The Road Warriors: Danger, Death, and the Rush of Wrestling (21 page)

Hawk loved to party; we all did. After a hard night’s work, it was time for everyone to get together at the bars and clubs to blow off some steam. It was a clockwork ritual. With Hawk, though, I slowly but surely started to notice the recreational activities becoming a liability—for both of us.

On many occasions, Hawk missed a flight and couldn’t make it to a show. Paul and I would then have to improvise. Sometimes he and I tagged together or I’d do a two-on-one handicap match. Everyone started asking me, “Hey, Animal, where’s Hawk?” When Hawk and I would meet back up, we’d laugh it off, but I wondered how long I’d be able to look the other way. Personally, I thought if people paid for a ticket expecting to see the Road Warriors, they should get the Road Warriors, right?

Only a few days to a week after we officially became NWA talent, we got some big news. Dusty called to tell us he and Crockett had come up with a huge event to be held at the end of April at the Superdome in New Orleans called The Jim Crockett Sr. Memorial Cup Tag Team Tournament, a single elimination tag team tournament featuring twenty-four teams from every NWA territory in the country and Japan. The main prize was one million dollars (kayfabe) and the Crockett Cup itself, which kind of looked like the Stanley Cup.

The tournament would be held all day long with two different sessions, one in the early afternoon and then the finals in the evening. The final match for the Crockett Cup was the actual main event, taking place right after the NWA World Championship match between the ever-feuding Ric Flair and Dusty Rhodes.

“Sounds good to me, Dust,” I said.

“Oh, I didn’t tell you the best part,” he replied. “You and Hawk are winning this thing. You know you’re my babies, right?” It was his favorite term for us.

Crockett was putting us in front of the entire roster of the best teams in the world and saying, “The Road Warriors are my showcase team. Get used to seeing big things from them.” The only thing crazier was the fact that we were scheduled the very next day in Minneapolis for the AWA’s WrestleRock ’86 event in a cage match against the Freebirds. It was my kind of schedule.

In the first round of the tournament, we faced Wahoo McDaniel and Mark Youngblood. It was a fairly standard Road Warriors squash match and didn’t take long. Youngblood took most of the punishment and went down for the three count after Hawk clotheslined him from the second rope.

The second round was a little more interesting because it was the first time we ever worked against the current NWA World Tag Team champions, the Midnight Express, “Loverboy” Dennis Condrey and “Beautiful” Bobby Eaton, with their manager Jim Cornette. Much as Paul was the third Road Warrior, Cornette was the third Midnight.

All three of them were awesome together. I’ve always felt Bobby was one of the best workers in the business, and Cornette was a quick wit with the gift of gab like no one else. But the most important aspect of Cornette’s heel manager gimmick was his trusty tennis racket. He had it with him at all times, and most any team facing the Midnight Express knew they had to watch out for the devious, racket-swinging Cornette.

Because the Midnights were the champs and we were obviously advancing to the finals, the match had to result in a DQ finish in our favor. It all came down to me and Dennis in the final seconds as I powerslammed him. Then as I went to finish him with a big running clothesline, Jim Cornette hit me in the back with his tennis racket.
Crack!
I remember being instantly surprised at how much it hurt. It felt far more like a crowbar than a measly racket.

Of course, the ref saw Cornette’s interference and called for the bell and the end of the match. With the DQ win, our mission to make it to the final round of the show was accomplished as we advanced to the final round of the tournament. It was also a picture-perfect beginning to a much-storied rivalry with the Midnight Express that would really heat up in the months ahead.

For now, though, we had a main event showdown with the team of Magnum T.A. and Ronnie Garvin for the Crockett Cup.

As I’ve mentioned, Magnum and Garvin were two tough sons of bitches who didn’t take crap from anyone, and the fans loved them for their gritty, common-man gimmicks. Garvin especially was notorious for his extra hard punches and chops and was even known then as The Man With the Hands of Stone, often winning his matches with a single right-hand punch.

Prior to the Crockett Cup Tournament, during a match with Arn Anderson for the NWA World Television Championship, Tully Blanchard and J.J. Dillon jumped in on Anderson’s behalf and kayfabe broke Ronnie’s hand. So for our match together that night in New Orleans, Garvin was in full kayfabe with his hand heavily taped from wrist to fingertips. When we entered the ring, we showed both Magnum and Garvin respect by not rushing the ring as usual. Even when we casually stepped through the ropes, though, the fans exploded into cheers for the Road Warriors.

The match wasn’t a long one, but it was a real barn burner. One thing I really remember is Garvin biting Hawk on the head. That’s the way Ronnie was: scrappy as hell, tougher than five Hollywood stuntmen, and relentlessly going toe-to-toe with anybody willing. He used every form of biting and stretching a guy out until you damn sure never forgot what a match with him was like. Years later, I think I still feel sore from some of my matches with Ronnie.

When it was time to take the match home, believe it or not, Magnum hit a powerslam on yours truly, and Hawk ran in to break up the pin. When Garvin stepped in and all four of us were in the ring beating the hell out of each other, I had a clear shot at Ronnie with a running clothesline. I nailed him, got the pin, and that was it. We won the first ever Jim Crockett Sr. Memorial Cup and were handed a fake check for one million dollars. Man, I wished it was real.

But again, who was I to complain? I had my contract from Crockett, my beautiful wife, Julie, was pregnant with our new baby, and Paul, Hawk, and I were standing head and shoulders above the rest in tag team wrestling and were leaving a giant Road Warriors footprint everywhere we went. If ever there was a feeling of a golden age in my life, it was right then and there in early 1986.

SERVING UP ANOTHER BIG PRESS SLAM IN JAPAN. 1986.

10

SNACKING ON DANGER AND DINING ON DEATH

After winning the Crockett Cup, Hawk and I didn’t have much time for celebrating as we had to make a mad dash to catch a red-eye flight to Minneapolis for WrestleRock. Verne had been heavily promoting the event on TV during the last couple of months and really wanted to be competitive with the big shows that the WWF and NWA were pulling off.

WrestleMania II had happened on April 7 and was another resounding success, sending ripples of pressure out to guys like Verne and Jimmy Crockett to step up to the plate or die off and go away. Verne’s answer was WrestleRock, and he brought us in for the main event: a tag team cage match with the Freebirds.

Even though Hawk and I were happily committed to our new home in the NWA, we were more than willing to help Verne out one more time. When we arrived at the Metrodome that Sunday afternoon, we were excited to hear the place was jammed with 23,000 fans ready to see some great action. In the back, we saw so many guys we hadn’t in a while, like Harley Race, the Fabulous Ones, Mike Rotunda, Barry Windham, and even good old Sgt. Slaughter.

Another guy who was there that Hawk and I hadn’t really met before was Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka, who was booked in a tag match with Greg Gagne against Bruiser Brody and my old Gramma B’s bouncing colleague John Nord. I remember being right next to Greg near the bathrooms when he started complaining to Verne about Snuka, who may or may not have been drinking can after can of beer and dabbling in a certain substance while getting ready. “How in the hell is Snuka going to work tonight?” Greg asked. “He’s all fucked up.”

Right after the words left Greg’s mouth, Snuka, who was probably about ten beers in, stepped around the corner with a look of rage. He’d heard everything. “Fucked up?
Fucked up
?” Snuka said to both Greg and Verne. “Wait right here. I’ll show you fucked up.”

Snuka disappeared into the bathroom. We heard some familiar animal noises, and a second or two later, he came out rubbing his nose—I guess he had a bad cold or something. He went straight up to Greg with an even more deranged look on his face than before. “Now.
Now
I’m
fucked up
, brother.” And then he stormed off.

That evening at WrestleRock ’86, the legendary “Superfly” Snuka still went out and wrestled without a hitch, even doing his trademark splash from the top of the cage.

After the entertainment of Snuka and Greg was over, I started to settle into full Animal mode. The switch was flicked in my head, taking me from mild-mannered Joe Laurinaitis to the intense, butt-kicking Road Warrior Animal. A lot of guys in the wrestling business didn’t have the luxury of a gimmick like mine and Hawk’s that allowed us to separate ourselves from our characters. Guys like Flair and Nikita, for example, lived their alter egos all the time and were, in a sense, trapped for life. Hawk and I were able to walk around as Mike and Joe, without our paint jobs and spikes, and we didn’t have as much of an outside recognition factor with the fans, especially if we were at a bar or the mall. Man, it was great to be a Road Warrior.

That night we entered the cage for our match with the Free-birds. Knowing full well it was going to be our last event with the AWA, we went all out. The same was true for Michael Hayes and Jimmy Garvin (an on-and-off Freebird since 1983), who were both moving on to different companies following the match: Hayes to WCCW in Texas and Garvin to Crockett’s NWA. The fans were totally hot for our match, and their cheers could be heard bouncing and booming off of every square inch of the enormous domed ceiling.

Hawk started off first with Hayes, and the two of them ignited the match perfectly. Hayes caught Hawk with a flurry of punches, then got him up for a piledriver.
Bam!
As only he could, Hawk bounced over and, while Hayes was celebrating with his back turned, got right up and delivered a high standing dropkick. Then Hawk sent Hayes into the ropes across the ring, bounced off his own set, and collided with Hayes courtesy of a flying shoulder block. The second Hayes hit the mat, Hawk picked him right back up by his long and flowing golden mop of hair and pressed him high above his head before slamming him hard.
Boom!

Man, I could not wait to get in there and dish out some moves of my own. When I finally got the tag, it was Jimmy Garvin in the ring. I threw him into the ropes and caught him right off the bat for a graceful powerslam.
Boom!

The crowd exploded with cheers as if it were the first time they’d ever seen such a display, but they were about to get more. As soon as I got up, I knew it was time for my own press slam— but not an ordinary version. I pressed Jimmy up, held him there, then proceeded to pivot around in a circle so all of the people on each side could watch as I lifted him up and down for six full reps before dropping him face-first to the canvas. Jimmy crawled as fast as he could over to Hayes for a tag, but Michael wanted no part of it and walked away from him. The entire Metrodome roared with laughter, and even Hawk and I had to contain ourselves. Those guys were great together!

The big finish of the match came as all four men were in the ring in a chaotic storm of punching and kicking. When the referee made Hawk go back to the outside, all of a sudden Garvin grabbed me from behind and positioned me in front of one of the corners, where Hayes was standing on the top turnbuckle. As Hayes jumped down to clobber me, I broke free from Garvin and he wound up hitting Jimmy instead. I covered Garvin, and that was all she wrote: the Road Warriors had won their last match for the AWA.

Although WrestleRock was a big success, outdrawing the Crockett Cup by over 7,000 people, the AWA was now tilted at a steady decline. With teams like us and the Freebirds leaving for greener pastures, it would only be a matter of a couple years before Verne’s company would take the ultimate nosedive into the wrestling graveyard.

After back-to-back performances at the Crockett Cup and WrestleRock, we spent the next two and a half weeks wrestling alongside Dusty Rhodes in six-man tag matches against the NWA World Six-Man champions, Ivan and Nikita Koloff and Baron von Raschke. By this point, Krusher Krushchev (Barry) had legitimately and severely injured one of his knees in a match with Sam Houston and was out of the picture for the next few months, so Baron had stepped into his spot.

Being booked with Dusty against those guys was about as good as it got. We were more than a team; we were a superteam. It was like Captain America teaming up with Superman and the Hulk. The fans couldn’t get enough of the three of us together, and on May 17 in Baltimore, we defeated the Koloffs and Raschke to become the new World Six-Man champs.

Our momentum kept on growing, too. Adding a little cherry on top of our NWA success sundae, we decided to hit Japan for a little business and represent our new company for the first time. Dusty liked the idea of me and Hawk heading over to Japan and even urged us to take the Crockett Cup and our Six-Man belts along to show off our NWA pride, which was cool with us.