. I finally picked him up and put him in his bed and told him to go to sleep. I was downstairs again chatting with Julie when Blade wandered defiantly past me wearing a Shawn Michaels T-shirt, hat and heart-shaped glasses, opening and closing his red leather-gloved fist. Julie and I struggled not to laugh. I coolly said to Blade, “What are you supposed to be?” He put on his most serious face and said, “I’m with the clique.” Then he broke into a big grin and said, “Nah, I’m just buggin’ ya, Dad!”

On July 6, the day of the Calgary show, I headed down to the Saddle-dome early with Julie, our kids and their friends, with the High Road crew following us. Austin and Taker insisted that they not be filmed out of character, and I only had Paul Jay’s word that I could ask him to edit anything out that I felt could hurt the business in any way. Paul’s crew was so good at what they did that most of the time I forgot they were even there.

I went over everything with Pat, putting the storyline and all the spots together. He wanted to involve my parents, Bruce and the rest of the Hart clan, who would be seated down front, right behind the rail. Owen would appear to be hurt and would be taken out of the match, only to return as the big hero and catch the fall on Steve after he had an altercation with Stu and some of the Hart brothers. This would be a huge night for Owen, setting up a big match between him and Austin at SummerSlam.

My anti-American rants had been going down big time with the Canadian fans. The Calgary crowd had shed its usual polite shyness and was ready to explode: Canadian flags waved everywhere.

Owen, Davey, Jim and Pillman were pumped up and chomping at the bit, Brian reminding me of a happy jackal who’d befriended a pride of lions. We did a live promo from the dressing room that played on the big screen in the arena, and the crowd response was so loud that the brick walls shook. Leo and I had worked hard at polishing up Shamrock, who was really coming along now and was pacing the dressing room anxiously. Goldust had a hot feud going with Pillman, and the Legion of Doom couldn’t have been more pumped. Hawk came to me knowing that it was me and Taker who’d got L.O.D. hired back. He awkwardly fumbled for the words to tell me that this time he’d give us everything he had, adding, “This match is for your dad.” Beside Stu and Helen in the front row was Alberta premier Ralph Klein. I was worn out; my knee wasn’t healed enough to wrestle safely, and I knew it. My doctor warned me that it needed at least three more months, but I had to be there for Vince, not to mention that I’d waited my entire life for this night, wrestling at the top of my game in a really hot angle in front of fans who had been there for me from the very beginning.

I was home and this was real.

“O Canada!” echoed majestically through the Saddledome, and then each member of The Hart Foundation made a separate entrance; first Pillman, then Anvil, then Davey, with Diana on his arm.

After Owen proudly strode out, I stepped through the curtain and stood at the top of the ramp savoring the moment. There was no doubt that this was the loudest pop I’d ever heard.

We’d touched a nerve across Canada, but for the fans in Calgary it went much deeper than that.

They’d grown up with and stood by Stu’s old Stampede crew through decades of highs and lows, and now we were squarely on top of the business, all of us like brothers. These fans were here to thank all of us, especially Stu.

When I made my way to the ring, the explosion from the crowd gave me chills. The sight of the entire Hart family cheering in the front row, with a sea of fluttering Canadian flags behind them, made my chest thump like a war drum. I dropped down to the floor and carefully placed my sunglasses on my mother’s head as she blushed. Stu smiled and winked at me.

Stone Cold and I squared off in the center of the ring, nose to nose. From the second the bell rang, we set the pace for one incredible knock-down, drag-out fight that delighted fans on both sides of the border. Austin was loving being the hated heel again, every bit as much as I loved playing the hero. After Owen made an amazing Stampede Wrestling–style come-back, Austin cut him off and clotheslined him out onto the floor. Then Stone Cold jumped out and put the boots to Owen, in front of Stu and Bruce. When he rolled Owen back into the ring, Bruce threw a drink at Stone Cold’s back.

Austin turned around and jerked Stu to his feet by his lapels! The Hart brothers swarmed Stone Cold just in time: nineteen thousand screaming fans were about to do the same thing! Bruce was so mad about a couple of stiff shots Austin gave him that when I arrived to tip the balance and roll Stone Cold back into the ring, Bruce slammed a fist as hard as he could into Stone Cold’s kidneys. Austin managed to pull himself up, only to be schoolboyed from behind by Owen. Bruce erupted like a tornado on the floor, taking on every heel in sight. When the referee made the all important three-count, no-body was paying attention to Owen because everyone was riveted to Bruce’s unscripted comeback! Owen was furious at Bruce for stealing his big pop.

Still, the Saddledome came unglued as the pay-per-view closed with Austin being wrestled down by various Hart brothers, agents, referees and Keystone Kop–like security guards, who handcuffed him and took him away.

Hart kids swarmed the ring while Pillman and I went out and got Stu, whose knees were now so bad that we had to help him up the stairs. Jim Ross commentated, “The family that has fought together survives together,” as the entire Hart clan celebrated in one last glorious whoop-up.

Davey high-fived twelve-year-old Harry, and Blade stood next to me, bouncing on the bottom rope.

Ellie and her girls rejoiced next to Martha while Owen stood proudly in the corner holding Oje, who twirled a tiny Canadian flag.

I spotted some smiling kid in the ring and asked, “Who are you?”

He excitedly said, “I just told them I was a Hart.”

“Wave at the crowd and enjoy yourself!”

After the show, Bruce fell into a deep sulk because both Owen and I rebuked him for overdoing it on the finish. Sore as hell, I made the three-hour drive to Edmonton alone, dreaming up my interview for Raw that night. I walked out wearing an Edmonton Oilers jersey just in case I needed to offset the long-standing rivalry between Calgary and Edmonton. It wasn’t so much that I was anti-American, I said, I was just very pro-Canadian. I was soon shooting about sensitive issues such as gun control, health care and racial hatred, Canada coming out on the plus side of the ledger on all counts. I promised the fans that I’d defeat The Undertaker at SummerSlam and become the World Wrestling Federation Champion for a fifth time. The only other five-time champion was Hulk Hogan, and I wanted to tie his record before I ended my career.

Steve could hardly work the Edmonton Raw because of his bruised kidneys. As a result, Vince put on hold any plans to go forward with Bruce joining The Hart Foundation.

Over the next few weeks I switched gears from visiting sick kids at the Children’s Hospital in Calgary with Owen to being spat on and pelted with garbage during a four-day loop through Texas.

We were extremely worried about Davey and Pillman, whose drug problems were getting worse.

Owen told me that Davey was injecting liquid morphine; a few weeks earlier he’d tripped in his hotel bathroom and smashed his face on the bathtub, needing sixteen stitches. Pillman did his best to hide the pain from his fused ankle, but anyone who took the time to notice realized that it was a brave and excruciating struggle for him to get in the ring every night, and the painkillers, washed down with alcohol every night, were getting the upper hand.

I was doing my best to gingerly coax my own knee back, forcing myself to cut corners but still go all out, using more facial expressions and short-heat spots. Every night Owen and I worked exciting but easy matches against Stone Cold and Mick Foley, who was doing an amazing job of handling two gimmicks at the same time—Mankind and Dude Love, a tiedyed, whacked-out hippie.

When Owen and I arrived in San Antonio for Raw on July 14, we made our usual visit to the Alamo.

Owen had become my most reliable friend and supporter, and we ended up having an interesting talk about things worth dying for. We agreed that the wrestling business wasn’t one of them.

That night Shawn and I saw each other for the first time since our cat fight. We were surprisingly cordial, yet neither of us offered any apologies. Once again we agreed to refrain from saying personal things about each other in our interviews and to leave each other alone, especially in light of the fact that we were both set to leave for a WWF-sponsored promotional cruise with a shipload of fans the following day. I tried to break the ice with Shawn by telling him about Blade dressing up like him, and he laughed.

In contrast to the week before in Alberta, Owen, Davey, Brian and I walked out to a blizzard of spit and a hail of boos. (Jim was briefly off, sorting out some contract problems arising from having signed with a small-time promotion before coming back to WWF.) As I stood with a Canadian flag draped over my shoulders, each of The Hart Foundation members spelled out the conditions of our various SummerSlam matches. If Davey lost to Shamrock he’d be forced to eat a can of dog food; if Owen lost he’d pucker up and kiss Stone Cold’s ass; and if Pillman couldn’t beat Goldust he’d wear his valet Marlena’s dress. My vow? If I lost to Taker I’d never wrestle in America again.

I took some playful potshots about how the WWF should go back to Canada for the next Raw, where the girls were prettier and the beer was better, and I challenged any three Americans to a flag match. Though on the surface things looked pretty good, I was feeling more and more in the dark about where all this was going, unable to shake the uneasy feeling that something just wasn’t right.

40

THINK WITH YOUR HEAD, NOT YOUR HEART

S UMMER SLAM CAME EARLIER THAN USUAL that August of 1997. I brought Blade with me to New York. He liked to carry my bag and massage my big hands with his tiny fingers. It had been overwhelming to be Stu Hart’s kid, but I could see that being Bret Hart’s kid could be just as challenging.

Blade drew pictures of himself wrestling as Blade Sidekick Hart. When he saw how casual I was with the other wrestlers in the dressing room, he seemed completely at ease with all of them, including Shawn, who play-wrestled with him in and around the ring while Taker and I worked out our match.

Watching Blade with Shawn made me lower my guard a degree.

This would be the biggest match Taker and I had ever had, and we wanted to have a classic that would blow away his fans and mine, who had been waiting for this fantasy title match for seven years. Taker really dug the whole American versus Canadian angle, especially after The Hart Foundation sent Vince’s ratings right through the roof a month earlier at the Halifax Raw and then again at the Pittsburgh Raw.

That night it seemed like the entire dressing room was lit up, plugged into The Hart Foundation power source. Everyone came back after their matches happy after having worked so hard, and it was building into a great show. Then Owen, in the middle of a super match with Stone Cold, accidentally pile-drived Steve hard, nearly breaking his neck. When Steve moaned to him, “I hurt my neck. Don’t touch me! I can’t feel my feet,” Owen was beside himself with guilt and dread. But he stayed calm despite the jeering of twenty thousand fans until it came to him what to do. Like an old pro, Owen played to the crowd, hoping that it would give Steve enough time to recover. Steve somehow managed to crawl over and school-boy Owen like a weak breeze knocking over a cardboard cut-out for a horrible but doable one . . . two . . . three. Steve was helped to his feet by the refs and managed to wobble his way into the dressing room, where he was taken right to the hospital. Owen wandered past me crushed and in a daze.

In an in-ring interview, Shawn, who was about to ref my match with Taker, declared that if he didn’t call it down the line he’d never wrestle in America again either: another interesting twist. While going over the finish in the dressing room, Shawn had suggested that in order for him to get mad enough to swing a chair, I should spit on him. He’d swing, I’d duck and he’d crack Undertaker smack on the head! I asked Shawn whether he was sure, and he nodded. I told him I’d aim for his shirt.

Mostly boos greeted me when I went out, but I still had a lot of fans who believed that I had never deserted them. Shawn came out to an elaborate fireworks display, dancing like the stripper he must have been in a past life. Then Taker made his entrance, in pitch darkness, to funeral music and deafening pyrotechnics. At the sound of the bell we tore into each other, raging on in a beautiful dance of death like archrival superheroes, making and breaking each other. Shawn refereed right down the middle, with me grudgingly obeying him. Then I twisted Taker’s long legs into the sharpshooter; I let him kick out from respect for him, the only time anyone ever kicked out of the sharpshooter. He sent me bouncing right out of the ring and onto the floor. I dusted myself off, marched back in and went for it again. Taker rose up and made his comeback and nearly finished me off, while Shawn was diving to and fro to make every count. I dragged Taker by his stomach to the corner, where I attempted some kind of a half-assed sharpshooter on the ring apron, wrapping Taker’s legs around the ring post, barely holding on. When at last he kicked out, he tossed me out right on top of Shawn, who was trying to get me to break the hold.

While Shawn collected himself I grabbed a chair, coolly slid back into the ring and busted Taker over the head. When Shawn finally got there to make the count, Taker kicked out. Shawn noticed the steel chair on the apron, but before he could spin me around and demand to know how the chair got there, I delivered one last kick to Taker’s knee. We had words, with me finally shouting, “Fuck you!”

Our finish needed perfect timing—I had to spit right on cue—but I was exhausted, my throat coated from working so hard. I hacked out an extremely large, milky-white slobber-knocker. It flew out of my mouth and hit Shawn on the chest, where it flew up to splatter him right between the eyes. He came at me furiously with the chair. I ducked at the last second and heard a smash and a huge pop from the crowd as Taker crashed to the mat. I waved Shawn over to do the count, which he did with spit dangling from his nose. Then he stormed back to the dressing room. I was sure he’d thought I did it on purpose.