Second Nature

by Ric Flair

  Snoop and I were talking about what he was going to do on the show when he said, “Nature Boy, you were bling before bling was bling. Please join us. We’re having a party in here.” He motioned to his trailer.

  I said, “Sorry, but I can’t have a Kettle One and soda right now.”

  Of course, my son Reid, who loved everything about the business and was training to become a wrestler, asked, “Dad, can I stay?”

  I put my arm around him and said, “Hell no. Let’s go. Now.”

  If I were his age and saw the girls around that trailer, I wouldn’t want to leave either. Earlier that day, Reid was hanging out with Snoop, Floyd Mayweather, and Kim Kardashian. There wasn’t a friendlier person who was the life of the party than my son Reid.

  I gave Tiffany and the kids a final goodbye. They would be sitting at ringside during the show. It was time to get ready for my match. When you do something for so long, it becomes second nature. I do things like putting my trunks on, lacing up my boots, and putting on my robe—all without thinking about it. I was aware of the significance of what I was doing, but the emotion of it didn’t really hit me until I was waiting by the Gorilla Position to make my entrance. I’d just put my ring gear on and walked to the curtain as a WWE Superstar for the last time. I remembered my friend George Scott. Thinking of it now, it’s apropos that my final match would be at WrestleMania because of the part that George played in encouraging me to carry on the Nature Boy persona and the part he played in helping launch WrestleMania in 1985.

  From the late 1940s through the early 1970s, George, alongside his brother Sandy, were the famous tag team known as the Flying Scotts. They wowed audiences from the territories of the NWA to Verne Gagne’s AWA, Australia, and across Canada, including Stu Hart’s Stampede Wrestling. When George’s in-ring career was over, he became revered within the business for his work behind the scenes, most notably, creating matches—or, as the position was known at the time, the booker. George arrived in WWE’s front office in 1983. He became a part of Vince McMahon’s inner circle and a crucial member of the team that made the concept of WrestleMania a reality.

  During a WWE live event several years earlier, Vince McMahon publicly acknowledged George’s pivotal role in presenting WrestleMania to the world. He was so important to WWE during those years that the McMahons wrote him a letter stating that should anything happen to them during that time, the company would be his to run.

  George knew what it was like to come back from a career-threatening injury. After a match with Buddy Rogers in the ’50s, George was paralyzed for six months. In the early ’70s, he suffered a broken neck. When I broke my back after the plane crash in 1975, he was one of the few people who could truly empathize with the uncertainty of a career being over and the possibility of never being able to walk again. But he didn’t exactly show it. When I walked into Jim Crockett’s office with my back brace on, George yelled at me, “Take that damn thing off! All your other muscles are going to atrophy.” So much for, “Hi, Ric, how are you feeling?”

  Bringing myself back to WrestleMania and the more than seventy-four thousand people who were in attendance, Shawn reminded me to keep quiet during the match and listen to him. In our business, you work together to create an incredible performance. Almost always, one of the performers leads the match by “calling” certain things to be done at certain times. When I came up in the business, we called it in the ring, so we knew where our story was going and how it would end. But the points in between, in terms of how, were left to the performers’ abilities to tell a story based on the audience’s reaction.

  Today, a lot of younger talent preplan too many things. Certain moves are set to take place at a specific time with certain things happening before and after. I understand that to call it in the ring, you need a certain level of experience, but part of developing that experience is doing it that way from the beginning; otherwise, you never learn. As a performer, you want to be prepared and know where you’re going, but you also need to give yourself the creative freedom and flexibility to decide how you and the person you’re working with will arrive at the end point of the story. The crowd is such an important part of what we do. It’s performance art in its highest form. This was Shawn’s match. I knew I was up for the ride.

  Shawn concluded by saying, “Let’s do it.”1 Then he made his way to the ring. Waiting behind that curtain during Shawn’s entrance felt like an eternity. It reminded me of what Ray Stevens said: “The day you walk through that curtain and you don’t have goose bumps, that’s the day you never need to walk through it again.” I had goose bumps.

  The sounds of my entrance music, “Sunrise” by Richard Strauss, played, and like I had thousands of times before, I walked that aisle. I hit my mark and raised my arms like I had so many times before, and I began my slow, 360-degree rotation. I wanted the world to see the magnificent diamond-studded blue regalia that seamstress and designer extraordinaire Terry Anderson created.

  Seeing fireworks brighten the Orlando night sky was amazing. Each step closer to the ring made it more difficult to control my emotions. My close friend and WWE referee for the match, Charles Robinson, lifted the rope so I could enter the ring.

  Of all the times my family had been ringside, this was a moment like no other.

  The first act had me settling into the match and doing some of my signature mannerisms like my strut across the ring, and when my opponent thinks I will lock up with him, but instead, I pulled away, ran my hands over my hair, and sounded off with my “WOOOOO!” catchphrase. We followed that with different moves and takedowns that the audience would associate with two “good guys” competing in a good, clean match. When I backed Shawn into the corner, we wanted people to think nothing was going to happen. That’s when he slapped me in the face. The tension began to rise as we locked in a stare. Shawn said, “You can leave now.” The roller-coaster ride began.

  We traded holds and body blows in a more aggressive manner, with a heated exchange of reverse knife-edge chops. Something I wanted to make sure I established was, do I have some tricks up my sleeve? Like when I landed a flying cross body on Shawn from the top rope. It wasn’t something you’d see from Steamboat, but if I was going for it, this was the match for it.

  I knew there’d be a turning point, but I didn’t know when or to what degree. We battled on the floor, and I ended up on the announcers’ table. You could feel the ebb and flow of the audience. Shawn climbed to the outside middle rope and launched himself like a missile to perform a flip, what we call a moonsault—and crashed right through the announcers’ table. That was something he wanted to do for me, to heighten the drama in the match. That’s the type of dedication top-tier performers have in our industry. They sacrifice their own bodies to make the match even more exciting. I didn’t know if Shawn had broken his ribs, if something was severely bruised, or if he was okay. The crowd fell into a chilling silence. Shawn said I was going to get his Mr. WrestleMania persona, and he wasn’t kidding.

  Shawn continued to lead the match. Out of habit, I opened my mouth, but he quickly told me, “Shut up.” We wanted to make sure I performed some of my classic maneuvers: the knee drop, where I roll forward afterward, my chops, which are some of the only offense I had so they were consistent throughout, and my standing vertical suplex, which I loved performing. It was important for me to begin executing moves that “hurt” Shawn’s knee so that I could put him in my figure-four leg lock. The audience invoked the response we were hoping for.

  Just when the audience thought I was on a roll and would assume full control of the match, we did a classic sequence from early in my career. Shawn sent me over the top rope with a backdrop, and I landed on the floor. I don’t think anyone expected to see that. What some people didn’t know was that I used to take that and land on a concrete floor. Even at fifty-nine, I felt good afterward, though this time I appreciated the padding!

  Shawn continued to lead the match. Shawn is a once-in-a-lifetime performer, but I
couldn’t believe that after going through the announcers’ table, he could climb to the top rope and performed another moonsault—this time out to the floor. This was a perfect segue to teasing a double count-out, because that meant we would both lose and I’d still have to retire.

  This was where the second act of our story began. We established the competitive fire of both our characters and showed that we were willing to pull out all the stops. This was where we really turned it up.

  We wanted to emphasize Shawn’s conflict. Here he was trying to end the career of the man he tried to emulate his entire professional life. When it came down to it, could the Heartbreak Kid put an end to his idol? For the Nature Boy, it was about whether or not I had one more trick up my sleeve. If I had one more figure four to keep my career alive. It was inner conflict clashing with desperate determination. It was also another example that many times the best performances in our business are rooted in reality. Shawn was conflicted about my retirement, and I didn’t want to retire. Shawn was leading the audience on an emotional roller-coaster ride that they had never been on before. He was leading me to a beautiful performance and certainly the most emotional one of my career. I fed off every ounce of adulation and support from the crowd, knowing how much they wanted to see my career live another day.

  I was on the canvas. Shawn prepared to deliver his “Sweet Chin Music” Superkick. His hesitation in midmotion resulted in my taking him down and locking in the Figure Four. The crowd erupted, and the conflict within HBK was established.

  Our epic tale looked like it was coming to its glorious conclusion. But Shawn reversed the hold, crushing the hopes of the seventy-four-thousand-plus crowd on hand—not to mention fans tuning in around the world—that my career would continue. We kept the intensity up with heated exchanges of offense. Shawn threw in some classic ways to quickly pin an opponent, including some that led to my losing the World Championship a few times: the back slide and the inside cradle. I was fighting for my career. Shawn was in the Figure Four for a second time before using his strength to break the hold.

  As for the tricks up my sleeve, I showed that I remained the Dirtiest Player in the Game with two: taking the turnbuckle pad off the bottom rope, teasing that I’d use that to my advantage later, and sticking Shawn with the good ol’ thumb to the eye.

  Shawn knew just the thing to send a shock wave through the audience—he drilled me with Sweet Chin Music when no one expected it.

  Like I said before, in this business, if you’re bad long enough, the crowd loves you. When you distract the referee and kick your opponent with a low blow, the audience normally doesn’t cheer. At this moment, it was happening to the Heartbreak Kid at the hands of the Nature Boy. And right now, it made sense. The audience understood that I was doing everything I could to avoid closing the door on my career, even if it meant breaking the rules. I felt like they didn’t want to see me go.

  Shawn did a great job of adding a show of disrespect to prove he was overcoming his character’s inner conflict: he locked me in my own finishing move, the Figure Four.

  I continued to pull the rabbit out of the hat and pulled his tights on a roll-up. During the months leading up to this match, it had worked really well. But it didn’t work that night. It wasn’t supposed to. And so we entered the third and final act.

  Moments later, Shawn, also known as the Showstopper throughout much of his career, dropped me with an encore performance of his Sweet Chin Music kick. The story continued. Each move we made was like paintbrushes moving with different colors on a canvas. Shawn’s facial expressions betrayed his physical and emotional pain from the match and from his conflict about sending the only wrestler he ever idolized into retirement.

  I stayed on the mat. The emotion of the last four months, the Hall of Fame the night before, and the fear of the unknown … that after this sequence my life would never be the same, it all caught up to me. I could hear the crowd, but it sounded like they were far in the distance. I knew the fate that awaited me. I now clutched the canvas and the final moments of my career. I was gasping for air. I knew what I had to do. As someone who had spent most of his career as a villain, I had to stand up, clench my fists, and show that I wasn’t going down without a fight.

  Torn between what he wanted to do and what he knew was the right thing, Shawn stood in his familiar position. He said, “I’m sorry. I love you,”2 and delivered a third Superkick. I fell on the mat. Referee Charles Robinson’s hand touched the canvas for the third consecutive time signifying a three-count.3 Shawn kissed my forehead and left the ring. After thirty-five years, the dream was over.

  I went to the front row to see my family. I hugged David, I kissed my wife, Tiffany, hugged Reid and Ashley and then Megan. I wanted each of them to know how much I loved them. It meant so much that they were with me for this entire journey. We’d had ups and downs like any family, but the feeling I had being with my children that week was the greatest of my life. It felt like whatever happened was forgiven and we were able to move on together, as a family.

  As I walked up the aisle, the ring became smaller each time I turned around. The emotion from the crowd lifted me up. I wanted them to know how much I loved them. Once I walked back through Gorilla, it was gone. There was something else in front of me.

  The roster and production crew filled the backstage area to give Shawn and me a standing ovation. I was overwhelmed by their response. Shawn deserves all the credit for the match. He had a vision for what this story line needed to be, and we stuck with it every step of the way. I’m so grateful to Shawn for his work, to Michael Hayes for working with us, and to Vince for the support and for making this so special. If everyone felt that way about the match, it must’ve worked. Right before we parted ways to be with our families, Shawn asked if he could speak to me. We sat down and he took out a box.

  Shawn got me a Rolex. It was engraved with the day and the date, and it said, “To be the man, you gotta beat the man.” There was a 24 on it in gold and diamonds. He bought himself the same one.4 I couldn’t believe what I was holding in my hand. It’s wasn’t the price of the gift; it was the thought behind it. Shawn bought this watch for me and the same exact one for himself. It reminded me of the NWA Championship cuff links Paul gave me. You put those two things together, and it symbolizes the bond you develop with people in our industry. That’s what means the most.

  After I met with Shawn, there was one other person who asked to see me. It was Vince McMahon. Vince put his arms around me and handed me my WrestleMania check. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was the largest amount of money I’d ever received. “Thank you. I can’t take this,” I told Vince, grabbing a pen and signing it back over to him.

  “Are you sure?” he asked me. “I can write off the loss, and I’d never hold it against you.”

  “Absolutely, I’m sure,” I said. “I told you I’d pay you back.”

  There was a reception that evening after WrestleMania, and then we went to dinner. There was no wild partying like the night before. Tiffany and I were flying to St. Croix the next day, and the kids were going home. Or so I thought.

  I got a phone call about 10:00 the next morning. I was told that I needed to be at the arena for Monday Night Raw and that my family had to come too. When we got to the building, I saw people backstage I never expected to see: J. J. Dillon and Tully Blanchard. I knew then that something was up. I just didn’t know what.

  I was told to say farewell during the final segment of the show. I wanted to let them know how much their support meant to me over the years. And how much I’ve loved them.

  I started by saying, “Last night, I wrestled my last match at WrestleMania. I’ll never, ever wrestle in this ring again.” The more I spoke, the harder it was because this time, unlike that night in Charlotte, there were no surprise stipulations and no surprise opponents. This was it. I continued, “I’m not sad about not wrestling … you should rejoice in the fact that I wrestled in front of more fans, raised more hell,
had more fun, and loved all of you every day of my life.”

  Hearing the audience chant, “Thank you, Ric,” and seeing so many people hold up their hands in the symbol of the Four Horsemen is something I’ll always remember. Before I left, I wanted to say one last thank-you to the fans for their support and for making me who I am today. We are nothing without the fans, who choose to spend their hard-earned money to attend shows. It’s a special bond. Just when I thought the segment was over, in classic WWE fashion, it had only just begun …

  Paul’s music hit. He made his way to the ring. People may have a difficult time believing this, but I didn’t know what was going to happen next.

  Paul said, “If you think the people here in Orlando are the only ones who want to say, ‘Thank you,’ if you think the millions of people watching on TV are the only ones who want to say, ‘Thank you,’ well, my friend, you’ve got another thing coming.” He gave me a hug, and in front of the whole world, he told me he loved me. He went so far as to praise me on his knees. The floodgates opened. I’m glad I didn’t make a bet with anyone backstage that I wouldn’t cry during the segment. Paul continued and said there were more people who wanted to say thank you. Then he made the sign of the Four Horsemen—which, for the record, if he was in the NWA when we were riding, Paul would’ve been a Horseman. No doubt about it.

  Before I knew it, I was hugging Tully Blanchard, J. J. Dillon, Arn Anderson, and Barry Windham in the center of the ring.

  The company truly revered the Horsemen even though we never rode one day on WWE television. It was the first time the five of us had been together since 1988. Barry and Arn worked for the company, but we were never acknowledged as the Horsemen on TV. This was Tully’s first time on WWE TV since 1989. J. J. worked behind the scenes for years in WWE, but to my knowledge, he had never appeared on television as J. J. Dillon. Being back in a ring with that group was amazing. It was another moment where if you would’ve told me in 1988 that one day I’d have my final match at WrestleMania and the next night I’d be with the Horsemen in a WWE ring, I wouldn’t have believed you.