More Than Just Hardcore

TERRY FUNK

More Than Just Hardcore

I dedicate this book to the wrestlers who have never worked a main event in Madison Square Garden, or anywhere, for that matter. I dedicate this book to the wrestlers who perform in Small Town, USA, the ones who know their night’s pay won’t even cover their transportation costs. I dedicate this book to the guys who have spent themselves totally, for what they consider noble causes—their fans and their families. I dedicate this book to the guys whose special brand of valor shows in their blood and their sweat. I dedicate this book to the wrestlers who have tried valiantly, even though they come up short, again and again.

In other words, I dedicate this book to the jobbers—the wrestlers who have put their shoulders to the mat, purposely and selflessly, to enhance other wrestlers in the fans’ eyes. They do what they do in the unselfish hope of improving attendance in the weeks to come. They were, and are the unsung heroes of my profession.

This book is also written for my world. It’s a small world, and I like it that way. It consists of the ones I love so dearly—my mom, Dorothy; my daughters, Stacy and Brandee; my daughters’ families, Kelly, Jason, Daniel and Champe.

And this book is for the one, true love I have in this world — my wife, Vicki.

FOREWORD

“What am I doing here?” I asked myself, a tone of dismay accenting my thoughts. It was the first week of January 1995, and “here” was an old, unheated gym in a small town in Japan, on the third day of a two-week wrestling tour. A genius in the IWA wrestling office had somehow managed to book our tour almost exclusively in unheated gyms throughout the southern part of the country, thinking, I suppose, that the gym’s southern proximity would offset the brutally cold Japanese winter of 1995.

As a result, the small group of foreign wrestlers, or “gaijins,” took to huddling around a portable kerosene heater, or, when lucky enough to find one, making a beeline for the “top-of-the-line” heated, Japanese toilets. Long after any “contributions” had been made, the gaijins could be found in these unique laps of luxury, savoring their last moments as warm men before the ringing of a bell, or the yelling of the boss, beckoned them back into the real world of pro wrestling. A world that, in the case of this particular promoter, often consisted of barbed wire, thumbtacks, fire, explosions and the occasional bed of nails.

Unfortunately, on this night, there were no kerosene heaters to comfort me. The heat-bearing bowls that babied my buttocks might as well have been a million miles away! They couldn’t help me at that particular point in my life, as I lay underneath the ring, curled into the fetal position, trying to fight off the cold gym floor with the warmth of my own body.

At a designated point, I would emerge from beneath the ring, barbed wire in hand, ready to inflict damage on some more-than-willing foe. Upon my emergence, I would be the picture of pure terror, eyes wild with bloodlust, wielding my bat like a warrior’s sword. But until that emergence, I would lay on that cold gym floor, continually thinking that same lonely thought—”What am I doing here?”

Actually, the reason was simple. There was one man to blame, and it sure wasn’t me. The culprit … Terry Funk. Terry Funk was the reason I had traveled 10,000 miles from home. Terry Funk was the reason I was under that damn ring. Terry Funk was the reason I would return home from that tour (and 15 others like it) looking like some monster from Universal’s glory days, swaddled in gauze, wrapped in athletic tape, bruised, battered and stitched, with the potpourri of analgesic balm and liquid antiseptic permeating the air around me. Yeah, Terry Funk was to blame. Why? Because Terry Funk was my hero, and I would have followed him anywhere.

I haven’t seen them all, but I have seen quite a few. If a man of some distinction has graced a wrestling ring in the past 25 years, I’ve probably caught his act. I can’t accurately state who the greatest of all time is, but I can say without any hesitation that Terry Funk is the greatest wrestler I have ever seen.

“What about Ric Flair?” I can hear the doubters cry. No doubt, Flair was great, and he and Terry Funk were the only workers I’ve ever seen who seemed to exude a love for the wrestling business in their every in-ring step. Funk was simply more believable. When watching Flair, no matter how great the match, with very rare exceptions, I was always aware that I was watching a performance. Terry Funk made me believe.

He made a lot of fans believe. I remember looking at the faces of the fans when the Funker was in action. Looking at the faces of his Japanese faithful in 1980, when he was at his most beloved. They believed. Looking at the faces of the Memphis fans, when he was at his most tyrannical. They believed. Looking at an Atlanta TV audience, when Terry returned from mainstream exile, middle-aged and crazy. They believed.

Maybe it would have been more accurate to say fans suspended their disbelief when Terry Funk took to the ring—or the microphone. But he sure made suspending disbelief a breeze. No one in the modern age of wrestling had the ability to make an impact so fully, or so quickly. The arrival of The Funker to a new territory or TV show would inevitably mean that a major change was taking place. Wrestling would almost instantly become a little scarier. A little funnier. A little more believable.

And that change could be infectious. He had that rare ability to bring out the best, not only in his opponents, but in onlookers, as well. Wrestlers raised their game, both physically and verbally, when the Funker came to town, lest they be swept away by the rising tide of increased expectations he left in his wake.

He was as kind as he was crazy. I first met this wrestling legend in November of 1989, a few weeks after his classic “I quit” match with Ric Flair—a match that remains my all-time favorite. You have to lean in kind of close to hear The Funker, for when a microphone isn’t present, his voice is tough to hear. But the leaning close is worth it—a small price to pay for gaining access to his mind, a vast and fertile field of theories, anecdotes, parables and life lessons, which he is more than happy to pass on.

I met Terry for the second time at a WCW TV taping in Raleigh, N.C. A few novice wrestlers were in the ring, practicing the basics, working on the moves that they hoped would make them stars.

A few of the more seasoned wrestlers were laughing with each other, looking at the ring and then to the arena floor, where Terry Funk stood, observing all the ring holds and slams.

“I’ll give him one more minute,” Brian Pillman said.

Tom Zenk, known as the Z-Man (or as The Funker pronounced it, “Zea Man”), disagreed.

“No way,” he said. “He can’t take it. Look at him. He’s not gonna last.”

The countdown began. Well before the minute mark, Terry couldn’t take it any longer. To the delight of Pillman and Z-Man, to the bemusement of myself and to the benefit of the novices, Terry Funk rolled into the ring. Within moments, he was rolling around with young wrestlers he had never met, dispensing wisdom and exchanging armbars. He couldn’t help himself. He just loves this stuff too much.

In August of 1995, I became the “King of the Death Match” in Japan by virtue of my victory over Terry Funk.

“I wouldn’t do this for too many people,” he said, in that quiet Funker mumble.

I nodded my head. “I know,” was all I said.

The victory was not without a price. I received 42 stitches from a variety of wounds, as well as second-degree burns that led to my arm turning a brittle brown by my return flight’s end. My wife was a little concerned, and placed the blame exactly where it belonged—on The Funker.

“Mick,” she asked. “Do you think you could find a different hero?”

Yeah, I suppose I could have. I would have had a whole lot fewer stitches. I would have never seen great flaps of charred skin fall from my arm. I might walk a little better.

But, man, I’d be a lesser man had I not known him.

There’s a price to pay for everything in life. And in my humble, hardcore opinion, stitches, burns and the onset of arthritis are minor ones to pay for having known the world’s greatest wrestler, and for having had the opportunity to be his opponent, partner, protege and confidant—and a contributor to this great book.

—Mick Foley

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank the fine folks at Sports Publishing for letting me tell my story to fans all over the world. I would also like to thank Scott E. Williams, my coauthor, for helping me make sense, and for all his hard work in helping to put this together.

Thanks also to Mick Foley, one of the most genuine people in the world of wrestling, for writing a wonderful foreword, and for being such a wonderful friend.

A special thanks goes to the wrestling fans of the world, without whom I would never have been fortunate enough to live this amazing life.

Finally, I want to thank my wife, Vicki, for loving an old rascal like me for all these years. She kicks me in the butt when I need it, and she’s there to listen to me gripe, when I need that. I love you, honey.

—Terry Funk

I would like to thank more people than I have room to mention here. Daniel Chernau and Richard Sullivan helped put together a lot of timeframes and were instrumental in helping me understand some of wrestling’s regional history. Heath Grider, one of the funniest people I know, helped with a lot of history of the Amarillo circuit. Nick Kozak, one of the nicest pro wrestlers I’ve ever met (and the best 70-plus surfer in the state of Texas), was also very generous with his time, telling me his memories of Amarillo, where he was an integral component for years.

Jason Hess, Mike Mensik and John R. Williams gave me a lot of moral support and kept me honest by never being shy about telling me when I’d gotten something wrong.

Between scanning photographs and proofreading, Jim and Leann Sukman put in enough volunteer time on helping with this book to deserve a medal. Instead, they must settle for my genuine thanks.

I would never have had this opportunity without Dave Meltzer, editor of the Wrestling Observer Newsletter. It was Dave’s recommendation of me that put Terry and me together in the first place. I will never be able to thank him enough. Dave was also kind enough to read over several chapters, giving me the benefit of perhaps the sharpest wrestling mind in the world. One man who could fairly challenge him for that title is Jim Cornette, who was also gracious enough to read the material and talk me through wrestling’s rich history.

Thanks also to my editors at The Galveston County Daily News for giving me a chance as a reporter, and later, as a wrestling columnist. Every day on the odd island of Galveston is a revelation.

Several others helped me with a question about a date, name, or location, and whether they realized it or not, they helped keep us as accurate as possible. To whatever extent the book you hold is error-free, you can thank Jacob Christner, Max Levy, Jeff Luce, John McAdam, Barry Rose and Guerin Shea, among others (and I apologize to anyone I left out). Any remaining errors are solely the responsibility of Scott E. Williams.

It has been a rare privilege to work with Terry Funk. I always knew Terry was a great wrestler and promo man, but he’s an equally great human being, and getting access to his incredible mind and seeing his generous heart have been among my personal highlights.

But when it comes to highlights, nothing can top the greatest blessings of my life—my wife, Brenda and our children, Brooke and Brody. Thanks for putting up with my burying myself in this work for all these months.

—Scott E. Williams

My generation is at least the third in a line of crazy people named “Funk.”

My father was born in 1918. His given name was Dorrance Funk, which was the name his mother used to call him. However, his friends and schoolmates always referred to him as “Dory.” He, his brother (Herman) and sister (Dorothy) were born and raised in Hammond, Indiana.

Their father, my grandfather, was Adam Funk, who was a Hammond police officer. He’d come from Krauthausen, Germany, where he had served as a member of the Kaiser’s guard. After World War I, Adam moved to Hammond, where he started out walking the beat. He was a very good man, and he lived by a few rules—you follow the law, and right is right. He worked long and hard, rising through the ranks to become chief of police.

Hammond was just east of Chicago, stronghold of the criminal syndicate, run at this time by Al Capone during the prohibition era. Needless to say, there was never a shortage of action for Adam.

Adam was a no-nonsense kind of guy, and he was also willing to fight for what he believed in. Adam Funk shot and killed six people in the line of duty during his career. Marshal Dillon wasn’t shit compared to Adam! Adam’s no-nonsense attitude extended to his finances. He was very frugal, which I think was true of a lot of people who lived through the Great Depression.

Adam was no-nonsense at home, too. He expected his kids to toe the line, and when they didn’t, he would not spare the rod.

I think a lot of that transferred to my father, who I saw get violent more than once, but he always got violent at the right time. He was a great man, although he was somewhat difficult to explain.