Straight from the Hart (6 page)

BOOK: Straight from the Hart
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When the territory reopened I began to see the wrestling business in a totally different light. As I mentioned, when I was a kid I thought it was real and took everything at face value. Later on, in my adolescence — like a kid who outgrew Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny — I came to realize that wrestling wasn’t exactly as I’d perceived. But I still allowed myself to indulge in the ostensible realism of the story lines, because, quite simply, wrestling was more fun that way.

Now, with so much now riding on the success or failure of those story lines, I was far more acutely aware of what worked and what didn’t and as such took a far keener interest in the whys and wherefores of the business. Although wrestling tends to come across as individualistic, I came to realize that it’s really more of a team endeavor — kind of like football — with everyone having defined roles, all of which are integral parts of the ultimate success or failure of the whole group. In football, the head coach devises the game plans, gives them to the team and endeavors to inspire or motivate them to rise to the occasion

— which is the equivalent, in wrestling, to the booker.

Beyond that, in most promotions back then, the pivotal figure, or “go-to guy”

— the equivalent of the quarterback on a football team — was always the top
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heel. Almost any territory that enjoyed any kind of success back then invariably had a dominant ass-kicker of a heel on top, usually wearing the belt or “strap,” as they used to call it, in the territory. In that respect, they were much the same as any great football team, none of which attained a level of success if they didn’t have some dynamic performer such as Joe Montana, Tom Brady, Peyton Manning or John Elway leading the charge.

The main role of the lead heel, of course, was to get heat or make the fans want to see him get his arrogant ass kicked by some hot babyface. The babyfaces, or “faces,” as they’re called these days, would line up to challenge the lead heel

— much like challengers used to get in line to face boxing champions like Muhammad Ali or Joe Louis. Quite often, the match was cast as a David and Goliath showdown, with the face invariably being the game but overmatched underdog — which made him more appealing, since the average wrestling fan tends to be an underdog type himself. In most cases, the face would eventually be overcome by the big, bad wolf — usually after having worked a “program” (wrestling parlance for a series of matches), which would culminate in some kind of big blowoff like a cage match, or loser-leave-town stipulation.

At that point the vanquished babyface would typically leave the territory and head for another port of call, while the lead heel would remain on hand, like the mythical Minotaur, to take the next sacrificial offering thrown on his plate

— and so on and so forth. If the top heel was drawing and able to sustain his heat, he’d remain on top for months, sometimes years, until he finally did the honors (lost) — usually to some hot, new face, or on occasion some even more dastardly new heel that was deemed worthy of ascending to the top.

Slightly below the top heels and faces on the depth chart in most territories were tag teams — faces, heels and often brother tandems, such as the Scott, Tolos or Vachon brothers. The tag teams were usually capable of putting in quality time and also served to warm up the crowd for the main events that followed.

Just below the tags were the “carpenters” — no, not the anorexic singer and her marginally talented, tagging along for the ride brother — but guys whose role was to put over or build up (hence the handle, carpenter) the guys who were being projected to work in main events. Over the years I’ve seen some awesome
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workers who were carpenters, including Gil Hayes, the Cuban Assassin, Dennis Stamp, Duke Myers, Arn Anderson and Eric Froelich, as well as modern day performers, such as William Regal and Chavo Guerrero Jr. — any of whom had more talent than most of the guys they were putting over but instead sacrificed themselves for the cause.

At the bottom of the wrestling pecking order were the lowly jobbers. Unlike the carpenters — who won some and lost some — the jobbers tended to be the hapless whipping boys. They were kind of like wrestling’s equivalent of pawns on a chessboard. In many cases, jobbers were old-timers on the downhill slide, or unproven rookies just trying to gain some experience. It’s worth noting that in the old days of the territories many a “jabroney” — as the Rock used to not so fondly refer to them — including the likes of Harley Race, Ric Flair, the Iron Sheik, Sgt. Slaughter, the Iron Sheik and even at one time the immortal Gorgeous George, began their careers getting endlessly squashed (annihilated) in one territory, only to become stars somewhere else.

Although that overview might seem a trifle simplistic, it pretty much sums up the pecking order in a typical territory back in the day. Even though the stars often used to take all the bows for the success of any given territory, in actuality, the chain, as my dad used to point out, was only as strong as its weakest link.

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In those days, every successful promotion had some dynamic ass-kicking alpha heel as their meal ticket. In the past, our territory had had its share of awesome lead heels, many of whom I’ve already alluded to, but, in 1969, a new villain would emerge, superseding all who’d gone before — a one-man wrecking crew by the name of Archie “The Stomper” Gouldie.

Any heel worth his salt, of course, has the ability to get heat and make the fans’ blood boil, but one of the things that really sets the great ones apart is their innate ability to make anyone they’re working with look like a world beater. The Stomper was one of the best I’ve ever seen at this. On many an occasion, he would be matched up with run-of-the-mill faces. They hadn’t set the world on fire up until that time, but when they worked with Gouldie they’d suddenly be seen as balls to the wall firebrands. The other thing that really set Archie apart as far as I was concerned was his intensity. Everything about him — from his fierce promos, to his basic black trunks and boots, and brush cut (much like modern day contemporaries Randy Orton and Stone Cold Steve Austin) —

was compelling and eminently believable.

My dad had a long running “feud” with Stomper — like the ostensible one between Vince McMahon and Stone Cold Steve Austin in the ’90s. Like some
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wrestling personification of the big, bad wolf, Archie was always threatening my dad and the rest of our clan, vowing he was going to come over to our house and run roughshod. Even though I was long since “smart” to the business his promos sounded so sinister that sometimes my brothers, sisters and I uneasily wondered if he might be serious.

With Archie ruling the roost in the spring of 1969, our business, which hadn’t been drawing bad since we’d reopened but hadn’t really taken off yet either, finally exploded. We would go on to have our big breakout season — by far the best since the great run Killer Kowalski, Nick Bockwinkel and company had authored back in 1960–1961.

With business doing well, my dad was finally able to breathe easier. It was nice to see him be able to indulge in getting the house — which had fallen into disrepair — fixed and to buy a new Cadillac and several pairs of Tony Lama ostrich and alligator cowboy boots. Cadillacs and cowboy boots were probably my dad’s only two indulgences.

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While our promotion was enjoying breakout success heading into the summer of 1969, a similar phenomenon was also taking place all over North America, with the emergence of a dynamic new NWA world champion, Dory Funk Jr., who had defeated Gene Kiniski for the strap that January.

I’m not sure why, but whenever Kiniski had worked our territory, the matches were always flat, so much so that when we announced that the NWA champion was coming in to defend his belt, on most occasions our gates tended to go down. People almost came to expect an uninspiring match that would invariably be decided by some lame finish, like a count out or disqualification.

Funk though would prove to be like a breath of fresh air to the wrestling business — kind of like when Larry Bird, Magic Johnson and Michael Jordan revitalized the NBA in the early ’80s after it had been in a prolonged swoon.

In early May, my dad got a call from da new champeen, Funk, who related that he had a weekend off in early June and wanted to know if my dad would like him to come up, to help boost the gates for Stampede Week, a month hence, in July. Seeing as Funk was, at that time, the hottest thing in the business, my dad was delighted to take him up on his offer and booked him against the Stomper.

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They ended up having a hell of a match, which would set things up perfectly for their Stampede Week rematch a month later — or so it appeared at the time.

That same night, a new babyface from England named Billy Robinson made his North American debut in our territory and his repertoire of quasi amateur moves, such as suplexes and saltows, combined with the high-tech Euro style, made for a compelling hybrid — the likes of which fans in our neck of the woods had never been exposed to before and were captivated by. Since there was a three week interlude leading up to Stampede Week and because Robinson had gotten over so well, my dad decided to throw Robinson and Stomper together for a few weeks, with the plan being for Robinson to put Stomper over to prime him for his big world title return against Funk. On paper, it looked like a good idea, and most of the fans seemed to think the same, because the following week, the Pavilion was packed, with people clamoring to see the new English sensation tackle the indomitable Stomper.

BOOK: Straight from the Hart
10.5Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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