looked over my shoulder as I snipped a quarter section of razor blade. I cut the top corner at an angle, taped all but the exposed point and then taped the blade onto the wrist tape on my left arm.
Despite being known as a despicable heel, Norman settled into a basic babyface match with me and, after fifteen minutes of clean wrestling, the crowd started to buy it. As we broke clean on the ropes, Norman said, “Are you ready, kid?”
“Yeah.”
As I came at him, he side-stepped me and threw me out onto the floor. He followed me out of the ring and reached into his trunks and slid on his brass knuckles; which were really just paper napkins, tightly taped together.
He nailed me. Down I went.
I had the blade in my hand now. I rolled onto my stomach, jabbed it deep into my head and cut.
Nothing.
I cut again.
Still nothing.
And then, suddenly, blood poured all over my face. Hot blood. My blood.
I heard Norman say, “Jesus Christ, kid, it’s a good one.” He dragged me back to the ring. Because the crowd had fallen for his babyface act, they were livid. As I desperately fought back, the fans got behind me even more because in their hearts they knew it’d been their fault for encouraging me to trust him. I staggered through the match with blood running down my face until Norman said, “Let’s go home, kid.”
On my knees and totally at his mercy, we locked hands as Norman planted some last kicks to my ribs. Suddenly I rolled onto my back, prying Norman’s legs apart with my feet, tucking his head and collapsing him into a sunset flip out of nowhere.
The ref counted one . . . two . . . three!
The crowd jumped to its feet with a roar as Norman sat up with a stunned look on his face. As the referee handed me the belt, Norman jumped me from behind, knocked me flat and stomped out of the ring. After he left, I got up slowly and raised the British Junior Heavyweight belt over my head. I walked down the aisle to pats on the back and words of praise from the fans.
In the dressing room, Norman congratulated me, then inspected the cut on my forehead, which was an inch long and right to the bone: “Nice job, kid.” Then, with a goofy grin, he said, “Now I better show you how to make a butterfly bandage.” And off we went to the sink.
What a strange business.
That November, Ross thought it might be interesting to throw my brother Keith and me together as a tag combo, since Stu’s tag champs, the Castillo Brothers, had nobody to work with, and I had no real opponents as Junior Heavyweight Champ. When I walked into the dressing room in Edmonton on the day of our first match, I found Ross talking to Raul Castillo. Ross turned to me to say, “Raul has a family emergency. They’re going back to Puerto Rico. Dad says you and Keith will have to take the tag belts tonight.”
And that’s how I became the holder of not one but two title belts so early in my career. I knew that both were not likely to be mine for long, but Stu, Ross and I decided that it might do good business for me to hold on to the title for a little while after Dynamite got back, so he could go after Norman, defeating him to avenge the knee injury. Then he’d come after me. I wanted desperately to work with Tom, learn from him and maybe even impress him with how much I’d improved since our last struggle of a match back in May. I wanted to put Tom over so that he could see clearly that he was our champion and that I was only holding the belt for him; it never occurred to me that Tom might assume that I was just another spoiled promoter’s kid, out for easy glory.
Anyone watching Dynamite and me wrestle for the three weeks leading up to our Boxing Day match in December 1978 would have had plenty of reasons to think it was real. Under the guise of
“working,” Tom stiffed me, over and over, until I just did the same back to him. One minute he’d smash me right in the face or kick me as hard as he could or simply throw me with complete disregard,
Despite being known as a despicable heel, Norman settled into a basic babyface match with me and, after fifteen minutes of clean wrestling, the crowd started to buy it. As we broke clean on the ropes, Norman said, “Are you ready, kid?”
“Yeah.”
As I came at him, he side-stepped me and threw me out onto the floor. He followed me out of the ring and reached into his trunks and slid on his brass knuckles; which were really just paper napkins, tightly taped together.
He nailed me. Down I went.
I had the blade in my hand now. I rolled onto my stomach, jabbed it deep into my head and cut.
Nothing.
I cut again.
Still nothing.
And then, suddenly, blood poured all over my face. Hot blood. My blood.
I heard Norman say, “Jesus Christ, kid, it’s a good one.” He dragged me back to the ring. Because the crowd had fallen for his babyface act, they were livid. As I desperately fought back, the fans got behind me even more because in their hearts they knew it’d been their fault for encouraging me to trust him. I staggered through the match with blood running down my face until Norman said, “Let’s go home, kid.”
On my knees and totally at his mercy, we locked hands as Norman planted some last kicks to my ribs. Suddenly I rolled onto my back, prying Norman’s legs apart with my feet, tucking his head and collapsing him into a sunset flip out of nowhere.
The ref counted one . . . two . . . three!
The crowd jumped to its feet with a roar as Norman sat up with a stunned look on his face. As the referee handed me the belt, Norman jumped me from behind, knocked me flat and stomped out of the ring. After he left, I got up slowly and raised the British Junior Heavyweight belt over my head. I walked down the aisle to pats on the back and words of praise from the fans.
In the dressing room, Norman congratulated me, then inspected the cut on my forehead, which was an inch long and right to the bone: “Nice job, kid.” Then, with a goofy grin, he said, “Now I better show you how to make a butterfly bandage.” And off we went to the sink.
What a strange business.
That November, Ross thought it might be interesting to throw my brother Keith and me together as a tag combo, since Stu’s tag champs, the Castillo Brothers, had nobody to work with, and I had no real opponents as Junior Heavyweight Champ. When I walked into the dressing room in Edmonton on the day of our first match, I found Ross talking to Raul Castillo. Ross turned to me to say, “Raul has a family emergency. They’re going back to Puerto Rico. Dad says you and Keith will have to take the tag belts tonight.”
And that’s how I became the holder of not one but two title belts so early in my career. I knew that both were not likely to be mine for long, but Stu, Ross and I decided that it might do good business for me to hold on to the title for a little while after Dynamite got back, so he could go after Norman, defeating him to avenge the knee injury. Then he’d come after me. I wanted desperately to work with Tom, learn from him and maybe even impress him with how much I’d improved since our last struggle of a match back in May. I wanted to put Tom over so that he could see clearly that he was our champion and that I was only holding the belt for him; it never occurred to me that Tom might assume that I was just another spoiled promoter’s kid, out for easy glory.
Anyone watching Dynamite and me wrestle for the three weeks leading up to our Boxing Day match in December 1978 would have had plenty of reasons to think it was real. Under the guise of
“working,” Tom stiffed me, over and over, until I just did the same back to him. One minute he’d smash me right in the face or kick me as hard as he could or simply throw me with complete disregard,
Similar Books
