Forgiven: One Man's Journey from Self-Glorification to Sanctification (26 page)

Today I sit here embarrassed, realizing how much I sacrificed my own family for a wrestling company. During that time they were not my priority. Work was. And I’m ashamed to admit it. One thing I regret deeply — that I can never make up for — is that my son, Will, went from the age of seven to twelve while I worked for Vince. I don’t remember a single day from those years. Mentally, physically and emotionally I was not there for him. Fortunately, since my son VJ turned nine a couple of years ago, I have been able to be with him every day. My relationships with my two sons are very different, 181

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simply because of the fact that I was there for one and M.I.A. for another.

I can’t get those five years back. My family was deprived, especially Will, who probably needed me there more at that point in his life than at any other. Shame on me. Shame on me for being so selfish; shame on me for tuning Amy out — for putting her on the back burner. And for what? To be sitting here a few years later a bitter old man. What was she going through? What was I
responsible
for putting her through? Never being there, never returning her phone calls, missing every function at the kids’ schools — I was failing our marriage. I just hope that if the boys read this, it gets through to one of them. I’ve said it a million times — when you work for Vince McMahon,
he
makes all the money. And in any case, the money you do make means nothing. Man, growing up I can remember being told time and time again that money doesn’t bring happiness. Yeah, right — because you make peanuts at your manual-labor job? I was so arrogant about it. I thought money was everything. Man, was I wrong. I’ve gone from making $535,000 per year to about $250 a week

— and guess what? No stress, no politics, no !@#$% — and somehow, someway, the bills still get paid.

It’s such a blessing to be able to sit back and reflect on my own words, written just two years before Christ saved my life. Above, it appears that I was halfway there. I was starting to get my priorities in order. Through experience, I was able to understand my mistakes and make a conscious effort to never repeat them. But even though I was growing wiser, there was still definitely something missing. There was no fulfill-ment — there was still that empty void. You are getting a first-hand look at God at work. At that time God was working on my heart, my soul, my mind and my very existence. He was preparing me for something much bigger, something that would come just one short year later.

As the story goes, it’s one thing to think patience, but it’s another to be patient. I had no patience — my time was now. The product the 182

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wwf was putting out at the time was absolutely horrible. Vince finally wised-up and realized he had to make a decision creatively, so he turned to . . . Cowboy Bill Watts.

My first instinct was, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” First of all, in New York, we hate cowboys. Cowboys just weren’t, aren’t, and never will be,
happening
. They’re right down there with nascar.

How can racing a car be considered a sport? Anyone can drive a car around a track. All you need is hand-eye coordination. It’s no different than playing a video game. You want to be a professional driver? Buy Playstation’s Gran Turismo and you’re a professional race car driver. And the same goes for golf. Who watches golf on tv? Who plays golf? Hitting a ball in a hole?
Who cares?

(I
still
feel the same way about nascar!)
And how does a grown man go by the name of “Cowboy”? That’s how Jim Ross always used to refer to him, “The Cowboy this . . . the Cowboy that.” But, regardless of the moniker, it
was
a positive sign that Vince realized something had to be done.

Coming from New York, I hate to admit this — but at my advanced age, I’m suddenly into Willie Nelson. It’s called a midlife crisis, and if you haven’t experienced it yet, don’t worry, you will.

How cool is Willie Nelson? The hair, the bandana — the guy’s got the whole gimmick going on. I’m just discovering Johnny Cash, too.

Come on, a guy who dressed in all-black can’t be all bad.

Man, what is wrong with me?

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Chapter 33

YIPPE-KI-YEA!

Great line. Bruce Willis? Great in
Die Hard
, forgettable in
Hudson
Hawk
. Not having room for Bill Watts on the fourth floor with the big hitters, the Cowboy was stationed on the second floor, right down the hall from yours truly. For those of you who don’t know, Watts was a legend in the wrestling business both inside and outside the ring.

He’s known as a guy who had a solid wrestling background, as well as a good creative and business sense. As a matter of fact, he was “the guy” for a while in wcw, when I was running around as Vicious Vincent. I can even remember going to wcw’s Halloween Havoc, I guess around 1992, and seeing the Cowboy walking among the people. Now here he was — about 100 steps from my office.

During his first few days on the job, Watts spent a lot of time in the publications conference room watching videotape after videotape, trying to familiarize himself with the product as quickly as possible. One day I decided to walk in on him just to pick his brain.

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Contrary to popular misconception, I
loved
spending time with the old-timers. The insights, the stories, it was an education. Guys like Jim Myers, a.k.a. George “the Animal” Steele, Bob Backlund (who in my opinion got better with age), these guys were a fountain of knowledge. I used to be the first one in the pre-tape room to ensure that I could produce Bob Backlund. The guy was off the charts when that red light came on. His promos were the best I’ve seen to this day. I still say my most enjoyable, creative experience in my 10-plus years in the wrestling business came when I took the straightlaced, bow-tie wearing “Mr.” Backlund on Spring Break, where all the young animals were partying. Clad in a wool suit while sporting white sunscreen on his nose, Mr. Backlund read the young partygoers the riot act — in a hot tub, with his pants rolled up. It was, by far, one of the best things I ever did. I loved working with Backlund and even had the privilege of forming a relationship with him outside the ring.

Man, I miss him. Other life lessons came from “Dirty” Dutch Mantell. I rode with Dutch for just one hour, and in that short time I learned more than in grade school, high school and college. That was the joy of riding from town to town with one of the legends. It’s where wisdom is passed down — somewhere in the middle of the night, on a desolate highway between Terre Haute and Paducah. And, there were many others like Dutch. I could sit there and listen to Arn Anderson talk
forever
. Arn Anderson? He should write a new edition of the
Bible
or something. I had the utmost respect for those guys.

Without them paving the way, I would have still been selling Amanda washers and dryers.

It’s fascinating. When I look back on what I wrote two years ago, there are several references to God and the Bible. What’s ironic is that at the time I wrote that last section, there was nothing biblical on my mind at all — nothing. Or was there?

Without my knowledge, I now know God was living inside me, through everything. As a matter of fact, he was probably hanging out on his beach chair, kicking off his sandals, sipping cold water and just waiting 185

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patiently for the time to strike. There is no question that God was my conscience at the time — good and bad, right and wrong, do’s and don’ts. My problem was that I wasn’t “submitting” to him. I was being a typical male — macho and bull-headed and believing I could do everything myself. Well, that worked for a while. . . . Until I eventually hit rock bottom — until I reached the end of myself. And that’s when God gin-gerly bounced from his beach chair and said, “Are you ready now?” All I ever wanted to do was carry on what the old wrestlers had started. But, in order to do that, the business needed to evolve.

Getting back to the story, I popped into the conference room and introduced myself to Mr. Watts. For the next few days, he and I spent a few hours together, watching the tapes, talking about ideas, where the business was headed, yadda yadda yadda. Then one day, Bill called me in his office and said, “Vince, I’ve heard a lot of good things about you, and I myself am impressed with you — how would you like to start sitting in on the booking committee meetings with me, Pat and Bruce?” It seemed like at that moment, everything just froze.

In rapid fire my mind replayed every event which had brought me to this point: Arezzi, Vicious Vincent, the Appliance Giant, Ed Ricciuti, Mr. Blue and Mr. White, Jack Lanza, Goldust. Man, very few times in your life do you have a moment like that — a moment where it all just happens for you. It was like getting that call up to the big show.

All my hard work and dedication had paid off.

I should have realized then that it wasn’t going to be that easy.

It’s been a while since I first met Cowboy Bill Watts, and the story of my being able once again to spend time with him is astonishing. Over the years, the Cowboy has become a born-again Christian, and through his son (and now a good friend of mine), Eric Watts, I was led to the words of Bill through the internet. Every day I am moved by the words of Cowboy Bill Watts, and through the Lord, he is even more of an inspiration to me today than he was back then.

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Chapter 34

COWBOY SCALPED!

It was so comical; bucking the system as only a true cowboy can, Watts did the old “end around” and extended the olive branch my way without clearing it with the Make-up Monster down the hall in Human Resources first. Man, she was wild at Watts — but if it weren’t for his nerve, I’m sure I would never have gotten that opportunity. I will be forever grateful to him for that.

For about two weeks, Watts got me involved in the booking meetings with Bruce and Pat. As a matter of fact, we were all at Pat’s house when the O.J. Simpson “not guilty” verdict came in.

Digest this. Immediately after the O.J. not-guilty verdict, Bruce informed me that Vince was seriously kicking around the idea of bringing “the Juice” to the World Wrestling Federation to wrestle Rowdy Roddy Piper. As you read that now, it probably doesn’t come across as a big deal. But at the time, it was insanity at its best!

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Let’s play “Time Machine” for a second, shall we? Do you remember how furious the entire world was when O.J. got off? As a nation, there were very few who believed Simpson’s story and even less who could comprehend how badly the lapd had screwed up the case. Ron Goldman’s father was on tv every day just breaking your heart. The entire country was in a state of shock, and the wwf wants to pay this guy, from what I was told by Prichard —
one million dollars
to wrestle? Now, perhaps Bruce was exaggerating, I don’t know, but my suggestion to him was that this idea could work . . . with one modifi-cation: replace Piper with Ron Goldman’s father. Then let Mr.

Goldman use the weapon of his choice — bat, gun, machete, hand grenade, whatever he wanted — while O.J. had to work the match handcuffed.

During those sessions with Watts, Bruce and Pat, I would pretty much sit back, listen and learn. I enjoy evaluating people; one of my stronger points is that I’m a very good judge of character. During those writing sessions I was picking up a feeling of uneasiness in the air. It was nothing obvious — just an uncomfortable feeling. The way I read things, Prichard and Patterson weren’t accepting Watts with open arms. Again, given the players and personalities involved I had to figure that Jim Ross might have been partially responsible for getting Watts into the wwf. Now (pardon the pun), Bruce and Pat were saddled with him — and they didn’t appear to be happy.

Let me rephrase that slightly: I don’t think Pat really cared. Pat wanted to help Vince out of loyalty — but the guy was ready to retire and hit the golf course. I mean, anyone who worked that closely with Vince for that long . . . as I stated earlier, there’s a shelf life there, past which you find yourself bouncing off the walls of a padded cell. Pat was at that point, so I don’t think he was really concerned about who Vince brought in. Bruce, on the other hand — that might have been another story. In my view, Bruce may have been intimidated by Watts

— and rightfully so. The Cowboy’s experience made him wiser and more knowledgeable than the younger booker. If Watts had stuck around, Bruce might have viewed him as a threat to his job. Whether 188

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he was or wasn’t, we’ll never know — but again — that was the paranoia of the wrestling business.

Watts was a smart man; he’d been around the business too long.

After being involved in the booking for just a couple of weeks, Bill called me into his office.

“Vince . . . I’m done,” he said.

“What?” I answered, surprised.

“Nobody’s called me back all day. Not Bruce, not Pat, not Vince.

The three are nowhere to be found. I know how this works. I’m done.”

Man, it had happened again. Months earlier I had seen Jerry Jarrett, another old-school wrestling entrepreneur who’d been brought in to help Vince, suffer the same fate when he was on the verge of cracking the inner circle. This is how people tend to keep their

“spot” for so many years in the wrestling business. Shovel dirt on those who may be a threat, those who were perhaps better than they were. I knew it was only a matter of time before I would be in the exact spot that Jarrett and Watts found themselves in. Though they both had light years more experience at the game than I did, I knew that somehow, some way, I had to be smarter. I had to beat them at their own game.