Curtain Call: How An Unscripted Goodbye Changed The Course Of Pro Wrestling Read online

  CURTAIN CALL

  HOW AN UNSCRIPTED GOODBYE

  CHANGED THE COURSE OF PRO WRESTLING

  BY DAN RYCKERT

  ©2014 Up To Something Publishing

  This is a work of nonfiction, and is based on the firsthand accounts of the men involved. The names of the wrestling personas and the titles of television programs and live events are the sole property of World Wrestling Entertainment.

  PROLOGUE

  In the United States, the majority of the mid-to-late 20th century professional wrestling landscape was formed by regional territories. Verne Gagne’s American Wrestling Association ruled the northern Midwest, grooming future stars such as Hulk Hogan, Jesse Ventura, and Bobby “the Brain” Heenan. Jim Crockett Promotions was the top draw in the Carolinas and Virginia, featuring legends such as “Nature Boy” Ric Flair and “The American Dream” Dusty Rhodes. Crowds in Texas went wild for legendary battles between the Fabulous Freebirds and the Von Erich family in World Class Championship Wrestling. Up north, Vince McMahon, Sr.’s World Wide Wrestling Federation saw massive success with Bruno Sammartino in the hallowed grounds of Madison Square Garden.

  Promoters in these territories were allowed to hire, fire, and promote whichever talent they wished, but many fell under the umbrella of the National Wrestling Alliance, a governing body that decided upon one world champion to represent the industry as a whole. Vince McMahon, Sr. chose to operate independently, introducing the WWWF’s own world heavyweight championship in 1963. While originally held by Buddy Rogers, it was Vince’s golden boy Bruno Sammartino that would have the most prolific run with the title. For 2,803 days, the “Italian Superman” reigned as champion, selling out Madison Square Garden a record-setting 187 times. This New York City arena served as home base for the WWWF, and has been treated as sacred ground by the promotion even as time marched forward.

  When Vince McMahon, Jr. purchased the promotion from his father in 1982, he immediately began making radical changes to long-held traditions. Other territories attempted to maintain that pro wrestling was a legitimate sport, and most of the focus was squarely on what happened between the ropes. McMahon had a different vision. He went from territory to territory, signing any talent that he saw as a potential draw for the newly-named World Wrestling Federation. Hulk Hogan, “Rowdy” Roddy Piper, Jesse Ventura, and André the Giant proved to be crowd pleasers, and McMahon wanted to put their talents on a grand stage.

  WrestleMania was born in 1985, and this “Super Bowl of wrestling” celebrated spectacle just as much as the talents’ in-ring performances. Celebrities such as Mr. T, Cyndi Lauper, and Liberace made appearances, and the WWF gained mainstream publicity via cross-promotions with MTV and various talk shows. Wrestling was part of the national pop culture landscape thanks to Vince McMahon’s vision, no longer relegated to smoky 4,500-capacity arenas in Texas or North Carolina. A massive success, the spectacle of WrestleMania began to form what pro wrestling would eventually become. Wrestlers began coming out to rock music, often accompanied by pyrotechnics. Colorful characters and storylines became just as fun to follow as the action within the squared circle. The territories promoted their shows as sporting events, but McMahon started the shift towards making pro wrestling more about pure entertainment.

  Despite embracing the over-the-top aspects of what the WWF had become, McMahon had never dared to slay one of the most sacred traditions in the pro wrestling industry – kayfabe. Out of the countless carny-like terms and long-held traditions in this world, kayfabe was always seen as the most critical. The term refers to the keeping-up of appearances and insistence that pro wrestling is legitimate. Anyone who’s seen an actual fight knows that suplexes, gorilla press slams, and flying elbows aren’t traditionally utilized, but no one in the wrestling industry would dare admit to it. Kayfabe says that these aren’t characters you’re watching…the good guys (babyfaces) are true heroes and the bad guys (heels) are despicable human beings. Wrestlers would sometimes violently defend themselves against accusations that the fights were staged, such as when David Schultz famously assaulted reporter John Stossel during a 1984 20/20 expose. Promoters like Mid South Wrestling’s Bill Watts went to great lengths to keep kayfabe alive, requiring babyfaces and heels to dress in different locker rooms, travel on different buses, and stay in different hotels. Some would even fire wrestlers for losing legitimate bar fights, fearing that they’d no longer be marketable as true tough guys.

  Breaking kayfabe was seen as an unforgivable sin by many in the industry even into the 1990s, a time in which pro wrestling was widely considered to be predetermined. On May 19, 1996, however, four men made the conscious decision to blatantly shatter the illusion in front of a sold out crowd at the WWF’s home – Madison Square Garden. Despite happening at a non-televised event, this seemingly inconsequential show had wide-ranging and unpredictable repercussions that shaped the future of the pro wrestling industry.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE KLIQ

  The early-to-mid 1990s was a period of transition for the WWF. Hulk Hogan’s immense popularity had waned in his final years with the company, and he was frequently absent as he attempted to start an ill-fated film career. Adding to the company’s difficulties in no small part was Ted Turner, who had purchased Jim Crockett Promotions and rebranded it as World Championship Wrestling. With billions of dollars at his disposal, Turner aimed to bury Vince McMahon by offering his top talent contracts that they couldn’t refuse. Hogan debuted with the company in 1994, and he was followed by big names like Macho Man Randy Savage, Lex Luger, Rowdy Roddy Piper, and more.

  McMahon was bleeding talent, and he knew that he’d have to grow a new crop of stars if he wanted to survive WCW’s aggressive campaign. Luckily, a talented midcard of wrestlers had been performing for WWF for years while Hogan had dominated the main event scene. It was time for these players to step up and introduce a new generation of WWF superstars to the fans.

  The two most obvious choices to take over the reins were Bret “the Hitman” Hart and “The Heartbreak Kid” Shawn Michaels. Neither featured the massive physique of Hogan, but that was hardly a bad thing for McMahon in the wake of his recent federal steroid trial in 1994. Both stars were technically proficient and quick on their feet, and their exciting in-ring work had impressed for years in the tag team division (Bret with Jim Neidhart in the Hart Foundation, Shawn with Marty Jannetty in The Rockers). It was time for the two of them to step up, but their personalities often clashed backstage.

  While Bret was typically reserved and presenting a highly professional demeanor, Shawn lived up every aspect of the pro wrestling high life. He was finally getting his chance to be a star, and he reveled in the fame, drugs, parties, and women that came along with it. During this raucous period, he became close friends with three fellow wrestlers who shared the party lifestyle.

  Kevin Nash was a nearly seven-foot tall giant who served as Shawn’s kayfabe bodyguard under the trucker gimmick of Diesel (Michaels personally requested that McMahon hire Nash after seeing him on WCW television). Fresh from unremarkable stints down south as the wizard Oz, the gambler Vinnie Vegas, and the Road Warrior knockoff Master Blaster Steel, Nash had a chance to shine with his first gimmick that didn’t force him to look completely ridiculous. With a hunger for knowledge and the “big man” look that McMahon traditionally loved, Nash’s future within the company looked bright.

  Scott Hall wrestled as Razor Ramon, a Scarface-inspired character that referred to himself as “the Bad Guy” (regardless of whether his character was babyface
or heel) and frequently feuded with Shawn Michaels. Their ladder match at WrestleMania X in 1994 is considered one of the most memorable matches of all time, and is credited as being a trailblazer for future gimmick matches. Hall and Michaels’ in-ring chemistry followed them outside the ropes, as the two became close friends.

  Sean Waltman was a young wrestler who made a name for himself as the 1-2-3 Kid, a chipper upstart who scored a surprise win over the veteran Razor Ramon on a 1993 episode of Monday Night Raw. After putting super glue around the rims of the Smoking Gunns’ (a cowboy-themed tag team at the time) hats as a prank, Nash joked that he’d need protection and invited him to travel in his car. Despite Waltman’s young age, Michaels, Nash, and Hall took notice of his natural in-ring ability and enthusiasm for the business and welcomed him into their growing group of friends.

  Michaels, Nash, Hall, and Waltman quickly bonded and frequently travelled together. They discussed the business of pro wrestling during the long car rides from event to event, and spent their wild nights sharing booze, drugs, and groupies (referred to as “ring rats” in the wrestling industry). Their lifestyle wasn’t uncommon amongst wrestlers, but their frequent inebriation combined with their rigorous travel schedule put them at risk of derailing their promising careers with DUIs and legal troubles.

  Their saving grace came in the form of Paul Levesque, a WWF newcomer that debuted under the name of Hunter Hearst Helmsley (later, Triple H). His gimmick was commonly thought to be a parody of Vince McMahon’s wealthy neighbors in Stamford, Connecticut, and he was referred to as the “Connecticut Blueblood” as he curtseyed and sneered his way through the WWF’s midcard. Trained by the legendary Killer Kowalski, Triple H was a natural when it came to in-ring psychology and manipulating the crowd. It didn’t take long for Michaels, Hall, Nash, and Waltman to take notice of his ability. While watching an early match of Hunter’s, Hall mentioned “that motherfucker is money” to Nash. It didn’t take long for Hall to approach Hunter backstage and formally invite him to begin travelling with the group.

  When Michaels and company learned that Hunter didn’t drink, it only cemented their decision to let him into their exclusive group. “We found out that he didn’t drink or do anything,” Nash says. “He didn’t drink, he didn’t take pills, he didn’t do shit. It was like ‘Fuck yeah, designated driver!’ because my big ass had been driving those guys around for like two years.” Now five strong, this group consisted of bonafide main eventers in Michaels and Nash, a reliable and popular veteran in Hall, and promising potential in Waltman and Hunter.

  With most of the old guard residing in WCW, this powerful group quickly became the new top of the pecking order within the locker room. Others on the WWF roster noticed that this crew was becoming a force to be reckoned with backstage, and began referring to the five as “the clique.” Michaels and company caught wind of this, and eagerly embraced the moniker (frequently spelled as “the Kliq” as their notoriety grew).

  “Now we’re calling ourselves the Kliq,” Nash says. “We’d go to the arenas early and put a fucking sign on the door that said ‘Kliq Locker Room’ and then go leave and eat. When the boys would come back, they’d think the fucking office put the fucking sign up. We just stirred shit. We’d come back and say ‘Oh, no…we don’t need our own locker room! Take it down, come on in, guys!’ They really thought that we were getting special treatment.”

  It didn’t take long for the Kliq to recognize how much power they held within the company. As five top stars who knew the business of pro wrestling up and down, they would conspire to ensure that each member of the group was getting paid as much as possible and maintaining their status as a WWF mainstay.

  “We loved the business,” Nash says. “We talked the business 24/7. We lived the business. When you’re on the road 320 days a year, and you’re with fucking five guys that are hand-picked brothers and all you’re trying to do is make as much money as you can, the only way you can do that is march your ass up the card. It was a shark tank mentality. We made a pact, the five of us, saying that if we stay strong and don’t turn on each other, nobody else can fuck with us. They always fucking worked the boys [wrestlers] against the boys, and we were the first guys to say ‘Fuck that, man.’ When we started getting payoffs, instead of fucking being like the rest of the fucking boys that would answer ‘What’d you get?’ with ‘Oh, I’m not saying,’ we’d get a fucking payoff for Survivor Series and I’d say ‘What’s your payoff?’ and Shawn would say ‘I got 40 grand.’ I’d say ‘Fuckin’ 40 grand? I got 10! What the fuck, I was in the same match!’ All of a sudden, JJ [Dillon, a WWF executive at the time] made the call over to Vince and said ‘Hey, these motherfuckers are talking.’”

  The Kliq was brazen when it came to throwing their power around, even threatening to go on strike when they felt they were being treated unfairly. They compared notes on how much they were getting paid for shows, and would confront McMahon if there was a discrepancy. The Kliq recognized that they were some of the biggest stars McMahon had in one of the company’s most trying periods, and they were well aware that their talents were needed if the WWF wanted to stay afloat. They held power over Vince McMahon himself, and there was little he could do about it.

  At one point, “The Million Dollar Man” Ted DiBiase led a campaign of wrestlers that threatened to go on strike because of the preferential treatment of the Kliq. McMahon realized that he needed to address the Kliq as a group, and called them into his office. When they arrived, he greeted them by saying “I’ve got one question…how do I become part of the Kliq?”

  Michaels responded, “You’re already in. You love the business.”

  “We knew right then that we had Vince’s ear,” Nash says. “He knew that all we were trying to do is make it the best product we could. We weren’t trying to hurt anybody.”

  Despite Nash’s insistence that the Kliq was operating for the betterment of the WWF product as a whole, others in the locker room disagreed. One outspoken enemy of the Kliq was the athletic big man Bam Bam Bigelow.

  “Everything was strength in numbers, and they had numbers,” Bigelow said in a 2002 interview. “You had this group of guys who were actually telling Vince McMahon what to do. It hurt a lot of people. To them, it became a joke because they had control. They’d be like ‘OK, let’s fuck with this guy now. OK, well we got him out…let’s go to this guy and ruin his life and get him fired.’ That’s what they did, they just toyed with people’s emotions and toyed with people’s livelihood. They were taking bread off another man’s table. Some of these guys had families and kids and to the Kliq it was just a big joke. They would manipulate and control and dominate and hire and fire anyone they wanted and it sucked.”

  The Kliq recognized that Bigelow wasn’t a fan of their presence, but acknowledged that he was an asset to the WWF product.

  “We didn’t like Bam Bam as a guy,” Nash says. “We thought he was a dick. He almost got me and Scott [Hall] shot in Sacramento. But could he play on our fucking team when it came to being a fucking worker? Fuck yeah, the fucker could go. He was money. We didn’t give a fuck about whether or not we liked you in the fucking bar. We just gave a fuck about whether or not you could fucking go.”

  As the Kliq’s star power and backstage influence peaked, WCW reached out to Kevin Nash and Scott Hall with unprecedented contract offers. The duo would be making significantly more down south in Turner’s organization, with the industry’s first-ever guaranteed contracts that ensured that injuries wouldn’t devastate their bank accounts. Both of their WWF contracts were expiring around the same time in 1996, but they had hesitations about joining what was then seen as a B-level organization.

  “I really wanted to stay,” Hall says. “I remember asking [Vince] almost a year before that time, saying ‘Vince, does my ring work need improvement?’ He went ‘Oh, absolutely not! I’m happy with your ring skills!’ I said ‘Is it my microphone skills?’, he goes ‘No, you’re one of the best talkers we’ve got!’ I said
‘I’m just curious, because my pay has kind of plateaued over the last few years and I’m wondering what I could do to make big money like the guys who preceded me.’ He knew then that something was up, and he called me in and we talked about it. I said ‘Vince, I wanna be here and I wanna be part of your team.’ The way I looked at it is that if I made more, Vince made less. It was literally coming out of his pocket in that era. I said ‘Look Vince, I know how it works. There’s only so much revenue from house shows and pay-per-views...but what about merchandise? Can I have more of the merchandise?’ He said no.”

  The lack of flexibility in terms of pay wasn’t the only thing that bothered Hall and Nash.

  “I really just wanted days off,” Hall says. “I remember telling Vince ‘Thank you for being so generous and paying me so well, but what good is the money if I never get to spend it? I’m never at home. I’m spending all my time entertaining other people’s kids, and I’ve got two kids at home that I’m growing estranged from because I’m always gone.’”

  Both Hall and Nash had lucrative contracts on the table, and McMahon didn’t have the finances to match WCW’s offers. Hall was the first to officially decide to leave the WWF in favor of the growing organization down south. Nash (like Hall) wanted to stay, but found it difficult to justify working a more strenuous schedule for less pay strictly based on the legacy of the WWF. He approached Vince McMahon in an effort to negotiate a new contract.

  McMahon’s reaction to the WCW contract wasn’t reassuring. “He just kinda looked at me and gulped,” Nash says. “He took like four or five steps away and slowly turned around like Clint Eastwood in fucking High Plains Drifter and said ‘I thought we were family.’ I said ‘Fuck, we are, man. But I’ve got a wife at home who’s seven months pregnant and it’s pretty fucking hard to run a family waiting on whether or not you’re gonna be booked at fucking WrestleMania and have a good year or not.”