The Road Warriors: Danger, Death, and the Rush of Wrestling (17 page)

Even though Verne had worked diligently on his national TV deal on ESPN for the joint AWA/NWA experiment,
Pro Wrestling USA
, the whole thing tanked in less than a year. Now Verne was doing a new, exclusively AWA program on ESPN called
AWA Championship Wrestling
, but it still didn’t stand a chance against
World Championship Wrestling
on the Superstation at 6:05 p.m. Hawk and I were getting that sinking feeling again, as we had in Georgia when things had gotten sticky. That proved it: Hawk and I were becoming Rhodes scholars at reading writing on the wall everywhere we went.

We’d been in the AWA for well over a year and had no complaints about anything. Verne brought us aboard and unleashed us full steam ahead into the next stage of our evolution. We made more money with Verne than we’d ever had before and were exposed to Japan thanks to his relationship with Baba. Having said all of that, after a year of working so closely with Verne, we realized he wasn’t getting with the times. It’s not that the AWA wasn’t still doing well, because it was. It was Verne himself. All of the drive he’d had seemed gone.

Unlike Verne, his son Greg Gagne understood the absolute necessity to expand the AWA product through better branding, as Crockett and the WWF were doing. Greg wanted to strengthen their TV presentation and was even friends with corporate executives in the NFL who were interested in investing. But with Verne, it all fell on deaf ears. He thought he knew best and wouldn’t budge. It was frustrating to see a powerhouse like the AWA start driving around in circles, while in Charlotte and Atlanta Jimmy Crockett was kicking ass and taking names. I realized that between Verne and Crockett, there was no comparison.

While Hawk and I mulled these business issues over, we jumped headfirst into our new wrestling lifestyle as babyfaces. Being cheered on as good guys was an awesome change of pace. It turned the whole concept of our gimmick upside down and made it feel completely new. The villains in black were now the heroes in black. That was the thing. We may have been faces in the sense of being legit fan favorites, but we had more attitude than ever. What did change was our audience dynamic.

Hawk and I used to have hostile attitudes toward the fans in the arenas and civic centers, making it totally clear that we were the ones not to fuck with. We’d invite people to step up and fight us all the time and never hesitated to throw punches if the need arose, as it had in the riot back in Hammond, Indiana.

Now the rug had been pulled out, and the people were more than allies; they were our lifelines. During our matches we came to depend and thrive upon the crowd interaction, fueling ourselves with the energy exchange. When we stormed the ring, we could triumphantly raise our hands, pose, and get an “LOD, LOD” chant going instead of getting pelted with batteries and nickels. Now when an opponent had us down and out, the people stomped their feet and clapped their hands for us to rally.

Being a babyface even made me feel better as a person. I didn’t have to frown so much in public anymore, for one thing. No shit. I felt like a town sheriff or something, being seen out shaking hands and kissing babies (just kidding). People in public everywhere would pat me on the back and give me thumbs-up or slap me five. Yes, sir, babyface living was my kind of style; just call me Joe Public.

I knew I’d kind of miss being a heel, though. It seemed only yesterday that we’d first come into the AWA and cut one of our first interviews in the ring. I’d taken the mic and said, “Hey, all you people at home getting fat, watching
Happy Days,
and eating potato chips, take a good look at us.” Now, instead of belittling the fans, we were their defenders.

The reaction from the fans now was getting out of hand, in a great way. With each successive show, the pop grew more intense than at the previous event. Eventually the eruption of the crowd during our “Iron Man” entrance became so distinct that some of the other boys started referring to it as the “Road Warrior pop,” a term known throughout the industry to this day.

Another fine benefit of turning face was watching our typical DQ win/loss ratio turn into a landslide of wins by definitive, destructive pinfalls. Even Paul, who was once our world champion of outside interference, was now the purveyor of truth, justice, and the Road Warriors way. Now he was the one countering any heel managers looking to stick their noses where they didn’t belong.

The spin took a little time to get used to, but it sure was fun as hell. And because the dates we worked throughout August and September for Crockett turned out to be so profitable, we decided to sit down for a face-to-face with him to see what he had in mind.

Since we were each already doing somewhere in the neighborhood of a couple hundred grand for the year with Verne’s payouts, I decided to highball the figure a few bucks to nearly a million for negotiation leverage with Crockett. I also wanted a guaranteed contract. It was going around town that both Ric Flair and my bud Nikita Koloff had signed exclusive, multiyear deals with Crockett Promotions. When I heard that, I wouldn’t accept anything less. Paul said we had the drawing power to respectfully ask for what we thought we were worth.

As it turned out, Crockett was an even bigger proponent of ours than I realized. He may have been the president of the NWA, but for our meeting he came off more like the president of a Road Warriors fan club. Jimmy was nothing but smiles and compliments and even asked us for our autographs for some friends and family members.

I found it all especially funny because Paul had prepared a whole spiel extolling the virtues of the Road Warriors and how much Crockett Promotions would benefit from an exclusive deal with us. It would’ve been preaching to the choir.

After dispensing of all the pleasantries, Jimmy jumped straight to the money issue with a gleaming smile and wide eyes. “Boys, just to let you know, it won’t be any problem at all to immediately start making more than you are with Verne. Hell, with the piece of the gate I’ll be giving you, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be pulling in half a million a year each.”

I almost fell out of my chair.
Half a million dollars!

As soon as I heard Crockett say it, I flashed back to my first run in Georgia as the Road Warrior. Night after night, I had sat in some fleabag hotel, broke and starving, with a baby boy sitting in Minnesota counting on my every move. I knew I needed the security of a full-time job and came to terms with sucking it up and giving the drudgery of Honeywell another try. When that didn’t work out for the second time, I swore I’d never go back to a tie and a desk.

But now things had worked out. After struggling and busting my ass night in and night out along with Hawk and Paul, we’d finally carved ourselves a prime spot in this granite business. And now it was time to find the rock-solid security in a contract to match it. I’d earned it. My son needed it. I was going to get it.

“Jimmy,” I began, “we want to come in here and do great things with you, but we need a commitment that we can trust in. We want to make Crockett Promotions our home.” Crockett didn’t blink as I continued. “You know you need to lock us in like the other top guys if you want to build this company right.”

I could see Jimmy’s face start to drop and realized right then and there we weren’t getting guarantees.

“Joe,” he said, “I’d love to be able to offer you contracts like you want. If it was within the realm of possibility, I’d be signing them with you right now.” Then he went into various explanations of why guaranteed contracts were a scourge to the wrestling business and could ruin a company, sending it careening into bankruptcy.

Crockett said he’d keep an open mind in the future about giving us guarantees but that for now we should keep working any and all dates for him that we could and keep our star rising in the NWA. We could start pulling double duty as main eventers in both companies and even triple duty for that matter with our trips to Giant Baba and All Japan. For the time being, I agreed, but under protest.

When we all stood up and shook hands, I pulled Jimmy in close and said, “You realize you’ll be changing your mind before you know it, right?”

He winked and replied, “We’ll see, Joe. We’ll see.”

As soon as we were out of the building and hitting the streets, I told Paul to call Vince McMahon and schedule a sit-down. We needed to see what was going on with the one place we didn’t know anything about, the World Wrestling Federation. One way or another, one company or the other, I was getting my guaranteed contract.

8

FACE-TO-FACE WITH VINCE

In 1985 virtually nobody in professional wrestling had guaranteed money. Everybody’s paydays were based on percentages of viewers. With the advent of annual and then quarterly PPV events, top performers could count on big paydays based on the live gate as well as home viewing subscriptions. The basic adage was “If you put asses in the seats, you’re putting money in your pocket.”

It wasn’t outrageous at all to hear about guys like Hogan or Flair getting million-dollar payoffs from WrestleMania and Starrcade even back then. We had nothing but respect for those guys. I’d see guys approach Flair (and later Hogan) all the time to shake his hand as if he was a made man in the Mafia, thanking him for helping put food on their tables at home. It was well-deserved respect.

But what performers like Flair and Hogan had that I admired most was their business experience. They knew they were prized commodities and had the negotiating experience to play the game accordingly, bringing promoters like Crockett and McMahon to terms they couldn’t refuse for fear that the talent would jump over to the other guy.

And that’s why I knew we had to go see Vince McMahon for ourselves. A few days after our meeting with Jimmy Crockett in early September, the three of us boarded a flight from Minneapolis to New York City.

I remember we flew first class and had some cocktails on the way. As we approached JFK Airport in the distance, as corny as it might sound, I stared out of my window at the Manhattan skyline with the awe and wonder of a kid. It was the first time I’d ever flown directly into New York City and seen the Statue of Liberty from above. They were doing heavy renovations at the time for the Statue’s upcoming hundredth anniversary, even replacing the original torch, so there was heavy scaffolding surrounding every inch. Still, I had a weird, humbling moment when she first came into view up close. Like so many thousands of hopeful travelers before me, I took pause and thought of the great opportunity at hand.

It was time to see what might be in store for us when we landed. After we picked up our luggage, our limo driver held up a sign with the words “Hawk, Animal, and Paul” on it. I elbowed Hawk, who walked over to the driver, pointed at the sign, and said, “That’s
Mr.
Hawk and
Mr.
Animal to you. Got it?” Then he started cracking up and put his arm around the guy. We even autographed the sign for him so he could have a good story for later.

During the thirty-mile drive up to Stamford, the three of us didn’t really say much, choosing instead to watch the landscape pass by. Without a word, I knew we were all wondering what to expect from the man behind the magic curtain at the World Wrestling Federation.

Finally we were off the main highway and going down a long private driveway in the woods, which opened up to a sprawling estate. When we pulled up to the main house, I saw two Great Danes lying beside each other like the royal dogs of Castle McMahon. As I was stretching my legs and looking out at the front yard, the main door swung open and out came Vince himself.

Smiling, he welcomed us to his house and shook our hands. When I said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. McMahon,” he immediately corrected me. “No, no, none of that ‘Mr. McMahon’ stuff while you’re at my house. Call me Vince.”

I was surprised how big he was. Not that he was huge or anything, but I’d say he was my height and around 230 pounds, an obvious gym rat.

“Been following the Hulkster’s advice, huh, Vince?” Hawk asked.

Vince looked at him and smiled. “What’s that, Mike?”

Hawk leaned over. “It looks to me like you’ve been saying your prayers and taking
vitamins
.”

Vince’s smile grew as he put his arm around Hawk and looked over at Paul and me. “Well, Mike, aren’t we all?”

As we walked to the front door, I noticed Vince’s clothes. He looked as if he’d popped right out of an L.L.Bean catalog. Not only was he wearing penny loafers and khakis, but he actually had a sweater tied around his neck like a model in a Doublemint gum commercial or something.

He took us on a quick tour of the house, a very traditional colonial type. In the main sitting room, a large, hokey painting of Vince himself in a green suit hung above a grand stone fireplace. What struck me about the portrait was that the Vince on the canvas looked way too thin to be the guy standing next to me.

I couldn’t resist commenting. “That was pre-Deca, right, Vince?”

Vince just looked at me with a smile and again we all burst into laughter.

After walking through the rest of the house, we all sat down and had an incredible lunch prepared by Vince’s personal chef.

When it was time to get down to business, Vince took us all into his office. “I can’t begin to tell you how surprised I was when I got the message that Paul Ellering called. And I couldn’t be more delighted that you’re in my home right now.”

Then he leaned forward in his chair and folded his hands on the desktop. “So what can Vince McMahon do for the Road Warriors?” All of a sudden, he’d turned into a Mafia don or something.

Paul took center stage and spoke on our behalf, getting straight to the point. “Vince, I wanted to let you know that Mike and Joe here have been offered guaranteed contracts with Crockett for close to a million dollars a year.” Paul knew that in the art of salary negotiations, it’s important to start off big. After all, if you aim for the stars and come up a little short, you’re still high in the sky. “Before we committed to a deal that’s going to give Crockett the advantage of being the home of the Road Warriors, we thought we should give you a gentleman’s chance to weigh in. Maybe there’s another opportunity we might be able to explore in the WWF.”