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  I dedicate Under the Black Hat to the memory of my late wife, Jan, who always believed in me and was my greatest partner in life and love. You made me a better man.

  And to the many fans, who were always there for me when I needed you the most.

  Our journey together continues!

  —Jim Ross

  FOREWORD

  IN MY FORTY-SEVEN-YEAR CAREER, I’ve had the privilege of working with all the great commentators and announcers. The list started in my hometown in Minnesota, with the American Wrestling Association’s Marty O’Neill, and expanded as I traveled to include legends like Bob Caudle, David Crockett, and Gordon Solie.

  People might not realize that a good commentator can “make” a wrestler with his words and that a bad commentator can “break” even the strongest characters. The right voice coming through the TV is vital in making sure the audience responds to the wrestlers, the feud of the day, the dynamic on-screen. When it works, the talent thrives, and everyone makes money.

  But of all the voices that have come and gone, only a very few belong in the “great” category. Whenever I’m asked, “Who was the best commentator of all time?” I think: Who has used their abilities to anoint new stars? Who has narrated the most legendary moments? And who has most helped the people at home feel the same passion we feel in the ring? My answer is always: “The incomparable Jim Ross!” And lucky for us, he’s still going strong today.

  WOOOOO!!

  —Ric Flair

  PROLOGUE WrestleMania XV: We’ll Do This Together

  “MY GOD, WHAT A NIGHT,” I said to the people back home as Stone Cold Steve Austin chugged down a couple of cold beers for a packed and raucous crowd in First Union Center, in Philadelphia. I was ringside, on commentary, watching WrestleMania XV come to a close.

  As I spoke, Steve’s mortal enemy—the real-life owner, chairman, and CEO of World Wrestling Entertainment, Vince McMahon—staggered to his feet in front of me.

  In most other sporting events, if you see the authority figure at the end, he’s there to present a belt, medal, or trophy to the winner. But this was WWE. So naturally, the boss was there to take an ass-whooping.

  “Mark it down,” I said. “Mark down the 28th. The Rattlesnake is back on top of the mountain.”

  Austin rolled out of the ring, knowing the crowd didn’t want him to leave. In our business that’s called “psychology”—when a wrestler uses their body at the right time in the right way to elicit the best response from the audience.

  Steve threw his WWE title back in the ring and slid under the bottom rope for one more salute to the audience. The roar of the crowd was deafening. I wanted the people at home to feel what we were feeling.

  “There’re 20,276 fans here, and by God, they love him,” I said.

  Steve called for more beer as the chairman limped slowly around ringside.

  I said, “Mr. McMahon is barely able to stand, and The Rattlesnake is toasting the referee, he’s toasting the fans. He’s toasting everybody who works for a living.”

  My longtime broadcast partner, the legendary Jerry “The King” Lawler, always a master of timing, chimed in: “You can’t drink on the job, you idiot.”

  “The job is done,” I replied, referring to Austin winning the title. “Has Mr. McMahon ever had a sadder day—a worse day, King?”

  “No, he hasn’t,” my exasperated partner said. “This is awful.”

  “Long live The Rattlesnake!” I shouted. “Long live Stone Cold Steve Austin!”

  The production truck cut to Vince standing at the end of the ramp, looking both angry and heartbroken that a working-class redneck was “his” World Champion.

  In reality, of course, the boss couldn’t have been more elated. His pick to draw WWE forward on a global scale was absolutely on fire, with huge mainstream interest, PPV numbers, merchandise sales, and about any other metric that could be used to measure success in our business.

  But back on TV, it was Lawler’s job to cement Mr. McMahon’s pain and anguish, while it was my job to drive home to the viewing public that Austin was a blue-collar badass disrupting the corporate world.

  Austin vs. McMahon had all the ingredients for a once-in-a-lifetime feud: worker against boss; redneck against blue blood.

  And they weren’t done yet.

  Steve rolled out of the ring, where Mr. McMahon was waiting to berate him. Boom! Austin shut him up with a stiff right hand. The crowd went crazy. Then Stone Cold threw his boss into the ring, where everyone could get a nice clear look at what was coming: a kick in the stomach. Vince doubled over, and The Rattlesnake ended it with his finishing move, the Stone Cold Stunner.

  “Stunner,” I said with all the passion I could muster. “Stone Cold just dropped the owner.”

  Steve looked down at ringside and called for another beer. Luckily, our timekeeper had perfected throwing long passes of “ ‘Steveweisers”‘ from almost any angle.

  The Rattlesnake caught the incoming refreshment, cracked it open, and poured it all over the “unconscious” chairman.

  “Aw, God, ladies and gentlemen, I wish you could all be here,” I said. “What emotion, what electricity.”

  And it was amazing.

  And just like that, it was done.

  Then came the adrenaline dump.

  The noise was gone, the arena had mostly emptied, and the electricity coursing through my veins had dissipated. I’d stayed behind a little longer than everyone else. The crew was stripping down the set and ring like hungry ants on a prone body.

  I looked up the ramp toward the curtain.

  Any curtain in the entertainment business is, by definition, a portal between two worlds. When you’re on the public side of it, nothing exists except the story you’re telling your audience. On the other side is real life.

  In my business, that other side is where larger-than-life WWE Superstars become everyday people with everyday problems. They hobble in pain, dance with joy, break down in tears, or celebrate—depending on how their night went.

  As I walked from the commentary table back toward the curtain in Philadelphia’s First Union Center, I had no idea if joy or pain was waiting for me back there either.

  I didn’t even know if I still had a job.

  I had returned to commentate on just one match, after several months away recovering from a second bout of Bell’s palsy. Before Bell’s, I was the voice people heard when they tuned in to the wrestling juggernaut known as WWE. After Bell’s, I was confined to a dark room, in pain, while one side of my face hung paralyzed.

  In truth, I wasn’t yet healed properly, but the honor of being asked to commentate on the biggest match in WWE history was too great to ignore.

  Even though I was wracked with nerves, I didn’t want to let Vince McMahon, the CEO, chairman, and owner of WWE, down. Nor did I want to disappoint “Stone Cold” Steve Austin and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, as they were the ones who specifically requested that I be there to call their match. I had signed both men to WWE, and narrated the stories of both their rises to the top of the company each week for the viewers at home, so I wanted more than anything to be there calling the action on the biggest night of their careers.

  But it wasn’t easy. I had to hold my cheek up wi
th one hand during the match just to enunciate correctly. It felt good that two of the biggest stars in wrestling asked for me, but I was under no illusions about the prospects in the entertainment business for a chubby, middle-aged man with a southern accent and facial paralysis.

  If my career hadn’t already been an unlikely climb, it would be a small miracle to keep my spot now. I knew my inability to smile was devastating to a TV personality, but there was nothing I could do about it. Even on the street, when unknowing fans approached, they would say, “Give us a smile, J.R.”

  How I wished I could.

  I had worked decades in much smaller companies, hauling rings from town to town, refereeing matches, driving the wrestlers around, learning how to commentate in gyms, TV studios, arenas, and stadiums; I had spent countless hours, countless matches, countless special occasions away from my kids—all to get to my dream job as the voice of WWE.

  And now that job was in jeopardy because of how I looked.

  “Get well soon, J.R.!” one fan shouted as I got closer to the curtain.

  The show was over and First Union Center was emptying, but a large number of fans had gathered at the security railings to applaud my slow walk back.

  Professionally, I was wearing two hats: one as an on-air talent and the other as executive vice president of talent relations within the company structure. Part of me thought that if this were my last match, at least it was a hell of a way to go out. And I could still carry on in my duties as EVP in the company.

  But deeper down, I knew I would go goofier than a pet coon sitting in an office all day, without the weekly rush of live TV and the satisfying chaos that came with it.

  At least my wife, Jan, was backstage. Whatever was waiting, I knew she would be there to support me—she was my rock, my North Star in a business where a person could get lost without someone to go home to.

  I turned and took one last look back into the arena. I wanted to remember what it looked like but, more important, what it felt like. Nothing compared to commentating on a live show: the adrenaline, the noise, the electricity—and the quiet when it was all over.

  * * *

  I TOOK A BREATH and split the curtain, heading straight into the production area, where Vince oversaw the whole show.

  I was afraid to look up because I wasn’t ready to retire. I wasn’t ready to leave the job I loved.

  I flicked my eyes upward, and the chairman gave me a smile and a nod. That was as close as he came to praise.

  I had worked with Vince so long that I knew all his tics and tells. This nod was a proud nod. I hadn’t let the team—or him—down. I was loyal to a fault—people mocked me for it—but I didn’t care. In my field there was only one lead announce position, and I had it. I had earned it. I had worked for it for decades. Most important, I was proud of it.

  Now I just had to see if I still had it.

  I thought about trying to get a word with the boss there and then. No point in putting off the inevitable. But with throngs of talent and crew gathered celebrating, I couldn’t get close.

  The Rock and Stone Cold were happy too. Both men hugged me tightly.

  “Thank you, Jim,” Steve said in his raspy Texan accent.

  The Rock was buzzing on pure electricity. He smiled that million-dollar smile. “We got them, Jim,” he said. “The people were with us for everything. Thank you for being here.”

  “See you back at the hotel,” Austin said, disappearing into the crowd.

  Everyone was heading for the annual post-WrestleMania party that the company threw.

  It was always interesting to me that some stayed, gathered around Vince, just so the boss could see them while others were reliving their matches, talking about what went right and wrong “out there.” In wrestling, wrestling people talk about wrestling, even after the wrestling is done. Wrestling, wrestling, wrestling.

  As I wandered toward my dressing room, I was just happy to feel needed again. I knew I wasn’t one hundred percent out there yet, but my passion for the sport—and the spectacle—got me through. I had left my house, held up my face, and called my heart out.

  I was so relieved I almost cried.

  I changed from my tuxedo into my everyday clothes and stood in silence for a while until my door gently opened. My wife popped her head in; Jan was smiling from ear to ear, like always. Her brown eyes were sparkling with pride, and she looked resplendent.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she said, walking toward me with her arms outstretched.

  “I was scared out there,” I said, low enough so no listening ear might hear except hers.

  She hugged me closer. “Whatever happens from here, we’ll figure it out.”

  And with that one sentence, I felt better. She always made me feel better.

  “Whatever is coming, is coming,” she said. “We’ll do this together.”

  ONE BACK IN THE SADDLE

  On the Front Lines

  ABOUT A MILLION, BAZILLION MILES away from WWE on TV was WWE corporate. The seven-story Titan Towers was WWE’s headquarters in Connecticut. The brand may have conjured mayhem and excitement, but the offices looked and felt like every other in America.

  Now, if your passion was administration and corporate jousting, it was perfect. But if you were a cherubic Okie who loved calling professional wrestling matches for a living, it was kind of a come-down.

  I took the elevator to the top floor—my office was just steps from Vince’s—and wondered why the boss hadn’t spoken to me in the two days since WrestleMania. In our couple of meetings, he still hadn’t mentioned my on-air role one way or the other. My wife told me to be patient, as my Bell’s palsy was getting better; but I clearly wasn’t “healed” or anywhere near it, and I knew time was of the essence.

  Ding. Door opened. My office was nice enough, but I felt like running headfirst through one of the huge glass windows. The fact that I was actually good at the administrative part of my job felt almost like a trap. Not that I didn’t love talent management—I did—but not on its own. The office side of my work was a welcome balance to the madness of live TV, and live TV was a beautiful escape from corporate governance.

  But I wasn’t on TV anymore.

  * * *

  “MORNING, JIM,” people said as they breezed past.

  I mostly grumbled back. I had a bit of a rep for being “prickly” at the best of times, so why not lean into it now? Raw, WWE’s flagship TV show, had aired live the night before, and I wasn’t asked to be on the broadcast. I had hoped my calling of the Austin vs. The Rock match would put me back in the lead announce position; instead, I was dragging myself toward my office with egg salad sandwiches in my bag.

  My office door creaked open, and I got the distinct whiff of career death. Okay, maybe that was a bit dramatic, but the room could certainly do with an air freshener. I put my bag in its usual spot and sat in my usual position, ready to do my usual things.

  Administration things.

  Yippee.

  I had called the goddamn Flair vs. Steamboat trilogy, and now I was trying to get punch holes to line up in the stupid paper on my stupid desk.

  I wanted to be on the front lines, not behind a desk. I wanted to call classics and to see the wonders of the wrestling business in action. I looked at my sandwiches. Jan had said they were for lunch, and it was only ten o’clock, but I ate one anyway to regulate my emotions.

  I leaned back in my office chair, looked at my Mickey Mantle and John Wayne memorabilia, and wondered if either of those guys would be happy in an office.

  I was listless, detached—floating, if you will, in a sea of uncertainty. I had left home to join the circus but now found myself an administrator.

  The Raw broadcast immediately after WrestleMania was a hugely important show; it set the tone for the full year. It was like a season opener on your favorite drama, where everyone of importance was highlighted and featured.

  But I hadn’t been highlighted or featured.

  * * *
r />   PREVIOUS RIGHT-HAND MEN TO VINCE, including the legendary Pat Patterson, retired wrestler and manager J.J. Dillon, and my old friend and creative powerhouse Bruce Prichard, had worked out of the same office before me. It was the only space in the whole building with windows that opened, thanks to Pat’s love of cigarettes.

  I saluted Pat’s legacy as I lit my own smoke and leaned out that one open window. True power in the wrestling business is convincing Vince McMahon to open a window so you could smoke. The chairman hates smoke (and smokers). He basically had no tolerance for any sign of loss of control or weakness. Perhaps most remarkably he hated sneezing, his own even more than other people’s.

  I, like my predecessors, was a seven-day-a-week guy. I answered calls late at night and got into the office early in the morning—when I wasn’t on the road. My usual schedule was Sunday and Monday traveling for Pay Per View and TV broadcasts, back to the office on Tuesday morning, work there until Friday, over to Vince’s house on Saturday for meetings, and managing WWE’s touring live events on the weekends.

  In between, I was responsible for the talent—the Superstars, as we like to call them. It was my job to oversee the scouting and hiring of new prospects, monitor the drugs program, and sometimes discipline grown adults who should know better.

  I was their boss, their counselor, their coach, and their sounding board. But my most important task every week was payroll.

  Discretionary payroll.

  It was just like regular payroll but with a ton of extra hassle involved for me because a person’s self-worth is always attached to their dollar-worth.

  Hell, mine is too.

  So, if a wrestler’s pay wasn’t what they thought it should be, then I would hear about it pretty quickly. The way it generally worked was: after taxes, I was given 30–35 percent of the live-event ticket sales to pay the talent. The main-event guys got 3 percent of the after-taxes net, and I would pay a little something extra to those who went above and beyond—if they took two flights to make a show, or if they got “busted open hard way” and bled by accident, or if they got “a little color” and bled intentionally by cutting themselves to elevate the match. I always tried to make sure that no one—referees included—got less than $500 per event, which came to $2,000 a week over our four shows.