Straight from the Hart (8 page)

At the time, I figured he might be half sadistic or just want to see what my pain threshold was, but, in retrospect, his emphasis on bump taking and learning how to land properly and avoid injury, while looking like you were endeavoring to inflict it, was great advice. Later on, when I was training other guys myself down in the Dungeon, bump taking was one of the first things I taught them.

StraightFromTheHart.indb 42

10/8/10 5:08:55 PM

♥
STRAIGHT FROM THE HART
♥

Once in a while, my dad would drop down to the Dungeon when Butcher was conducting his training sessions and Martel and I would put on these pseudo-matches, implementing all the fancy moves and high spots that we’d learned — eager to impress him. Most times, he would grunt, kind of dubiously, that we should be focused more on amateur wrestling than on trying to do high spots — making some analogy about eating meat and potatoes rather than our dessert first. All things considered, I don’t think he really took us all that seriously and probably perceived us a bit like little kids putting on our uniforms and trying to play baseball, hockey or whatever, like our major league heroes.

My wrestling aspirations would take an unexpected turn for the better in the summer of ’72 with some help from an unlikely source — reigning world heavyweight champion Dory Funk Jr. Funk used to come up to defend the world title every Stampede Week for my dad and since my dad was usually busy as hell during that time — lining up guest appearances, working on publicity, lining up special guests, getting his float ready for the Stampede parade and all of that — he’d have my brother Dean and me pick Dory up at the airport. We’d chauffeur him around and look after him.

Funk, whose father Dory Sr. had a promotion down in west Texas, seemed to be able to relate to us. Both second generation we became pretty good friends, so much so that he invited Dean and me to come and visit him and his family down in Amarillo. I’m still not sure if he was kidding or not, but we took him up on his offer and set off that August, along with my brother Bret, for what would turn out to be one of those coming-of-age type adventures — kind of like
Stand by Me
.

That was the first time any of us had truly ventured beyond our home turf.

In retrospect, we were naive as hell. As Dean, Bret and I — all of whom had long hair and tended to be unabashed mark types — made our way through these redneck states like Montana, Wyoming, Oklahoma and Texas, we ran into all kinds of hassles and near calamities with anally retentive truckers and narrow minded misfits, who seemed to think we were draft dodgers or hippie radicals from up North, seeking to cause problems in the land of the free and the home of the brave. Even though we endeavored to be as unobtrusive as possible, because of the prevailing norms at the time, we were routinely refused
43

StraightFromTheHart.indb 43

10/8/10 5:08:55 PM

♥
BRUCE HART
♥

service at truck stops and restaurants along the way and on a few occasions found ourselves having to hightail it out of town with vigilantes and rednecks hot on our tails.

After having experiences, on our way down to the Lone Star state, more high spots than a Rey Mysterio/Jeff Hardy pay-per-view match, we finally arrived on Dory Jr.’s doorstep, wide-eyed and eager to hook up with “da champeen.” We were chagrined when his wife, Jimi, informed us that he was still on the road — defending his strap in Florida. She said that his younger brother Terry would entertain us in the meantime.

That was the first time I met Terry Funk, who was one of wrestling’s legendary characters, even back then. He came out to the house and invited us to tag along with him for a show they were having that night in Lubbock — the hometown of Buddy Holly and the Crickets, for all of you rock music trivia types. Given Terry’s superstar status at the time, that would be about like Tom Brady or Peyton Manning asking some wet behind the ears young fans if they’d like to tag along for some big game. We eagerly jumped in Terry’s big Buick Riviera, the kind with the boat-tail back end. We were about to embark on what would prove to be a memorable adventure, or should I say, misadventure.

Shortly after we set out, Terry pulled out a pouch of Red Man Chewing Tobacco and offered me a chaw. Back in Canada, I’d never seen chewing tobacco before, much less used it, but since I didn’t want to appear to be a prude or a wimp, I took a big wad of it and stuffed it in my cheek. Not long after that, Terry began cussing that his electrical system was malfunctioning and that, as a result, his air conditioning and electric windows weren’t working. Since it was well over ninety degrees out, it soon became quite stifling in the car. In the meantime, I was still chewing my big wad of tobacco and being the naive mark that I was back then, I had no idea that you were supposed to spit out the juice, rather than swallow it.

My head soon began to swim and my guts began to churn and I finally had to ask Terry to pull over, so I could puke my guts out. Terry, I noticed, seemed to be having trouble keeping a straight face and once I’d finished my upchucking on the side of the road, the air conditioning and power windows, somewhat miraculously, seemed to start working again. Just before we pulled into Lubbock,
44

StraightFromTheHart.indb 44

10/8/10 5:08:55 PM

♥
STRAIGHT FROM THE HART
♥

Terry said he had an angle in mind, which entailed me pretending to be a mark in the crowd and running into the ring on the finish to save local hero Dick Murdoch. Murdoch would be caught in the Russian sleeper hold, being applied by the dastardly Boris Malenko — their top heel.

I told Terry I’d be happy to give it a shot. Since I was supposed to appear to be a “mark,” Terry didn’t want us to be seen getting out of his car or walking in with him, so he dropped us off what he said was a block or so from the building — which proved to be a mile or two. When we finally made it to the arena and sat down ringside and proceeded to play our roles — hardcore mark types — booing, cheering and whatnot, our actions seemed to rub some of the rednecks we were sitting near the wrong way and we almost got into a fight or two with them.

During the main event, when Malenko got his dreaded Russian sleeper hold on Murdoch, I slid under the bottom rope and jumped on Malenko’s back, piggyback style.

I should note that I’d never met either Malenko or Murdoch before this and I sensed something was wrong, as Malenko tensed up and I heard him telling Murdoch “some fucking mark just jumped on my back.” He then gave me a stiff head mare onto the mat. As I was lying on the mat, I saw him wrapping the chain around his fist and drawing back to clobber me with it. Wide-eyed and scared shitless, I began shouting, “Kayfabe, kayfabe,” which is the wrestler’s way of letting the other guy know that you’re not a mark. He looked at me, kind of perplexed and I shouted, “Terry Funk told me to run in on the finish.” Malenko and Murdoch looked at each other, kind of puzzled and Murdoch then snarled,

“That fucking Terry and his ribs.”

At that point, I suddenly found myself surrounded by cops, who handcuffed me and dragged my ass out of the ring. They threw me in the back of their police cruiser and I was contemplating having to spend the night in a southern jail — which, based on movies I’d seen, was nothing to look forward to.

My spirits brightened momentarily when I saw Terry Funk come out the back door of the arena and approach the police cruiser. I figured that he’d tell the cops everything was cool, but he instead launched into an Academy Award–deserving rant about how I’d endangered the safety of thousands of
45

StraightFromTheHart.indb 45

10/8/10 5:08:55 PM

♥
BRUCE HART
♥

fans, beseeching the cops to lock me up and throw the keys away. He then stormed off in a huff, making out to be incensed and leaving me to ponder how I was going to get my ass out of this sling.

Luckily, just after that, Lord Alfred Hayes — who later gained fame and acclaim in the WWF — came up to the cop car and, in his very proper British accent, pleaded for leniency. He told the cops that I’d got caught up in the heat of the match and attested that he could vouch for me. Much to my relief, the cops agreed to let me go.

I’m not sure if that was some kind of routine initiation for the new kid on the block, but after having paid my dues, Terry and I had a good laugh. We would go on to become great friends; he remains one of the people I respect and admire most in the business. I might add that I’ve since pulled more than my share of ribs and practical jokes and would impart the tricks of the trade to disciples of mine, such as my brother Owen and Brian Pillman. A bit of comic relief, I’ve come to find, is often a good antidote to the drudgery of life on the road and anyone who can’t laugh at themselves really doesn’t belong in this business.

A few days after the Lubbock escapade, Dory Jr. arrived and took Dean, Bret and me out to his father Dory Sr.’s Double Cross Ranch for a barbecue.

Dory Sr. was a lot like my dad — one of those salty, old-school types who are fiercely protective of the business. Beneath the rough exterior, he had a really big heart.

Like my dad’s territory, Dory Sr.’s placed a premium on old-school wrestling and they respected the business implicitly. They’d broken in numerous great workers and their credo was much the same as the Dungeon — “fight to survive and survive to fight.” Dory Sr. would also test the mettle of guys before deeming them worthy of being broken in. If they came through his trial by fire, they were treated like gold after that. Like in Calgary, they would turn out some marvelous workers, including the likes of Dick Murdoch, Dusty Rhodes, Stan Hansen, Bobby Duncum, Jumbo Tsuruta, Ricky Romero and, later on, guys like Ted DiBiase, Jay Youngblood and Tully Blanchard — all of whom were also people of great character.

StraightFromTheHart.indb 46

10/8/10 5:08:55 PM

♥
STRAIGHT FROM THE HART
♥

At the barbecue, over a steak and a few Coors, Dory Sr. and I had a pretty wide ranging and enlightening discussion about different elements of the wrestling business. He was curious to know about my involvement in the business, back home. I replied that I’d been training for the past year and a half, but since I was still only about 175 pounds, my dad figured I was too damn small. Dory Sr. frowned pensively and said that shouldn’t be holding me back and the next thing I knew, he was on the phone to my dad: “Stu, it’s Dory Funk, I’m here with your son Bruce and he tells me he wants to get in the ring, but you think he’s too damn small.” He then proceeded to rattle off the names of a bunch of other stars who hadn’t been all that big, including Verne Gagne, Angelo Savoldi, Nelson Royal, Pepper Gomez and Tony Borne, and then asked my dad if, as a favor to him, he could at least give me a shot. I had no idea what my dad was saying from his end, but I heard Senior thank him — which, I figured, must be a good sign.

After he got off the phone, Senior said that my dad had agreed to give me a shot, but he wanted me to remember that just because I was the son of a legend, that didn’t mean that I was guaranteed an easy ride. If anything, that should oblige me to try even harder.

He then gave me some advice that made a lasting impression on me. He said that he’d seen many a guy who’d been given a push and that they’d let it go to their heads and become big marks for themselves — which was a contradiction of what it was all about. He therefore made me promise him that if I ever did make it in wrestling, I’d keep things in perspective and never become a mark for myself. After I got back from Amarillo, I really began to step up the intensity level of my workouts and, true to his word, my dad assured me he was looking to get me started.

There was one more hurdle in my way though — my dad’s booker, Dave Ruhl. Even though I’d always gotten along with him and figured he’d done a decent job with the booking since he’d taken it back in 1966, I’d often heard the wrestlers complain that he was a mark for himself and used to push his own story lines at the expense of young, up-and-coming faces — whom he saw as a threat to his position. Since I’d never been in the ring thus far and had only refereed, I’d never experienced that type of thing myself. During one of the
47

StraightFromTheHart.indb 47

10/8/10 5:08:55 PM

♥
BRUCE HART
♥

shows I was refereeing, I had a chance to speak to Dave and mentioned to him that I was hoping to get into the ring soon.

Dave kind of looked at me as if I was some little kid and said that he doubted any of the boys would want to get in the ring with a skinny, wet behind the ears punk, as he put it. Because my dad was signing his checks though, he tried to make out as if he was on my side and gave me this sanctimonious pep talk that if I were to say my prayers, eat my vitamins and pump iron — or something to that effect — I could perhaps come back in a few years and he’d see what he could do for me. I wasn’t too thrilled with Dave’s response and pretty much figured that I was back to square one — as far as my wrestling aspirations went.

A few weeks later though, a funny thing happened on the way to the forum, or actually on the way to the Regina Auditorium, which would put a different complexion on everything. While en route to Regina, Dave got into an altercation with another wrestler, Carlos Colon (father of WWE performer Carlito), reportedly over the affections of some ring rat. Dave suffered a fractured skull, which would mark the end of his wrestling career.

StraightFromTheHart.indb 48

10/8/10 5:08:55 PM