After the match, Hawk said, “I’m telling you right now, Animal. If that motherfucker keeps testing me, we’re going to have a problem.”
I tried to calm him down, assuring him that it probably wouldn’t happen again.
Another funny little milestone about that tour was that because we’d now been over to Japan for three different tours, we were granted permission to upgrade our seats on the bus. You see, there was a pecking order on the bus from front to back. The front seats had extra leg room, and only the most established guys in All Japan were allowed to take these seats.
You’d see Baba sitting up there with guys like Ric Flair and Harley Race. I wasted no time in hopping right up there with Baba, happy to be coming along so far in the world. Hawk didn’t care. Sitting in the back with the two Terrys (Gordy and Funk) and getting drunk on beer and sake was good enough for him.
One other thing I remember about those bus rides was that the great masked Mexican wrestler Mil Máscaras never took his mask off. He sat for three-hour rides staring out the window with that mask on. He even ate and drank wearing it.
When the tour finally came to an end on Halloween, I knew the real adventure still awaited me back home, at the altar. Even though I was battered, bruised, and jet-lagged out of my mind, I pretty much stepped right off of the plane and into the church.
On November 1, 1985, I married Julie in an intimate ceremony in front of our parents, my little Joey, who was the ring boy, and Nikita Koloff, who flew in to surprise me as best man. I was so happy to look into the eyes of my beautiful new bride, Julie. We had so much ahead of us to accomplish together as a wedded couple, and I couldn’t wait to start. My new family had begun.
Unfortunately, as was usually the case, I had to cut my stay at home short to get back on the road and bring home the bacon, Animal style. I promised Julie we’d have a honeymoon vacation at a later time, which she understood, as she always did when it came to my crazy schedule.
Hawk, Paul, and I knew we had a serious load ahead of us, starting the day after my wedding. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Since our debut two years before, I had been riding on an amazing high, never wanting it to end. I also knew our hard work was about to pay off with contracts from Crockett. That motivated me more than anything, especially now that I had a son and a wife to take care of at home.
After having been gone from the United States wrestling scene for over a month, Hawk, Paul, and I knew it was time to turn things up a notch. On November 3, we beat the Freebirds in Rosemont, Illinois, working for both the AWA and the NWA.
November of 1985 was an interesting month for a couple more reasons, too. The first was that Hawk and I decided it was time to add a little something extra to our wrestling wardrobe. I was always impressed with the way Ric Flair seemed to have a new $5,000 robe for all of the big shows. He’d make an event out of himself by giving the people a true spectacle that would help take them out of reality, if only for a few minutes.
The escape that pro wrestling offers people is undoubtedly one of the main reasons they spend their hard-earned money on a ticket or PPV in the first place. Wrestlers like Flair respected the fans for their patronage and in turn delivered for them every night, both in flash and performance. I knew the Road Warriors should follow the same philosophy.
I had a friend named Steve Raitt, a singer and sound engineer in Minneapolis (and brother of country singer Bonnie Raitt) whose wife, Lonnie, made outfits for famous performers like Tina Turner. Hawk and I sat for about ten different fitting and design sessions for what would become a badass pair of heavily spiked chain mail leather vests. Lonnie also made matching spiked leather wristbands that covered our entire forearms all the way up to the elbow.
When the finished vests were unveiled, Hawk and I looked at each other, rubbing our hands together like little kids on their birthday. We immediately suited up and looked in the mirror. I’d say we looked more like gladiators at the Colosseum in Rome than wrestlers ready for a match at the Meadowlands in New Jersey. The costumes were perfect.
Hawk’s vest had rows of four-inch polished stainless steel spikes in sections near his chest and on his shoulders, giving the appearance of a bed of nails or the inside of an iron maiden. My vest had a single row of fatter five-inch spikes going up each side of the front, both of which were attached to the back section with chain mail. Even bigger seven-inch spikes were screwed onto the shoulders, but these were only used for special shows.
The best thing ever was when we debuted them at the annual AWA Christmas night show at the Saint Paul Civic Center. When we came out from our dressing room with the vests on, it was déjà vu. It felt like our first arrival with our haircuts and face paint at the Georgia Championship Wrestling studio. Nick Bockwinkel, Baron von Raschke, and Marty Janetty were all staring, mouths hanging wide open. Mission accomplished.
That month also marked the first of the Road Warrior clones hitting the wrestling scene. I think I was in the dressing room at the Salt Palace in Salt Lake City when someone threw a wrestling magazine at me and said I should check out the article. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Pictured were two bodybuilders in tights, boots, and painted faces. When I read their names, I laughed out loud: Rock and Sting, the Blade Runners. Not only was the name taken from a science fiction movie (Blade Runner with Harrison Ford), but it kind of sounded like ours, too. I showed Hawk. “Hey, check this out.”
He grabbed the magazine, took one look, and tossed it back over his head, saying, “Fuck ’em. It was bound to happen eventually. I bet they’re the shits.”
I picked up the issue from the floor to see where they were from, and when I saw Mid-South Wrestling, it all came together. “It was Bill Watts.”
Hawk corrected me. “You mean Bill Farts.” Hawk didn’t really care for Watts anymore.
Neither did I, honestly. We didn’t like the way Watts did business and took advantage of his wrestlers. But I couldn’t help wondering if Watts took one look at those two guys’ muscular builds and thought of the time he and Ole had given us advice on our face paint. Maybe he thought lightning could strike twice.
Well, it didn’t. The Blade Runners dried up and blew away within a few months, but it wouldn’t be the last we’d see of Rock and Sting. Rock broke off and migrated to World Class Championship Wrestling in Dallas, where he became known as the Dingo Warrior, a precursor to the Ultimate Warrior gimmick he’d use later in the WWF. As for Sting? Well, he stayed on with Mid-South for the next couple of years until fate would intervene and put him directly in our path, but that’s a story for a later time.
The entrance of the Blade Runners was an inevitable part of the business that Hawk and I had never considered. Sure, it’s true that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but it’s a bizarre feeling when you’re the one being imitated. I remember seeing a guy wrestling throughout the Mid-Atlantic and GCW regions named “Nature Boy” Buddy Landel, who was a complete carbon copy of “Nature Boy™” Ric Flair®. It was the craziest thing I ever saw. Buddy Landel imitated every aspect of Flair’s gimmick down to the blond hair and robes and even came out on national TV claiming to be the one and only real Nature Boy. What’s even funnier is that Ric Flair couldn’t really say too much because he had, in fact, molded himself after “Nature Boy” Buddy Rogers from the ’60s.
I took the Blade Runners thing in stride and accepted it as a pat on the back for a gimmick well done. Besides, the Blade Runners may have been the first, but they certainly wouldn’t be the last of the Road Warriors clones. Not by a long shot.
Now that Hawk and I were top attractions for the AWA, NWA, and AJPW, as well as the inspiration behind a spawning of imitators, we eagerly looked ahead to 1986. We couldn’t have imagined how big of a year it would turn out to be. From winning the inaugural NWA Jim Crockett Sr. Memorial Cup to Hawk and I each taking on Ric Flair in singles matches for the NWA World Heavyweight Championship to even wrestling twenty-five feet above the ring on a scaffold at Starrcade ’86, the Roa
d Warriors stepped up to the plate and smashed every ball out of the park. Of course, that’s what we always did.
When it was time to ring in 1986, Hawk and I celebrated the best way we knew how: performing in front of a sold-out crowd for an NWA/Crockett Promotions New Year’s Day show at the Omni in Atlanta. Because of our insane babyface status in the NWA, it was only natural that we’d be paired up with the most popular wrestler in the company: “The American Dream” Dusty Rhodes.
In the main event of the night, the three of us defeated the stable of the NWA World champion Ric Flair and his kayfabe Uncle Ole and cousin Arn Anderson in a six-man tag match. I’ll tell you what: being put in the spotlight like that with Dusty, Flair, and the Andersons not only was a testament to the level of respect we were getting from the company, but it was the seed of what I consider to be the greatest alliance in Hawk’s and my entire career.
Once we teamed up with Dusty, we were permanently sculpted into pro wrestling heroes for all time. Along with Dusty, Magnum T.A., and the Rock ‘n’ Roll Express (Ricky Morton and Robert Gibson), we were like the Mount Rushmore of NWA babyfaces. Naturally, we were still badasses, but now we were badass vigilantes. We still stayed to ourselves exclusively, but whenever we were called upon to stand next to Dusty or any of his friends in battle, the fans knew the Warriors would be there in a flash. Dusty was like our personal beacon of the NWA babyfaces and bridged the gap between the Road Warriors and the other allies.
Adding Hawk and me to the roster brought some serious additional clout to the already booming lineup of money-drawing talent. We were thrown into the mix and happy to start making great Crockett paydays, but still we were waiting for Jimmy to step up to the plate with our contracts. Until such time, however, we ran the gauntlet by working for both the NWA and the AWA. One night we’d be in Charlotte wrestling the Koloffs for NWA/Crockett, and the next night we’d be in Rosemont, Illinois, teaming with Jerry Blackwell against the Freebirds for the AWA.
Simply put, for the next couple of months, Hawk and I were double agents. We didn’t mind being pulled in every direction around the country by two of the Big Three, especially considering the increased exposure and great payoffs. We definitely weren’t complaining. My patience was rewarded sooner than I imagined, twofold.
March is a month of transition and growth, and I’ll be damned if that wasn’t the case for me to a tee in 1986. One day about midmonth, Julie broke the news to me that she was pregnant. I was overjoyed. As important as wrestling was to me in every way, knowing I was up for round two with fatherhood helped keep me rooted in reality. In the wrestling business, the grind of the road can chew and spit a guy out if he’s not grounded in the right ways. In my case, the endless merry-go-round of planes, rental cars, hotels, and arenas only made me want to get home to Julie and Joey that much sooner.
Julie was absolutely glowing as a mother-to-be, and I was excited to see how great of a brother Joey would become. To make things even more interesting, Julie and I opted to keep the gender of our new gift a surprise until “D-Day,” which we projected to be in December.
When I thought my hands were pleasantly full, Jimmy Crockett figured he’d add another little surprise. I got the call from Paul that Crockett wanted to meet with Hawk, Paul, and me to discuss some business at his office in Charlotte. My stomach started churning. Was this finally it? Would our long-anticipated contracts be sitting on Jimmy’s desk?
When we finally got there, Crockett delivered the goods like a pro. “Boys, I’ve been thinking about your future here with us in the Crockett Promotions family. I also want you to know of the respect I have for you coming to me like businessmen and asking for what you want. The bottom line is that I can’t match the number you asked for back in September, but I think you’ll be interested in what we came up with.”
When he told us the amount of the contracts, which was in the mid-six figures, I couldn’t help but crack a smile from ear to ear. My perseverance had paid off, literally. There’s something to be said about the satisfaction of bustin’ your tail chasing the American dream and then actually snaring it. It was like reeling in the moon.
Hawk and I were offered three-year guarantees in exchange for our exclusivity to Crockett’s unified NWA powerhouse, which was on the fast track to the big time. With us taking center stage with the likes of Dusty, Flair, the Andersons, Magnum, and the Rock ‘n’ Roll Express, Jimmy had more than the necessary artillery to evenly take the battlefield against Vince and the WWF for the top dog position in American professional wrestling.
I couldn’t have been happier putting pen to paper in Crockett’s office that day. When we signed those first big deals, it put us among the very elite in the business. We knew we had to turn things up to a new level of intensity and really make everyone in the NWA from the fans to the other wrestlers wonder what the hell had hit them. We told Jimmy to give us the ball and watch what happened. He nodded and even suggested we come up with an event that would showcase us and symbolize the mutual commitment between Crockett and us.
When it came time for Paul’s contract negotiation, Hawk and I excused ourselves from the room. Paul took care of his affairs on his own. I can only imagine the skillful display Paul put on for Jimmy because in the end that crafty genius actually got almost as much as Hawk and I did, a fact that would prove to seriously disgruntle some of the other talent.
The bottom line is that Paul was worth every penny and more, and we knew it. Hey, if you have the ability to go into the office of a powerful man and get what you want, God bless you. If you don’t, well, the world needs ditch diggers, too, right?
So it was official. The Road Warriors were contracted hit men for Jimmy Crockett and the NWA. We still had a schedule of shows to finish out for the AWA, which we were happy to do for Verne. After all, he’d given us a great break in the company and essentially carte blanche with our tag team title run, even when things had gotten interesting (as they had in our little situation with the Fabulous Ones back in St. Paul). We’d do anything for old Verne. We went out and had drinks that night to celebrate the signing of our contracts, and Hawk got completely shitfaced.
Hawk loved to party; we all did. After a hard night’s work, it was time for everyone to get together at the bars and clubs to blow off some steam. It was a clockwork ritual. With Hawk, though, I slowly but surely started to notice the recreational activities becoming a liability—for both of us.
On many occasions, Hawk missed a flight and couldn’t make it to a show. Paul and I would then have to improvise. Sometimes he and I tagged together or I’d do a two-on-one handicap match. Everyone started asking me, “Hey, Animal, where’s Hawk?” When Hawk and I would meet back up, we’d laugh it off, but I wondered how long I’d be able to look the other way. Personally, I thought if people paid for a ticket expecting to see the Road Warriors, they should get the Road Warriors, right?
Only a few days to a week after we officially became NWA talent, we got some big news. Dusty called to tell us he and Crockett had come up with a huge event to be held at the end of April at the Superdome in New Orleans called The Jim Crockett Sr. Memorial Cup Tag Team Tournament, a single elimination tag team tournament featuring twenty-four teams from every NWA territory in the country and Japan. The main prize was one million dollars (kayfabe) and the Crockett Cup itself, which kind of looked like the Stanley Cup.
The tournament would be held all day long with two different sessions, one in the early afternoon and then the finals in the evening. The final match for the Crockett Cup was the actual main event, taking place right after the NWA World Championship match between the ever-feuding Ric Flair and Dusty Rhodes.
“Sounds good to me, Dust,” I said.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you the best part,” he replied. “You and Hawk are winning this thing. You know you’re my babies, right?” It was his favorite term for us.
Crockett was putting us in front of the entire roster of the best teams in the world and saying, “The Road Warrio
rs are my showcase team. Get used to seeing big things from them.” The only thing crazier was the fact that we were scheduled the very next day in Minneapolis for the AWA’s WrestleRock ’86 event in a cage match against the Freebirds. It was my kind of schedule.
In the first round of the tournament, we faced Wahoo McDaniel and Mark Youngblood. It was a fairly standard Road Warriors squash match and didn’t take long. Youngblood took most of the punishment and went down for the three count after Hawk clotheslined him from the second rope.
The second round was a little more interesting because it was the first time we ever worked against the current NWA World Tag Team champions, the Midnight Express, “Loverboy” Dennis Condrey and “Beautiful” Bobby Eaton, with their manager Jim Cornette. Much as Paul was the third Road Warrior, Cornette was the third Midnight.
All three of them were awesome together. I’ve always felt Bobby was one of the best workers in the business, and Cornette was a quick wit with the gift of gab like no one else. But the most important aspect of Cornette’s heel manager gimmick was his trusty tennis racket. He had it with him at all times, and most any team facing the Midnight Express knew they had to watch out for the devious, racket-swinging Cornette.
Because the Midnights were the champs and we were obviously advancing to the finals, the match had to result in a DQ finish in our favor. It all came down to me and Dennis in the final seconds as I powerslammed him. Then as I went to finish him with a big running clothesline, Jim Cornette hit me in the back with his tennis racket. Crack! I remember being instantly surprised at how much it hurt. It felt far more like a crowbar than a measly racket.
Of course, the ref saw Cornette’s interference and called for the bell and the end of the match. With the DQ win, our mission to make it to the final round of the show was accomplished as we advanced to the final round of the tournament. It was also a picture-perfect beginning to a much-storied rivalry with the Midnight Express that would really heat up in the months ahead.
The Road Warriors: Danger, Death, and the Rush of Wrestling Page 15
