Straight from the Hart (43 page)

Beyond that, Bret and Vince’s big showdown had been nearly thirteen years in the making, and it seemed to me that they were denying themselves a sequel or two: rematches that could generate huge revenue.

Taking it all into consideration, I told Vince, Michael Hayes and Vince’s son-in-law Triple H that, while I certainly wasn’t going to tell them how to run their business, as someone who’d booked a few finishes and been involved in a few matches, the whole charade seemed pointless. I mentioned that when I used to book I would regularly invite input from the boys and, quite often, someone would come up with an alternate finish that might better suit the situation. I pointed out that since Bret and Shawn Michaels had just buried their own hatchet on live TV a few weeks earlier, and because Shawn had been the one who had eliminated Hunter at the recent Royal Rumble, the pieces were nicely in place for what I was about to suggest. Instead of having Vince get the shit beat out of him, I said, they could get more mileage by having McMahon, an obvious heel, get some heat on Bret using whatever dastardly tactics he wanted. It would have been easy, seeing as this was Bret’s first match after his stroke, not to mention that Bret was supposedly nursing injuries from a story line “car crash.”

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I even advocated for Vince generating more heat by getting some color on Bret, drawing his blood, and having Bret sell his ass off — in order, of course, to set up the big, hot comeback. After a long, calamitous sell, Bret would finally mount a stirring, balls to the wall comeback, culminating in him getting Vince, at long last, in his signature finish. With Vince writhing in agony in the sharpshooter, but bound and determined not to incur the humiliation of having to tap out to his long time nemesis, I suggested that he could signal his daughter Stephanie

— who would be seated at ringside with her hubby, Hunter — to take me, the referee, out of the equation. Hunter would then hit the ring and nail Bret from behind, and then prepare to give him his own signature finish, the Pedigree.

The fans, at that point, would have been screaming in protest; I advocated for the unlikeliest candidate to come to Bret’s rescue. The Heartbreak Kid, Shawn Michaels, would hit the ring and give Hunter his “sweet chin music.” At that point, I told Vince and company, they could have Bret cover McMahon for the finish or have a double disqualification. All the pieces would be in place for an awesome tag match nobody would have ever expected: Bret and Shawn taking on Vince and Triple H, perhaps at Summer Slam.

I think Vince and Hunter were actually intrigued by the idea. They were considering the obvious possibilities. Neither of them rejected it, nor did Michael Hayes. To my surprise, the guy who did give it the thumbs down was

. . . my brother Bret — the person, to my way of thinking, who had the most to gain from the idea.

Bret felt it might compromise his insurance policy with Lloyd’s of London and he stressed that while he was allowed to get in the ring with Vince, he wasn’t allowed to engage in any kind of actual fight or to take any bumps or shots to the head. This made me wonder, out loud, why he was even getting in the ring in the first place. Bret continued emphatically: this was a one-time-only affair. After it was over he’d be retiring and riding off into the sunset. There wasn’t much point in pursuing my angle, after that news.

So you can imagine, I was intrigued and somewhat puzzled when only a few weeks after Wrestlemania, Bret returned to the ring. He appeared in a contrived and convoluted story line that had him become the general manager of RAW.

Later, as you likely know, he was stripped of the position and attacked by a
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faction of rookies called Nexus. Ultimately, this led to him returning to the ring, again, to wrestle with John Cena and friends against Nexus at . . . Summer Slam. So much for his adamant assertion that he was only allowed to have one match.

Not to cast aspersions on the creativity of the WWE or my brother Bret, but in my humble opinion, if the Heartbreak Kid and the Hitman had teamed up against Vince and Hunter, it would have captured the public’s imagination far more than the Nexus angle. Especially since Bret, contrary to what some would have you think, was just a spare part in that Summer Slam charade.

Anyway, Wrestlemania went on as planned and it was one of the most bizarre —

almost surreal — things I’ve ever been a part of, with Bret relentlessly bashing Vince, while over 70,000 fans roared in approval.

At some point, I leaned in and exhorted Bret to ease up on Vince. Bret nodded but continued his onslaught. I might add that he didn’t appear to be holding back or pulling any of his shots.

The onslaught continued for close to fifteen minutes, with Vinnie absorbing hellacious punishment. I noticed a smile on Bret’s face and realized that his pain — which had been festering for more than a decade — was being eased.

Strangely enough, I found my own pain also abating. As I looked toward ringside, I could see the smiling faces of many of my brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and sensed that their pain, too, was being eased. It then occurred to me that somewhere up yonder perhaps, the pain of my dad, my mom, my brother Owen and even that of my beleaguered brother-in-law Davey Boy was also subsiding.

It was almost as if a dark cloud, which had been hovering over us for years, was finally moving on. It was definitely cathartic. For that, my estimation of Vince McMahon grew exponentially. I felt a debt of gratitude toward him for allowing us to finally have some closure. He didn’t have to submit himself to that kind of humiliation and beat down but, I think, in his own perverse but sincere way, he was doing his best to atone for the past. For Stampede, for Montreal, for Owen. If such was the case, good on you, Vinnie.

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I never did get a chance to hook up with Vince after the match — it was complete chaos afterward. But after I got back from Arizona, I was reflecting, once again, on my last visit with my dad and his impassioned message about the wrestling business. I got to thinking that since the hatchet had finally been buried and the lines of communication have been reopened, I might be able to offer Vince a different perspective on wrestling — straight from the Hart, so to speak.

Now, I can’t see why not. So, here goes nothing . . .

Yo, cousin Vinnie, thanks for your time. I’d like to begin by thanking you, on behalf of my brothers and sisters and others in the family, for the gig in Arizona. Everything, from the Hall of Fame Ceremony for my dad to the accommodations, was first class and very much appreciated. Contrary to what many people on the periphery of the business might think, I don’t consider you to be anywhere near the monster or unadulterated asshole you’ve often been made out to be.

While I obviously haven’t been in agreement with many of the things you’ve done, you have authored some monumental triumphs and have also made a lot of wrestlers — including several from my family — rich and famous. For that they should all be quite grateful.

Still, on behalf of the old-school types including my dad, there are a few things I’d like to bring to your attention. I’m not happy with the state of the wrestling business and I’m concernced about where it’s headed.

Wrestling, at its finest, is an art form — especially when performed by artists like Dory and Terry Funk, Harley Race, Lou Thesz, Jack Brisco, the Dynamite Kid, Shawn Michaels, Ric Flair and my brothers, Bret and Owen, all of whom could take little more than a finish and would then render, on canvas, masterpieces that for wrestling fans were every bit as timeless and compelling as the work of van Gogh, da Vinci or Picasso — and a far cry, I might add, from the sterile, scripted “paint by number” offerings that so many of today’s so-called workers consider classics.

Keep it simple, plausible and logical, Vince; don’t constantly insult people’s intelligence or bullshit yourself and the fans that overkill and sleaze are substitutes for wrestling. As well, refrain from making the product so contrived,
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complicated or sleazy that it’s not suitable for kids — who still comprise the largest, most enthusiastic segment of your fan base.

Some of your most outspoken critics will argue that one of the reasons for wrestling’s decline is that there just aren’t many great workers around today. And while there may not be as many as there were, say, back in the ’80s, from what I can see, there’s still some phenomenal young talent — guys like Randy Orton, Rey Mysterio, C. M. Punk, Edge, John Cena, Ted di Biase Jr. and my nephew David Hart Smith. But since wrestling itself has become so compromised with all the bullshit I’ve been alluding to, it’s pretty hard for the workers to rise above it.All sports, I’ll grant you, have evolved to some degree — we now have artificial turf, three point baskets, designated hitters, big busted cheerleaders and state of the art scoreboards but, for all intents and purposes, football is still football, baseball is still baseball, and basketball is still basketball. Wrestling should still be wrestling, Vince, not the misbegotten mutation that it’s become.

To use a gridiron analogy, I’d recommend that you use the run (wrestling) to set up the pass (the high spots and histrionics). You’d be surprised at how well the fans will respond when you re-establish the basics.

I’m not advocating a return to wool trunks, black boots, black-and-white television and two pot bellied old farts rolling around for an hour. Having been the creative impetus behind Stampede Wrestling in the 1980s — when it was as cutting edge as it gets — I’m not at all adverse to new concepts and innovations. But they should have a discernible purpose and they should make sense — unlike most of the implausible crap I see on
RAW
and
SmackDown
.

Too much of it seems like it’s being concocted on the fly.

When I was a kid, Vince, there were thirty or more thriving vibrant territories, with hundreds of great workers giving fans all over the continent their weekly fix of pro wrestling. They became the fan base for your promotion later on. Not only did this system create a huge and loyal following for the WWE, it also provided an awesome (and free) farm system. I’m sure you don’t need to be reminded where guys like Curt Hennig, Hawk and Animal, Roddy Piper, Hulk Hogan, Randy Savage, Junkyard Dog, Jake Roberts, the British Bulldogs, my brothers Bret and Owen and so many others got their start.

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For some reason, though, back in the ’80s, you needlessly and indiscriminately chose to destroy the farm system — the promotions in Calgary, Texas, Minneapolis and other wrestling hotbeds that were supplying you, free of charge, with your talent. That’s like the NFL or NBA, for some stupid reason, going out of their way to wipe out college football and basketball.

The wrestling business has been good to you and your family (and mine). It’s made you rich and famous and has given you power and glory. Please, Vince, clean up your act. Make a concerted effort to restore wrestling to its rightful place at the forefront of the sports/entertainment spectrum. To paraphrase a line from one of my all-time favorite movies: if you rebuild it, Vince, people will come!

There’s a very distinct possibility Vince, I’ll admit, that upon reading or being apprised of my unsolicited critiquing of the wrestling business, you may well respond, “Bruce Hart can kiss my ass. It’s none of his damn business what the hell I do with my wrestling business, because I own it and can do whatever I want with it.”

That may well be the case. However, I’d like to point out that your equally imperious but recently departed fellow New Yorker, Gorgeous George Steinbrenner, owner of the Yankees for close to forty years, might have perceived of himself as the Godfather of baseball. But he did not own the memories or legacies left behind by the likes of Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Billy Martin, Thurman Munson, Reggie Jackson or Derek Jeter. Steinbrenner is merely bearing the torch — to be passed on to the next generation.

The same, I’d venture to say, is the case for you, Cousin Vinnie. You are the bearer of wrestling’s torch — the one that was once so proudly borne by my father, your father, your grandfather, Toots Mondt, Sam Muchnick, Frank Tunney, Aileen LeBell, Dory Funk Sr. and all the others who have paved the way.

I don’t want to pontificate, Vince, but as far as I’m concerned, the greatest honor we can bestow upon them and others, such as my brother Owen, who dedicated their hearts and souls to wrestling is to preserve and perpetuate the business that they made so great. Thanks for your time, Vince. While I’m at it,
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I’d also like to offer thanks to you, wrestling fans, because without you, there wouldn’t be any wrestling business. I sincerely hope you’ve enjoyed the read as much as I’ve enjoyed the ride.

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