Forgiven: One Man's Journey from Self-Glorification to Sanctification (12 page)

And he was a tough son of a gun. Deep down, inside, you knew that if the wrestling business was a shoot (real), Johnny Rodz would have won a lot more than he lost. In his 50s then, Johnny could still go.

Every day, in the back of Gleason’s, he would bounce around green (inexperienced) hopefuls looking to make a name for themselves in the wrestling business.

The old barter system — not only is it what America was built on, it’s what enabled me to learn the fundamentals of professional wrestling. In exchange for free advertising on the “Pro Wrestling Spotlight,” Johnny Rodz agreed to train me in the ring. Now, keep in mind, at the time I was less than 200 pounds, so rather than take the grappler course, I opted for managerial training. I just wanted to learn the bare essentials, how to bump (fall) without hurting myself.

I didn’t want to learn a thing from the top rope; my purpose was to get a better understanding of the business, not to break my neck. For approximately three months I drove to Gleason’s Gym from Will the Thrill’s Video two or three times a week. It was a good two-hour ride.

And guess what? Amy thought I was nuts. But I knew what I was doing. I had a plan, and this was part of it. I was on to my next venture, and I had to learn everything there was to know about it.

At Gleason’s I would just take flat back (the traditional wrestling

“bump,” where you hit the canvas flat on your back), after flat back, after flat back. My back ached, and still does to this day. But, not only was I determined, but I also wanted to earn respect. Once you’re in it, 75

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you realize the wrestling business is built on respect. As the old saying goes — you have to pay your dues.

Old Vince, new Vince: neither one ever really understood the concept of having to pay your dues. Is having to “pay dues” legit, or is it a question of somebody feeling that somebody else has to go through what they went through to get where they are? I’ll tell you right now:
it’s bogus, and
I question the relevance of the theory.
“He hasn’t paid his, or her, dues,” is something you hear every day in the wrestling business. The phrase is often used simply for one reason — as a way to keep others down.

Somehow we feel that when someone says somebody else hasn’t paid his dues, we need to agree. It’s just something we’ve accepted in our society.

Give me a break! The bottom line is, if God has given you God-given talents, you go directly to the head of the class. Did LeBron James pay dues? Did Michael Jordan pay dues? Did Britney Spears, for that matter, pay dues? No, these people were talented, so they went to the front of the line. Now, on the other hand, if somebody isn’t good enough, yes, they need more seasoning, they need more practice, more experience.

But to help them grow, we need to be honest with them.

So my advice is this: if you ever get into the wrestling business and you know in your heart that you’re ready, and you suspect somebody is trying to keep you down by saying, you haven’t paid your dues, tell them very politely, “Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll find another ‘club’ to join.” I was paying my dues because I just wasn’t good enough. But I couldn’t pay them quickly enough for my taste. And not only was I gaining respect, I was also shoveling it out. Man, being in that ring every day

— it was an eye-opener. These guys worked so hard. They all shared the same dream, and they were all determined to see it through.

They put their bodies through hell, never realizing that a serious injury could end a career before it even started. I take that back —

maybe they all realized it, but didn’t care. I had never experienced a work ethic like that before. And every one of these guys deserved to 76

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make it — unfortunately only one or two would.

A few guys who did make it to the big-time came out of Gleason’s, most of them getting their start with Extreme Championship Wrestling (ecw). Standouts such as Taz and Tommy Dreamer were both trained by the Unpredictable One, as were a couple of blue-chippers who came out of my class, Devon Dudley and Big Vito.

Big Vito, a.k.a. Vito LoGrasso, was in my opinion the cream of the crop. To date, he hasn’t quite had the success of the others, but in time, hopefully he will. Vito was, and still is, one of the hardest working guys in the wrestling business. The guy would go through a brick wall for you, whether he was getting paid $50 for the match, or $500.

He oozed pride and he worked every match as if it were his first . . .

and last. I immediately gravitated towards him. I felt his passion. I’ve always admired someone who works that hard, that’s why I’ve never been a fan of guys who get into the dance through the back door, via politics — knowing somebody. I truly felt a responsibility to help Vito make it, but at the time, who was I? Nothing more than a going-out-of-business video-store owner who was desperately trying to make it himself. But regardless, Vito and I did share something special in common — we were both following a dream. And that’s what the wrestling business is built on, dreams. Every guy breaking into the business wants to be the next Stone Cold Steve Austin (even though there’ll never be another). The majority never make it. Many fail not from lack of talent, but from lack of perseverance. Believe me, it’s a long, hard road — it just doesn’t happen overnight. Vito was past 35

when he actually made it in the business, and I give him all the credit in the world for that. He might never have got into the big-time if it wasn’t for me giving him his break at World Championship Wrestling (wcw), but that had nothing to do with his heart, desire, work ethic and drive, it was just politics. In the end, Vito LoGrasso made it because Vito LoGrasso
deserved
to make it.

With three months of training under my belt, I was ready to perform in front of a crowd. Johnny Rodz was promoting a spot show somewhere in a small town in New Jersey, and he booked me on the 77

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card. My first official role was to manage the number one monster heel (bad guy) in the territory: Skull Von Krush, a.k.a. Vito LoGrasso.

I was thrilled to get the opportunity to manage Skull. To this day, I wouldn’t have shared this experience with anybody else. Skull — Vito

— was what the business was all about. I was both proud and honored to stand in his corner.

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Chapter 16

VICIOUS VINCENT ROCKS

Oh, yeah, I had the costume made, the whole nine yards. And yes, Amy thought I was nuts. But Vicious Vincent was ready to dominate the wrestling world. I was larger than life — in my own mind, of course. Black satin jacket with red, yellow and orange flames firing from the bottom, black spandex shirt, matching pants, fringe everywhere and a fluorescent orange baseball bat — what a gimmick. But don’t kid yourself — I was taking this real seriously. If nothing else, I couldn’t embarrass Skull — he worked too hard and took pride in every match. And why shouldn’t I have taken it seriously? Especially being that tonight his — our — opponent would be the crafty, ring veteran Cousin Luke — yeah, the cousin of the wwf’s Hillbilly Jim and Uncle Elmer.

All right, so it wasn’t Madison Square Garden, but it didn’t matter.

The truth was, it was a high school gymnasium and there were probably about 50 people there. But believe me, I was as nervous as if we 79

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were truly on the corner of 34th and 7th. Just the idea of performing in front of a live crowd was enough. The fact that many of them were missing teeth didn’t matter — they were breathing, I think. But despite all the excitement, I was here to learn. I wanted to experience life on the other side of the curtain: the brotherhood between the boys, the unity of the locker room, how this all came together. And that night I was a student. I sat back, I watched, I listened and I learned. It was fascinating just to hear the boys go over their matches with each other, how every move was completely choreographed —

rehearsed many times. The jargon they used — a language only they could understand. The respect, the code, the honor among the boys was something I would never find again like this at higher levels. It shed a new light on the business for me. This was their 9 to 5, they were blue-collar workers with blue-collar attitudes busting their blue-collar butts for every blue-collar penny they made. And believe me, at this level it wasn’t much. The pay scale for the talent who performed on the card that night was somewhere between $50 and $200.

Nobody was going to get rich — not at this level — they were simply there to pay their dues. Unfortunately, that’s what many of them wind up doing for their entire careers. To this day, there are territories all across the country where aspiring sports entertainers drive three, four hours to make a show, only to earn $100. That’s either dedication . . . or stupidity.

Though in the end many fall short of their dreams and aspir-ations, they view it all as time well spent. The experience is an investment in their futures and in themselves. The experience was also life-changing for me. Never before, in any field that I had been associated with, had I witnessed such a display of hope, honor, love and dedication. It’s what this world of sports entertainment was supposed to be about. Unfortunately, once you reach a certain level, it doesn’t resemble anything like this, mainly because on this level politics just do not exist, because no one is making money — not the promoter, not the boys,
no one
. Looking back, there is no doubt that the innocence of the wrestling business is what attracted me to it. I 80

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cared about the people I worked with. It was
The Shield
all over again, the work ethic was second to none, and I knew then — in some capacity — it had my name written all over it.

So now the stage was set for the managerial debut of Vicious Vincent. Prior to the match, Skull, myself and Cousin Luke had gone over it numerous times in the locker room. My big spot would come once Skull was holding Cousin Luke up against the ring ropes facing the crowd. Being the dastardly manager I was, I would pop up on the ring apron with my orange baseball bat and nail Cousin Luke, which in turn would allow Skull to score the pinfall. Of course, Cousin Luke would duck the bat, causing me to nail the bald German by accident.

This would allow Luke — the good guy — to get the 1-2-3 on the bad guy, Skull. Yeah, I was just starting to learn about “babyfaces” and

“heels,” but I hadn’t made it even that far yet. At this point, all I was worried about was not screwing up — not making them look bad.

These guys were professionals and I was honored they would even allow me in the same ring. Whether there were 20 fans or 20 thousand, it never mattered, the work ethic was the same:
Spaldings to the wall!

Man, I wasn’t going to screw them up. I couldn’t. Remember, back in those days I wrote the book on pride!

Ding, ding
— it was on!

The match went according to plan. There was Skull holding Cousin Luke against the ropes for me, and here I came! Without missing a beat, Luke ducked my swing and
bang!
— baseball bat right across Skull’s head. Realizing what I had done, I hopped off the ring apron as a helpless Skull lay flat on his back in the middle of the squared circle. After Luke got the pin he came after me. Wait a minute

— this wasn’t in the script! Luke grabbed me by the throat outside the ring and I just went with it. Growing up, I had seen Captain Lou in this predicament over a million times. I begged my butt off, I sold it as if I were grasping for my very last breath, good enough to convince Cousin Luke to let me go. I then remember telling Cousin Luke it wasn’t me who hit him with the bat, but rather Skull. Typical ’70s rasslin’ — the heel sells his own guy down the river — this was about 81

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as good as it got. But wait . . . it wasn’t over, not quite yet. After Cousin Luke left the ring area I went into the squared circle to check on Skull.

Remember, this was all improvised now — I’m strictly going on what I had seen on the boob tube for so many years. In an effort to bring Skull to, I slapped him in the face a couple of times. Once he gathered himself he asked me what had happened, and I explained to him that Cousin Luke had hit him with a baseball bat. Man, what a lying, filthy heel I was! Unfortunately, Skull was smarter than that. He got up and started to push me around. I tried to beg him off as well, but this time it didn’t work. I remember Skull whipping me into the ring ropes and saying, “clothesline.” I was getting an education right there on “calling it in the ring” (when two wrestlers actually call the spots of the match — on the spot — as the match is happening). As I sprang off the held-together-by-black-electrical-tape ropes, Skull came off and nailed me with a clothesline. I went down like a kid picking an unclaimed dollar off the floor. Not wanting any further damage done to me (rather, my character) I picked myself up and beelined it to the locker room.

Following the match, both Skull and Cousin Luke congratulated me. To this day, Vito will swear to you that I really “potatoed” him (hit him for real) with that baseball bat. However, despite the controversy, I realized two things that night. First, that that was my last professional match. I had no interest in becoming a wrestler, manager or competing in the ring in any way, shape or form. I’d be lying if I told you it wasn’t a trip to be out there, but I’ve lived my life by one law

— when you try to be something you’re not that’s when you fail. I wasn’t a wrestler and I wasn’t going to try to be one. But the second thing I learned was a very different story. By the time the locker room had cleared out, I realized that this might be my calling. I really related to the boys — I had such great respect for them, and I felt that I just wanted to work
for
them. I didn’t know in what capacity yet, but I just wanted to lend myself to their cause. Again, I think it all went back to the work ethic. When I see somebody work that hard, I just want to roll up my sleeves and jump in there, to help them accomplish 82