and then, just as suddenly, he’d be working again, calling spots and taking bumps for me.
I’ve always felt wrestling was a lot like figure skating, but when your pairs partner is trying to throw you on your head, it stops being art.
When we got back to the dressing room after our first title match, I wasn’t sure whether Dynamite was stiff or if he had it in for me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had actually just learned what would become my signature moves: my pile driver, back breaker, German suplex and what was initially a pretty weak Dory Funk Jr.–style elbow smash, or lifter. They all came from running out of things to do in the face of Dynamite’s onslaught and trying everything I could think of.
We sort of worked all the following week and then dueled it out in Calgary in a return title match that was televised. Even though Dynamite had been stiffing me every night, I was still giving him the benefit of the doubt. I finally realized that Tom was intentionally stiffing me when he intentionally soccer-kicked me in the face just as I was cutting myself. The kick alone was bad enough, but because of the blade, he could have severely injured me. I still can’t think of anything more unprofessional.
The match became a working brawl. Wayne was the referee, and after trying to regain control, he gave up and headed back to the dressing room. There was one little problem. Stu barked at both of us, “We need eight more minutes for TV, goddamn it, right now!”
I was slumped in a turnbuckle, regretting that I’d ever stepped in the ring with The Dynamite Kid. He walked across the ring and offered to shake my hand. I extended my hand despite my doubts, only to have him kick me in the ribs as hard as he could. And just like that we were off again, with Stu filling in as the referee until we gave him his eight more minutes.
When we got back to the dressing room, I made a weak attempt to confront Tom, who was glaring at me, wanting me to. Hito held me back, and I sank into my chair, thinking, What the hell is his problem?
In our third and final week together, we had the only match in which I was going over, in Calgary.
Dynamite broke into an impressive series of cartwheels and a handstand, and then he picked me up, I thought, to slam me. Instead, he slowly fell to the mat with me on top of him, pinning himself for the one . . . two . . . three. The crowd groaned its disapproval at the obvious dive, and I was embarrassed to have my hand raised. The following night I dropped the belt back to Dynamite in Edmonton.
Dealing with Tom was like dealing with a bad-tempered pit bull. I just never knew when he’d take a bite out of me, or why, but I knew that as talented as he was, sooner or later we’d have to make a truce. I was relieved to be done with him, yet sorry he felt the way he did about me.
I was too sore that year to notice Christmas. I could barely move, every bone in my body hurt, I had two black eyes, my lips were cut and swollen and I had a scar on my forehead near the hairline. I’d recently bought this great new invention called a VCR and, on New Year’s Eve 1978, I sat watching a tape of myself for the first time, the televised match where Dynamite and I beat the hell out of each other. Ed Whalen, who’d become the most realistic play-by-play announcer of them all, said, “I am going to apologize to you right here and now. I have been sitting here for forty-eight minutes with my mouth open, watching one of the finest fights I have ever seen. I do not exaggerate.” He wasn’t.
If only Tom would work with me, it’d be magic. Stu was still losing money. Unlike many of the other promoters, he was sincerely devoted to the talent: He always paid his wrestlers, no matter what.
And if one of his rising stars got a break elsewhere, he’d encourage him to go, even if it meant that the Stampede territory limped along. For the most part, this earned Stu the loyalty and respect of his crew, who
I’ve always felt wrestling was a lot like figure skating, but when your pairs partner is trying to throw you on your head, it stops being art.
When we got back to the dressing room after our first title match, I wasn’t sure whether Dynamite was stiff or if he had it in for me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had actually just learned what would become my signature moves: my pile driver, back breaker, German suplex and what was initially a pretty weak Dory Funk Jr.–style elbow smash, or lifter. They all came from running out of things to do in the face of Dynamite’s onslaught and trying everything I could think of.
We sort of worked all the following week and then dueled it out in Calgary in a return title match that was televised. Even though Dynamite had been stiffing me every night, I was still giving him the benefit of the doubt. I finally realized that Tom was intentionally stiffing me when he intentionally soccer-kicked me in the face just as I was cutting myself. The kick alone was bad enough, but because of the blade, he could have severely injured me. I still can’t think of anything more unprofessional.
The match became a working brawl. Wayne was the referee, and after trying to regain control, he gave up and headed back to the dressing room. There was one little problem. Stu barked at both of us, “We need eight more minutes for TV, goddamn it, right now!”
I was slumped in a turnbuckle, regretting that I’d ever stepped in the ring with The Dynamite Kid. He walked across the ring and offered to shake my hand. I extended my hand despite my doubts, only to have him kick me in the ribs as hard as he could. And just like that we were off again, with Stu filling in as the referee until we gave him his eight more minutes.
When we got back to the dressing room, I made a weak attempt to confront Tom, who was glaring at me, wanting me to. Hito held me back, and I sank into my chair, thinking, What the hell is his problem?
In our third and final week together, we had the only match in which I was going over, in Calgary.
Dynamite broke into an impressive series of cartwheels and a handstand, and then he picked me up, I thought, to slam me. Instead, he slowly fell to the mat with me on top of him, pinning himself for the one . . . two . . . three. The crowd groaned its disapproval at the obvious dive, and I was embarrassed to have my hand raised. The following night I dropped the belt back to Dynamite in Edmonton.
Dealing with Tom was like dealing with a bad-tempered pit bull. I just never knew when he’d take a bite out of me, or why, but I knew that as talented as he was, sooner or later we’d have to make a truce. I was relieved to be done with him, yet sorry he felt the way he did about me.
I was too sore that year to notice Christmas. I could barely move, every bone in my body hurt, I had two black eyes, my lips were cut and swollen and I had a scar on my forehead near the hairline. I’d recently bought this great new invention called a VCR and, on New Year’s Eve 1978, I sat watching a tape of myself for the first time, the televised match where Dynamite and I beat the hell out of each other. Ed Whalen, who’d become the most realistic play-by-play announcer of them all, said, “I am going to apologize to you right here and now. I have been sitting here for forty-eight minutes with my mouth open, watching one of the finest fights I have ever seen. I do not exaggerate.” He wasn’t.
If only Tom would work with me, it’d be magic. Stu was still losing money. Unlike many of the other promoters, he was sincerely devoted to the talent: He always paid his wrestlers, no matter what.
And if one of his rising stars got a break elsewhere, he’d encourage him to go, even if it meant that the Stampede territory limped along. For the most part, this earned Stu the loyalty and respect of his crew, who
Similar Books
