Straight from the Hart (16 page)

When I look back on the amazing run we had that first summer, probably the most amusing thing was how everyone was suddenly taking sellout crowds for granted — as if we’d been turning away fans and garnering rave reviews for years and years, which we certainly hadn’t been. I never said much at the time.

I just allowed myself to enjoy the ride.

Late that fall, even though I remained the hottest face in the territory and could easily have chosen to keep the world mid-heavyweight strap as long as wanted, I decided to drop it to Dynamite. My rationale was that, in winning it in the first place, it had served to get me and the belt over, but in putting it on Dynamite — given his unmatched propensity for getting whomever he worked with over — it would better serve the promotion.

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When I dropped the title to Dynamite we had a hot finish and got over so well that I gained more glory in defeat than for damn near any match I ever won. To every face who thinks they need a belt to remain over, let me be an example: holding the strap isn’t as important as how the fans perceive you. In any case, with Dynamite wearing the strap, J. R. Foley’s millionaire manager persona becoming a huge focal point and new faces getting over (such as Davis Schultz, Duke Myers, Kerry Brown, Mike Sharpe and Kelly Kiniski), we headed into what was traditionally our strongest part of the season, winter, in great shape. One of the nice things about that stretch was that, unlike in the past, there were virtually no conflicts, political machinations or any of that sort of thing — which made things so much easier.

Like one of those ill-fated Middle East peace treaties, the tranquility would be short-lived. My brother Bret returned from abroad in the fall and demanded to be reinstated as booker. He claimed that he’d only temporarily relinquished the book because he figured my dad was shutting down for the summer. Since business was now on an unprecedented roll and morale in the territory had never been better, my dad was reluctant to rock the boat.

In an effort to appease Bret, my dad came up with a half-assed compromise, which called for Bret to have complete autonomy over all his own matches, finishes and whatnot, with me handling the rest of the matches and story lines.

To be honest, I wasn’t thrilled with the new format. To me, it was like letting some egocentric football or baseball player — say, Terrell Owens or Barry Bonds

— to call his own shots regardless of what the rest of the team was doing. But since I wasn’t signing the checks, I didn’t have much choice but to go with the flow, as they say, and try to make the best of the less than ideal situation.

While Bret’s finishes and story lines didn’t always jive with what the rest of us were doing, I worked around it and our gates remained strong. Eventually the novelty of dancing to his own tune seemed to wear off for Bret and early in the new year, he approached me and told me he’d be willing to work with me doing the finishes, as long as he had some input in how I used him. I told him that any decent booker or coach should be seeking input and feedback from the rest of the team anyway and that my door was always open, as they say. We shook hands on things and proceeded from there.

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As things turned out, the hottest program in the promotion that winter involved Bret and me. Ed Whalen followed my lead, calling us the original Hart Foundation. We tagged to wrestle against Dynamite and Schultz and we had some ass-kicker matches.

Coming into the spring of 1981, we’d been selling out for close to ten months straight and, with no end in sight, the territory was on the best roll since my dad had opened back in 1948. Around that time, Bret dropped a bit of a bombshell, when he announced that he and Dynamite had gotten married to two sisters from Saskatchewan, Julie and Michelle Smadu, in a secret ceremony down at city hall and that they were planning on heading over to Germany for the rest of the year, on a quasi wrestling/honeymoon.

That left us in a bit of a pinch because Dynamite had been our top heel while Bret had been one of our main faces. Ever since I’d taken the book, Dynamite’s old trainer, Ted Betley, had been begging me to book Dynamite’s cousin, David Smith, whom he rated as a can’t-miss prospect as well. When I first discussed this with Dynamite, much to my surprise, he was vehemently opposed to it

— claiming that one of the reasons he’d left England in the first place was because he didn’t get along with his cousin. He even went so far as to say that
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if I brought Smith in, he would leave. Since Dynamite was the face of the franchise, I’d always have to kayfabe Betley and tell him we were all booked up, but that I’d keep him in mind.

With Dynamite now leaving for an extended period of time, I figured this might be a good opportunity for us to check out his highly touted cousin.

I contacted Betley and gave him a starting date for the end of April, which coincided with Dynamite and Bret’s departure. When I mentioned to Dynamite that I’d booked his cousin, he wasn’t thrilled, but in his typical terse and truculent manner, shrugged indifferently and said that seeing as he wouldn’t be here anyway, he really didn’t give a shit.

The week before Dynamite and Bret were scheduled to leave for their European hiatus the German promoter suddenly canceled — reportedly because our old friend Axel Dieter was still bitter about some of the ribs that Dynamite and Smith had perpetrated on previous tours.

In any case, that meant that Bret and Dynamite would be staying put. This was fine with me, because they were two of the best workers in the business.

At the same time, we had a bit of a predicament, since Dynamite’s cousin, along with a couple of other British guys — Adrian Street and Robbie Stewart, whom Betley had also represented — were scheduled to start the following week. I approached Dynamite and explained that since they’d already bought plane tickets and canceled all their other bookings in England, I was obliged to bring them over and hoped this wouldn’t cause any conflict.

Ever the enigma, Dynamite not only said that he understood the situation and would try to put aside his differences, but he even went so far as to suggest that he’d like to work with Smith on his first night, because he knew his style and could help get him over.

Back in England, Smith had wrestled under the somewhat drab name “Young David.” I was endeavoring to come up with something a little catchier when I happened to hear some sportscaster on the radio, hyping an upcoming boxing title bout between lightweight champion, Sugar Ray Leonard, and up-and-coming British contender, Davey Boy Green. I kind of liked the ring of that and decided to change Smith’s name to Davey Boy Smith. Much like Steve
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Williams becoming “Stone Cold” Steve Austin or Dwayne Johnson becoming the Rock, the name would stick and become an iconic handle.

For Davey Boy’s debut match in the territory, Dynamite went out and made his cousin look like a million dollars, which added one more weapon to our already formidable arsenal of young stars.

Although the territory had improved by leaps and bounds since I’d taken the book, it didn’t really dawn on me how far we’d come until July 1981 and our annual Stampede Week show, when my dad brought up the legendary Lou Thesz — who’s still considered by most to have been the greatest world champion of all time — to be a special guest referee.

I had the chance to ride around the circuit that week with Lou, which was like some wide-eyed hockey junkie getting to ride around with Gordie Howe for a week. I was fascinated by all the stories of the wrestling business of the old days and gained a wealth of knowledge and insight. On Lou’s final night in the territory, he came up to me and thanked me for having him up for the week. He said that he’d seen a lot of wrestling the past few decades, but that our brand of wrestling was the best he’d seen since the 1950s. I was completely blown away to receive an endorsement like that — from someone of his magnitude. That remains one of the crowning moments of my career.

That fall, our business hit even higher levels, with gates selling out almost every night in virtually every venue and our television ratings going through the roof. I was especially gratified for my parents — both of whom had endured more than their share of lean years and stress.

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We worked our way into 1982 riding our best season ever. On the night of January 14, I was heading to Lethbridge with Jim Neidhart, Gerry Morrow, Mr. Hito and one of the referees, Kevin Tremblay. As we were motoring along, I noticed this big semi, which had been heading toward us, suddenly begin edging into the intersection, to turn into a truck stop on our right. Given that we were going straight and obviously had the right of way, I naturally figured he’d yield, but instead the moron suddenly began turning his big rig — with two trailers behind him — right in front of us. In a matter of seconds, the whole highway was blocked and we ended up colliding head-on — at close to seventy miles per hour. Fortunately, I had my seat belt on. But I was still badly shaken up.

The crash separated my shoulder, smashed my face through the windshield and my chest into the steering wheel so hard that it snapped. It bruised my heart so much that doctors said the impact was akin to having had a heart attack. As for the other passengers, Neidhart went face-first through the windshield, nearly tearing off his nose and lacerated his throat severely, while Hito dislocated his hip and Morrow sustained a broken leg.

After the initial impact, I was dazed and concussive and trying to extricate myself from the wreckage. Since my door was mangled, I had to kick out the
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