Dusty: Reflections of Wrestling's American Dream (2 page)

My stomach was in a knot—the same feeling I get today—but there was no talk between us, just a one-fall, 20-minute match. We were scheduled second up and had about an hour to wait.

The arena was small, and the smoke made it look like something out of a science fiction movie. My legs were like rubber. The ref finally said, “You’re up, kid!” Could I stand up? Could I walk? Could I even breathe? My mouth felt like the movie
Ben-Hur
had been made inside of it and it was the dry desert scene. Fuck, I couldn’t even spit!

I can remember bits and pieces of it like it was yesterday. Walking to the ring, my mind was going a million miles a minute, but my damn legs hadn’t
caught up with my head. All I can remember saying was, “Man, I have to get through this!” Should I try to street fight him, or just do what I had learned? In my state of mind he could have beaten me in 30 seconds.

The crowd was 95 percent Mexican Americans. They were full of Lone Star beer, smoking, spitting, and yelling at me as if I were El Diablo—the fucking Devil himself! Again, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t spit … but wow man, I loved it! What a rush!

After locking up with Reggie, he backed me into the ropes and without a word of warning, he slapped me on my ear—it sounded like a shotgun went off in my head. I remember nothing of the rest of the match. All of a sudden the bell rang. … I could barely walk as it did. “This match is a draw.” Holy shit, a draw!

My legs came back, my mind was clear, but my ear hurt like hell. As I walked down the steps to the jeers of the crowd, I soaked them up as if I were down on Miami Beach soaking up the sun. I made my way back to the dressing room and to my chair. Then Reggie walked past me looking like he had just stepped out of a five-star restaurant, every hair in place. He simply said: “Thanks, kid! Business is business …”

Thirty-seven years later, it’s 2006 and there I am back in the same place, but this time around I’m doing the ear-slapping and throwing the elbow that I have made so famous.

On this Saturday night on
Wildside
I made my way from the dressing room to the entrance way leading to the ring as Kid Rock belted out the song “Midnight Rider”. I stepped into the arena again. The roar of the crowd was loud. Some say they had never heard it so loud in these parts! My quest, my dream once again captured the night. I was home. I was with my family.

Despite what others may say, once you step into the squared circle, you can never get out! Make no mistake, the pro wrestling business is like a mistress from some Texas whorehouse, loving and kind in a strange way, but because of money, not only brings you up but so damn mean as to talk you to the bottom of despair. Yet even with all that, you always come back. It’s like a drug … a rush. It’s lonely sometimes, but always you return. You offer up your innocence, only to be paid back in scorn! Sometimes I think I’ll die in the ring.

Just like Kris Kristofferson sang, “Some people say I’m a walking contradiction; partly true and partly fiction.” Some people in the wrestling business love me. Others hate my fucking guts. But, whatever I am, I know
I’m a man who has lived a dream through millions of fans; fans who’ve supported me over and over again throughout the years and still going strong like the Energizer bunny.

Even though I signed with WWE in late 2205, I still find myself playing to the small town as a drunk would play to a half bottle of cheap wine; still entertaining the fans when I do independant shows. I am a storyteller, and the tale I tell is good versus bad, bringing hope to those who can see me in that American Dream, because they see that I’m one of them.

Some mornings my knees hurt so badly I don’t think I can walk … but I do. And so I give back to the ones who made me the champion of the people before it was fashionable … “The Dream” for many … I thank God for that.

Truth be told, I’ve made enough money to buy Miami and I pissed it all away. But man, what a piss it was!

I once saw a sign that read: “Don’t just dream it, be it.” Well, I am it! The business is my life, the ring my salvation, the locker room and roads my nourishment.

And so my real story begins; not only the story of Dusty Rhodes, the creation of “The Dream,” my life on the road and the events that have been flowing through my mind these many years, but the story about the power behind the scenes and the everyday struggle to stay on top of your industry … the story about complete domination by one company and how it came to pass.

Wrestling fans have a real fascination with the once-secret organization known as professional wrestling. My business is the purest form of visual storytelling; it’s the good, the bad, and the ugly, if you will. What takes Hollywood weeks and months to film takes professional wrestlers and the companies behind them literally minutes to put together. A spontaneous explosion of emotion unleashed before your very eyes. With apologies to P.T. Barnum, it truly is “The Greatest Show on Earth.”

Before all of the independent promoters of today, the wrestling business was designed and run on an American blueprint. That blueprint mimicked the Mafia.

Mafia, you say? How’s that?

Professional wrestling was made up of more than 20 regional promotions run by families under a code, and that code was, “Take care of your own territory, keep your business within the family, and hold your ground.” Sound like a movie? Marlon Brando and Al Pacino were nowhere to be
found. Some of the old territories were taken by force, some by legitimate business deals and others by lies and violent acts. This was real, man!

The map was carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Florida was run by Eddie Graham, the Northeast corridor was controlled by Vincent McMahon Sr., and men like Don Owens, Stu Hart, and Jim Crockett, Sr. ran the Portland, Calgary, and Mid-Atlantic regions, respectively. But there were others, too. Frank Tunney in Toronto, Fritz von Erich in Texas, Bob Geigel in Kansas City, Sam Muchnick in St. Louis, Jerry Jarrett in Tennessee, Jim Barnett in Georgia and Australia, Paul Boesch in Houston, and Joe Blanchard in West Texas were just a few of pro wrestling’s Godfathers.

Oh, and like the Mafia, there was another unwritten rule, but one that was spoken frequently, one rule that was never questioned by anybody. “Business is business.”

As a promoter, being part of “the family” meant you did not stray into any other territory without paying some price. And if you were not part of “the family,” you were considered an “outlaw”—fair game for any “legit” promoter to simply take you out. This was until one man, however, one family if you will, tried to and succeeded in putting to death the territorial system by totally dominating it. I’m sure you know who I’m talking about. More on him and on that later.

I was running Championship Wrestling for Eddie … he was my boss, my Godfather, and he was the smartest person I knew when it came to the wrestling business. I loved him very much. He was my mentor, and even though he is no longer with us, I still consider him to be so today. His son Mike, or “Banny Rooster” as I call him because of his “cock of the walk” attitude which I like, remains one of my five closest friends. Anyway, I had just created the first super show for Florida, called the “Last Tango in Tampa” with 35,000 people witnessing me and Harley Race wrestling an hour for the NWA World Heavyweight title.

We had a second super show set for Hollywood, Florida, at the Hollywood Sports Stadium outside of Miami called “Battle Stars” with Race and me again in the main event. The building held about 18,000. Banny rented two Rolls Royces for the show so the dignitaries would arrive in style. Aside from some local political figures, heading to the building were Jim Barnett, my wife, Michele, and I think Eddie, although he might have been in the other car with Vince McMahon Sr. and his wife.

Leading up to the show, I checked the ticket sales every day. They were moving well. This could be our biggest indoor show ever. Man, I was on a fucking roll. Anyway, as the final day came I spent the day in the building and our office boy Pat Tanaka—Duke Keomuka’s son—checked our advance. The building manager and Pat told me our advance was $75,000. Wow! A new indoor record! The Godfathers were there, Graham, McMahon Sr.; this was truly living the American Dream. However, I was about to be taught a valuable “family business” lesson.

After the show I was on the way to the post party with Barnett and asked Pat what the house was. I will never forget Tanaka saying, “$52,000.” What the fuck did he say?! Shit, at five o’clock we had $75,000 and now we had $52,000? How the fuck did we lose $23,000? Fuck, you could have burned down Atlanta with the amount of heat coming from my body. Needless to say I went nuts and I made a complete ass out of myself at the party.

The next morning I was still hot as we flew back to Tampa on Eddie’s plane. I still couldn’t get over the feeling that I’d been fucked. So much hard work went into that show. On landing, Eddie called me to the back of the plane as we got our bags. He looked like Brando from
Apocalypse Now.
He handed me a paper sack. It was full of money; lots of money. He said, “This is the way we do business, we take care of family.”

I knew not to mention it again, but one time I said about a new talent, “Fuck, let’s book this guy.”

He said, “No, let’s book him … then fuck him.”

Business is business.

C
HAPTER
2

G
rowing up in Austin, Texas, was a blast! I don’t believe that anywhere in the world can compare to Texas, and when you talk about the Lone Star State, it’s like a different country, a whole other universe, a whole other way of life. Austin was a special place to me, and everybody who knows me knows that if you’re not in Texas, you are just passing through. There’s nothing like being a Texan, and I’m proud to be one.

The east side of Austin can best be described as a small version of East Los Angeles, made up predominately of Mexican Americans and African Americans. There were old school houses that were painted green and yellow and all different colors.

My family and I lived at 1619 Willow Street, and that’s where my dreams and hopes and my future were forged.

One of the first things I can recall about Willow Street is that there were cars propped up on cinderblocks. It’s a wonder that the cars in the neighborhood had any fucking wheels at all. I remember in our yard was an old Ford that had three blocks and one wheel, so it was my belief that if you had all four wheels set up on cinderblocks, then you were really well off.

There were carts, blocks, wheels, and all sorts of shit everywhere. We had different dogs in and out of the yard and we had some great neighbors.

Down the block there was a man named Alfonso Ramos, who had a band with his brothers. Our summer nights would be filled with the music of his band practicing. All of the kids from the neighborhood would be out in the streets and we would just listen and have a great time. The sound filled the Texas night air, and the fireflies that flew around shone like spotlights on the Ramos house. Today Alfonso Ramos is known as “El Mero Leon de la Sierra”
or “the distinguished silver-headed living legend” among Tejano music fans. I understand he was inducted into the Tejano Music Awards Hall of Fame in 1998 and the Tejano R.O.O.T.S. Hall of Fame in 2002.

Imagine that, two living legends having grown up on the same block. Our household was made up of my dad, Virgil Runnels Sr., my mom, Katherine, my sister, Connie, my brother, Larry, and me. I was the oldest, Larry was the middle child, and Connie was the youngest.

My dad was a plumber, of course. However, he wasn’t a union plumber or a plumber of great wealth at $12 or $14 an hour like they were making in California. He was a plumber of $3.50 an hour. I think the most he ever made was $4 an hour. He was a hard-working man and he worked from 6 a.m. to 5 p.m. five days a week and worked extra on the weekends. To me, he was a man’s man, making sure his family was provided for.

Virgil Runnels was also a bit colorful. He had his own take on the English language that was like no other. That is the one thing that has rubbed off on me, because we would use the words
fuck
and
ass
, like someone would use the sentence, “The dog ran across the street.” I mean, it was amazing.

Unfortunately, he could also be a very violent man. At 6 foot 3 and 280 pounds, he was a real bad ass. He was of Choctaw Indian heritage from Paul Valley, Oklahoma, and his skin had that constant red color. He also had no fear.

My mom was from Germantown and was of German descent. She was a real force behind me and my dream. She was always my biggest fan, even when I was wrestling at an early age. She worked different jobs and was a typical housewife, hanging the Levis on the line out back. She was a wonderful, wonderful person who was very dear to me. I was her boy, and she would do anything possible to keep me out of trouble, anything possible to see that I did well. I always thought I was her favorite, but I knew she loved all her kids the same. On numerous nights when she told me I was her favorite, I always wondered if Larry was hearing it, as I would hear them when they talked.

“Dusty always liked to be the center of attention. One of my mother’s favorite pictures of him was from when he was in a high school play and was wearing a red fringe dress, a little 1920s headband, flapper shoes, and was dancing the Charleston.”

—C
ONNIE
J
ONES, SISTER

My brother, Larry, was the brains of the family and he grew up to be a successful teacher and football coach in Colorado. But despite his success, I always considered him to be an underachiever. I say this because I always thought he had the ability to move to a different level … to a higher level. I wanted to see him coach college ball instead of junior high or high school. But this ain’t a knock on him. I’ve said this before, if I had the opportunity to go to a small town and coach high school football for $20,000 a year, I’d sign the contract without even reading it. Anyway, today Larry is well respected, and his wife, Denay, has been with him since grade school. They went around the country during an era when you could safely hitchhike, ride bikes, and smoke pot. They were hippies, and that’s cool. Larry always reminded me of the Donald Sutherland character in the movie
Kelly’s Heroes,
and if you’ve seen the movie, you know the character was a wild man. All I’m saying is that was how my brother was and I love him dearly. They’ve got a wonderful son, Travis, who made All-State high school football and now plays for West Texas State University.