Dusty: Reflections of Wrestling's American Dream Read online

  Copyright © 2005, 2006, 2012 by Dusty Rhodes and Howard Brody

  Front and back cover photos of Dusty Rhodes, PH: Nathan Bolster. Courtesy Turner South. © TRENI. A Time Warner Company. All Rights Reserved.

  Interior photos provided by Dusty Rhodes unless otherwise noted.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sports Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-61321-096-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Hoyt Richard Murdoch.

  We grew up in the business together. You were my idol. You were my friend. I am carrying on for us both.

  You lived life like there was no tomorrow. You were a Texan first and foremost. I want to tell you a secret, Hoyt, I miss you so much, but the road misses you most!

  You were the greatest pro wrestler of all time. Together in the flesh we kicked some ass, raised some hell … a lot of hell … and you left me.

  Well, at my age after all these years, I am out there alone again. But everywhere I go, you are with me.

  You’re a bastard for leaving me with this bunch of tick-turds, but you ride with me always.

  Hoyt, you should have been world champ!

  Thanks partner!

  CONTENTS

  Foreword

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  Epilogue

  Closing Notes

  FOREWORD

  I am a fan of professional wrestling and a “big time” fan of “The American Dream” Dusty Rhodes. I saw my first live wrestling match in the 1950s and have remained a follower of the sport ever since. I was a regular at the wrestling matches when they were held in Tampa at the Sun Dome. I use to take my grandchildren when they were quite small (I think Stephen was four, and Haley about seven). I think it was Stephen’s early exposure to wrestling at the Tampa Sun Dome that had him take up the sport when he entered high school.

  Wrestlers are tremendous athletes and Dusty Rhodes was a tremendous wrestler and a tremendous showman. Strange as it may seem, the two don’t always go hand in hand. Dusty had speed, strength and agility that you don’t often see in men of his size, 6-foot-3 and 289 pounds. He had grace and agility inside and outside of the ring.

  Dusty is also one of the most giving individuals in the world. There isn’t anything that he wouldn’t do for a friend, a child or a community. He spent a lot of time “doing good”—more than you would think possible for a professional athlete and the demands that they have to meet. You need something—you call Dusty Rhodes, his heart is as big as his girth. Dusty is a star in the wrestling world but an even bigger star to those who personally know him in the real world.

  Dusty is a character—there’s no doubt about it. He’s very charismatic and very smart. Dusty had a lot of unique moves—that’s obvious and that’s why he held so many titles—but all his moves, in and out of the ring—were Dustified—you can be sure of it. Read and get to know the real Dusty Rhodes.

  —GEORGE STEINBRENNER

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The authors wish to thank the following individuals for their participation and contribution in making Dusty: Reflections of an American Dream a reality: “Magnum TA” Terry Allen; Bill Apter; “Stone Cold” Steve Austin; Bill Behrens; Tully Blanchard; Jack Brisco; David Allan Coe; Steve Corino; Jim Cornette; Kristin Ditto; Jerry “J.D.” Douthit; Janie Engle; Terry Funk; Sheldon Goldberg; “Superstar” Billy Graham; Mike Graham; Senator Richard Green; Jimmy Hart; “Playboy” Gary Hart; Monsignor Laurence Higgins; Sir Oliver Humperdink; Jerry Jarrett; Wanda Jenkins; Connie Jones; Paul Jones; Nikita Koloff; Captain Lewis; Dean Miller; Black Jack Mulligan; Michael O’Brien; Rikki Nelson; “Diamond” Dallas Page; Reggie Parks; David Qualls; Harley Race; Nickla Roberts; Randy Roberts; Jim Ross; Cody Runnels; Dustin Runnels; Larry Runnels; Michelle Runnels; Teil Runnels; Grizzly Smith; George South; George Steinbrenner; Kevin Sullivan; Greg Troupe; “Boogie Woogie” Jimmy Valiant; and last, but not least, all the fans of “the American Dream” Dusty Rhodes.

  CHAPTER 1

  I’ve seen the best of times. I’ve seen the worst of times. But this ain’t no two-city tale, this is my tale. This is my story. This is my life. This is the story of how Virgil Riley Runnels Jr. was born to a proud Texan and went from being the son of a plumber to the last bull of the woods and lived the American Dream as Dusty Rhodes.

  You see, this story isn’t really about wrestling, if you will, but in a way it is, because it’s about someone who lived his life as a wrestler in the wrestling business. A business, an industry that gave me nearly everything I ever wanted. A business that at times has brought out the very best and the very worst of people.

  It all comes down to this. When the roaring crowds are no longer in the arena and the echoes that were cheers fade silently into the night, all you have left are your loved ones and your memories to reflect upon your life. You thank God for what you have been blessed with and curse the Devil for the scorn and agony he caused. You ask yourself, “Would I do it all again?” and you answer without hesitation, “Fuck, yeah!”

  It was a Saturday night and I was sitting in the dressing room of an NWA Wildside show in Cordele, Georgia, not too far from my home in Atlanta. The little throwback arena and promotion was run by then NWA president Bill Behrens. I put my boots on the same way I always have—the left one first and then the right one. As I looked around the room, I saw all of these young lions chasing their dreams. It was 36 years ago that I was one of them, chasing mine.

  That particular dressing room was small and gloomy. But it was no different than the hundreds of dark basements or makeshift locker rooms I had sat in before.

  Settling in across from me was a young man lacing up a new pair of wrestling boots he had bought off of a web site. Tonight was going to be his first match. All I could think of was how was he feeling? Everyone came up to him and wished him luck. He made sure not to get too close to me. I then wondered what he thought about me … too young to have seen me in my prime to offer an opinion—he’d probably only seen me on videotapes … but you could tell that the respect he had for me was overwhelming.

  It seemed all too familiar to me and it took me back.

  It was 1968 and the place was Harlingen, Texas. This was going to be my first match and my first match for Joe Blanchard. This was his promotion, his town, and his building for this Friday night
.

  Joe trained me somewhat about the business—I had actually stepped into a pro ring a year earlier—but this was the real deal. As far as I was concerned, this was my first real match.

  It was a small, smelly, gloomy dressing room. As I looked around the room, the old timers sat around talking shit; but they were my heroes. Others were getting ready and paying attention to the time. I was putting on my boots for the very first time before a real match—the left one first and then the right one; I had bought them from K&H Wrestling Wear.

  My opponent sat across the room. He was a young, good-looking athlete with what I thought to be a Herculean body. His name was Reggie Parks.

  No one had come up to me to wish me luck.

  Reggie was laughing and joking with the rest of the veterans. In those days the old timers hated the new kids. I remember thinking, “I must gain their respect!” I didn’t know how I was going to make it through the night— but I was ready. “Dirty” Dusty Rhodes was ready to wrestle Reggie Parks. It was finally my turn to chase my American Dream.

  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, re
mains 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.”