by Lex Luger
Over the next few months, my career as The Narcissist was going well. Fans reacted enthusiastically wherever I went. In June, Vince asked me to come to his office at WWF headquarters. I didn’t know what was up; it was highly unusual for him to pull a wrestler off the road for a meeting. That’s when he surprised me with a new story line: I was now going to be one of the organization’s star babyfaces, a coveted position. My days as a heel were over. I would soon be revealed as “The All-American,” the WWF’s most beloved patriot, introduced at an exhibition aboard the USS Intrepid.
Located at Pier 86 on the west side of Manhattan, the famed aircraft carrier had been commissioned in World War II for service in the Pacific against the Japanese, provided air support for American troops in Vietnam, and dispatched helicopters to pick up NASA astronauts in the 1960s after they returned from their missions. The warship, now a permanent museum, had patriotism written all over it.
It seemed fitting that the exhibition was scheduled on July 4, 1993, with WWF world heavyweight champion and Japanese wrestler Yokozuna, who challenged anyone to body slam him—all six hundred pounds of him. He claimed it could never be done.
Yokozuna, boasting that nobody had ever lifted him off his feet, began the exhibition with twenty of the biggest, strongest athletes on the planet—NFL players, NBA players, wrestlers, powerlifters, and bodybuilders—all taking turns at trying to slam the mammoth man down, with no success. Yokozuna laughed at their feeble attempts.
“Is this the best America has?” he scoffed, much to the chagrin of the crowd on hand to celebrate the nation’s birthday. “Americans are so weak! Isn’t there anybody in America who has what it takes?”
While Yokozuna was inciting the crowd, I was climbing aboard a helicopter a few miles away for a hair-raising ride. The pilot was under extreme pressure to land on the ship at the exact moment planned, so once I got in, we were airborne. The door was wide open, and I didn’t even have my seat belt buckled before we were speeding on our way. I held on to the seat for dear life. I was convinced I was going to fall out of the helicopter and plummet into the Hudson River below!
As the helicopter began its descent to the ship, fans aboard the Intrepid were momentarily stunned, unsure of what it was doing there. Then I popped out in a distinctly all-American look of faded blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a red, white, and blue shirt as the Made in the USA theme song blasted through the speakers. I shoved my heel manager, Bobby Heenan, aside and jumped into the ring to defend my country’s honor.
Yokozuna was massive, but I always called him “the dancing bear” because he was so incredibly nimble for a man his size. He was undoubtedly the most talented big man in the business. Because of his immense girth, it was difficult to reach and grab Yoko—let alone slam him.
He had to help you, of course, but even then, picking Yoko up required coordination and perfect timing. It was imperative that your feet were set correctly to provide a strong foundation for him to come up on you so that you could turn him. It required really powerful legs, or he’d run completely over you and make you an ink spot on the mat.
Yoko and I had rehearsed everything about a week earlier at the WWF’s nearby headquarters in Connecticut. I had been in my running shoes that afternoon; now, I was in cowboy boots. The boots certainly added to my look, but I knew immediately there would be problems. As soon as I slid into the ring, I began to lose my footing.
When we were nose-to-nose, I began to panic. “Yoko, I’m not gonna be able to do it, I’m not gonna be able to do it. I feel like I’m on ice skates in these boots! I’ve got no footing.”
“No problem, brudda,” he said calmly. “I got ya. Just do your best to stay on your feet.”
As scripted beforehand, he took a swing at me, and I ducked under it before countering with several powerful blows. Yoko rebounded as he was supposed to and tossed me into a turnbuckle.
As he charged me in an attempt to squash me in the turnbuckle, I was supposed to jump out of the way at the last second. When I moved, Yokozuna would hit the turnbuckle and then stagger back out, facing me, so that I could body slam him.
Yokozuna slowed up enough as he bounced off the turnbuckle to avoid running me over before performing an acrobatic turn in midair that gave me the footing I needed. In essence, he sort of body slammed himself.
The crowd went absolutely nuts. On camera, I looked pretty excited, but the truth was that I was more relieved that we had pulled it off.
My professional persona was suddenly as all-American as Mom and apple pie. And just like a politician, I was ready to meet my adoring fans during a barnstorming campaign to build up excitement for my shot at the WWF title against Yokozuna at SummerSlam.
I met lots of moms, dads, and kids—fans of all ages—when the Lex Express bus rolled out for the six-week cross-country promotion. After the exhibition in July, Vince had said to me, “If I put the world title on you, I’m not sure if it will be at SummerSlam or at next year’s WrestleMania at Madison Square Garden.”
I wasn’t concerned about whether or not I was going to get the heavyweight title. That was Vince’s decision, not mine. As always, I trusted his instincts. I knew that this promotional tour was a way to give a big push for an individual character leading up to a pay-per-view event.
There were three of us riding down the highway together—a driver, a publicist, and me. We pulled out of the WWF headquarters in Stamford, Connecticut, and began the whirlwind trip. At the first stop in Danbury, Connecticut, we met eight thousand fans waiting for my autograph at Meeker’s Hardware store, a historical landmark. Four hours later, I had to stop signing and just shake the rest of the fans’ hands so we could head to Boston. It was nonstop from 5 a.m. until 9 p.m. in city after city, small and large. The publicist and others had done their jobs well on relatively short notice to give me the most exposure on a variety of media. In the early mornings, I’d be featured on radio talk shows, do local TV talk shows, fit in two autograph signings a day at large stores or other venues, stop at local landmarks for photo ops, make guest appearances on early-evening news shows, do a segment with the weather guys, and if I had any energy left, I’d try to hit a gym and work out, too. I didn’t travel with any security; we were on our own. I would catch a nap on the bus when I could, and we would stay at hotels to get some needed sleep before going hard the next day.
Fans showed up in large numbers everywhere we went. I distinctly remember a huge crowd in Denver, Colorado—the line snaked around a Toys“R”Us twice. I don’t know how many showed up, but it was extremely hot that day, so bottles of water were handed out to everyone. At Mount Rushmore in South Dakota, the plan was for me to stop for a photo op. As soon as we parked the bus, it was swarmed by fans. I had to use the fire escape hatch to get up on the roof, where I posed with four presidential faces behind me. Vince flew my family in to travel with me on the bus for a few days, which I greatly appreciated.
We put serious miles on the Lex Express—hitting states from the East Coast to the West Coast and back.
On August 30, 1993, at the Palace in Auburn Hills, Michigan, the SummerSlam showdown took place. Yokozuna and I began the match. However, I don’t remember much after that. One of his leg drops was slightly off, and his backside landed on top of my head. I was dazed for most of the remainder of the match. With such a massive body hitting me, my head could have been crushed like a coconut. Luckily it wasn’t. The truth was, Yoko was a careful technician in the ring. He knew if he ever got sloppy, someone could get seriously hurt. I was glad it wasn’t me that night. The match ended with a countout, with Yokozuna unconscious outside the ring. It wasn’t the world title win that most of the fans in the building were hoping for.
Vince decided to keep Yoko and me separated until WrestleMania X in March.
With the US economy in a slump, the wrestling industry was feeling some of the fallout too. But Vince always had a plan B. Because the WWF was global, we traveled to shows in Canada, Europe, and other parts of the world
to give the domestic market a rest. The arenas abroad were always packed, since we rarely traveled overseas. Even though portraying The All-American could be challenging abroad, I was relatively well received wherever we went.
At that time, one of my traveling buddies in the States and abroad was Bret “The Hitman” Hart. I have to be honest—Bret is responsible for one addiction I still have to this day. It started when we landed at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago for a show.
We had gotten our bags into the rental car and were ready to head to our hotel.
“Wait!” Bret said. “I have to run back inside the airport and get some coffee!”
“What? We can get coffee at the hotel.”
“No, I have to get it here.”
“You mean you’re going to go back through security to get some coffee?”
“Yeah. Wait here and I’ll be back.”
Bret came back with two cups of Starbucks dark roast coffee. I wasn’t a coffee drinker before that cup of Starbucks—I had gotten my caffeine from energy drinks—but from that moment, I was hooked. For years, Bret was my coffee buddy whenever we’d travel together. In Europe, one of our first priorities would be to find the closest café. Today, I am always ready with my Starbucks Gold Card.
Traveling had its perks and its challenges. It was great to see new places. But at times, it could become grueling. We had to carry so much stuff, we felt like pack mules. I would always carry one bag specifically for my wrestling gear, one bag full of workout clothes, and a third one for street clothes. I did get packing down to a science—I just rotated the clean stuff to the top and moved the clothes I had worn to the bottom of my suitcase in plastic bags, separated by towels.
I was doing more than separating clothes in my suitcase; I was starting to fall into a double life, separating my life on the road from my life at home. I remembered Matsuda’s advice about creating a fire wall between my profession and my family. But I used it to rationalize what I was doing. Everywhere we traveled, women were there. There was a serious unwritten code called “the wrestler’s honor.” Whatever happened on the road, stayed on the road. It was nobody’s business to tell another wrestler’s wife or girlfriend about anything that happened, especially when it came to other women. If you broke that code, you were blackballed by your peers.
It happened slowly, but the infidelities began to creep into my life. I would meet an attractive woman at the gym or the tanning salon or a restaurant—or wherever—in the cities on the circuit. So I’d think, As long as I go home and am a devoted husband and father, I can keep the two separate and distinct. It was a secret life with no accountability—or so I thought.
I felt that there was enough silence among my peers and enough distance from my family to keep my infidelities from Peggy. Back then, there weren’t fans with camera phones who could catch you in an indiscretion and immediately put it on the Internet for all the world—and your family—to see. Still, if I was honest, I knew my actions went against everything I had been taught. I had been raised by my parents never to lie; now I was living a lie.
On January 22, 1994, Bret Hart and I were among the thirty wrestlers assembled at the Providence Civic Center in Rhode Island for the main event on the card: the Royal Rumble match, whose winner would face Yokozuna at WrestleMania X. In a royal rumble, it’s every man for himself, with a new challenger coming into the ring about every two minutes. There is only one rule: you eliminate your opponent—or opponents—by throwing him over the top rope. His feet must touch the floor outside the ring. The last man standing in the ring wins.
On this night, it was scripted that Bret and I would be the last two men in the ring. In the end, before the finish, Bret was supposed to cross-body me over the top rope and to the floor, where it was hoped we would both land simultaneously. Bret executed this move so well that not even the camera replays could detect who hit the ground first. It was pure luck. WWF president Jack Tunney made the final determination: we were cowinners, which was a great story line.
“That’s just our good coffee mojo, Bret,” I told him afterward.
Two days later on Monday Night Raw, the announcement was made that we both qualified for WrestleMania X—and a shot at the title against Yokozuna.
WrestleMania X was slated for March 20, 1994, at Madison Square Garden. Peg and the kids came up from Atlanta and stayed with me at the Plaza Hotel that weekend, in a beautiful suite overlooking Central Park. We had a nice weekend together.
I wrestled Yoko first (determined by a coin flip), and Curt Hennig was our special referee (he was usually a heel). Vince had already told me I wouldn’t win the title. Curt did some shenanigans in the ring and disqualified me. That created a feud angle between Curt and me after WrestleMania. I was looking forward to working with Curt, but unfortunately it never came to pass because Curt and the management couldn’t come to terms on a contract. Later that night, Bret took the world heavyweight championship title, and I was truly happy for him.
After WrestleMania X, they brought in “The British Bulldog,” Davey Boy Smith, who at the time was Bret Hart’s brother-in-law. Just like Bret and I had, we hit it off immediately. We began working out and traveling together on the road, enjoying each other’s company. We had a lot in common; our kids were even the exact same ages. When we worked in England, we stayed at his parents’ house and would drive around in his green Jaguar sedan. It broke the monotony of traveling on the bus and staying at hotels. Eventually, we were scripted as a tag team, known as the Allied Powers. We became a hit with the fans, especially in Europe, where Davey Boy was wildly popular. He was like a British rock star.
In late 1994, no one in the WWF was making big money because of the economic slump. My two-year contract was coming to an end, and it was time for me to renew. I was thinking of ways to make money on top of my wrestling contract, so I asked Vince if I could do some things outside of wrestling with fitness and nutrition. He said he’d think about it and get back to me. In the past, he’d often been burned by wrestlers who would ask to do “extracurricular” things and then never come back.
As negotiations continued, my contract expired in March 1995. I was now working for Vince on a handshake. We were both still optimistic that we would reach an agreement.
By the late summer, an innocent phone conversation between Sting and me would redirect my future.
Sting and I had remained the best of friends and business partners, even though we were working for two different companies. We stayed in touch by phone on a regular basis, and when we were both home, our families got together as often as we could.
In August of 1995, we were catching up on the phone when I mentioned that I was technically not under contract with the WWF.
“Wait a minute,” Sting stopped me. “What do you mean you’re technically not under contract?”
“I haven’t been under contract for six months.” I explained what Vince and I had been discussing and that I was working on a handshake until we agreed to terms.
I could hear the disbelief in Sting’s voice as he clarified for himself what I had just said. “So you are not under any written contract for Vince McMahon, but you’re still on his television series doing house shows for him?”
“Yeah.”
“So contractually, you’re a free agent right now.”
“Well, I’m not planning to go anywhere, but yes, technically you’re correct.”
And then he gave me the scoop. The WCW was planning to go head-to-head against the WWF on Monday night television with a live show called Nitro, in the same time slot as WWF’s show Raw. The WWF had always dominated the television ratings for wrestling, while the WCW remained a distant second.
The new show sounded exciting. “That’s pretty cool!” I said.
“Man, have you ever considered coming back here?” Before I could respond, Sting continued, “If you ever have, now might be a good time. If you don’t mind, I’ll make an inquiry with Eric Bischoff.” Bischoff was essentially
the Vince McMahon of the WCW.
“Well, I guess it couldn’t hurt,” I said, not thinking it would amount to anything.
It didn’t take long before Sting called me back and said, “Eric’s interested in possibly bringing you back. He wants to talk to you about it in person.”
Since all of this information about the upcoming program was hush-hush, the three of us arranged a secret meeting at Sting’s house. I had met Bischoff before, but this was the first time I had ever sat down with him. He was intrigued with the idea of my return to the WCW, but he made two things clear:
(1) There weren’t going to be any big financial guarantees, and (2) the element of surprise was critical.
“Are you saying I can’t give Vince any kind of notice?” I asked him.
“That is correct.”
“Wow, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that. Can I think about it?”
“No problem, but I’d like to know as soon as possible if you decide to come with us,” he replied.
Between that conversation with Bischoff and the final weekend of August, I had received another revised contract from Vince, with many points of contention that we still needed to work out. I was disappointed that we weren’t closer to an agreement, but I was still hopeful. I left a message for Vince to call me at his earliest convenience. I carried that revised contract with me wherever I went. Just in case we connected on the phone, I wanted to have it in front of me. He finally called on September 1, 1995, in the early afternoon, catching me before my scheduled Friday match that evening in Moncton, New Brunswick.
It was a cordial conversation, but after I hung up the phone, it suddenly hit me. We’re not any closer on this than we were six months ago. In my heart of hearts, I believed Vince was trying to come up with something, but I realized it just wasn’t going to happen. My options were clear: I would either wrestle for Vince under a standard contract, or I would do something else.
