owenen

I spent my Christmas holiday aching all over, yet I worked with Leo Burke and a bunch of green local
wrestlers he was training at my house in the WWF ring Vince had given me. Over time those young
men became Christian, Edge, Glen Kulka, Teddy Hart (Georgia’s son, Ted Annis), Mark Henry, the
fake Razor Ramon, Kurrgan, Don Callis, Test and Ken Shamrock, who was the Ultimate Fighting
Champion at the time, just to name a few. Despite the tension with Shawn, I was on top of the
world, set to regain the title, while being the highest paid WWF wrestler of all time. That Christmas,
Julie and the kids had everything, including me.

The plan was that he was going to pass out in the sharpshooter but never submit, and we both
needed to figure out the best way to do that. I smiled at Steve and said, “Have you ever seen the
scene in that movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest where Jack Nicholson’s character tries to pull
that heavy, bolted-down sink out of the floor and throw it out the widow so he can escape the nut
house and go watch the World Series? You want him to succeed so badly, but as hard as he tries, he
simply can’t. That was the scene that made him, and that’s what we’re going to do with you.” Steve
was relying on me because he knew he could trust me.Vince had finally hired Ken Shamrock, a move
I had suggested, and he was going to referee our match, lending the credibility he brought with him
as champion of the brutal world of Ultimate Fighting.

As I came out like a lion, Steve was pacing the ring like a pissed-off hyena. I really felt like I was going
out to have a fight after school with a kid I hated. I got a strong cheer, but there were enough angry
signs and boos for me to see that my days as a babyface were truly over. Steve tackled me full force
when I came through the ropes and the bell clanged.




As we brawled up the stands, I took a hard smack into the hockey boards, and Steve took a back
drop from an attempted pile driver right onto the cement steps. I remember this part of the fight in
slow motion. Shocked, amused and angry fans leaped and yelled all around us. The cheering was so
loud I couldn’t hear a thing. My fists bounced perfectly off Steve’s head, and he never stopped
fighting back. Ken Shamrock, wearing a sleeveless zebra-striped referee shirt, looked amazed at how
close our work was, and how totally believable.

In the end, Austin didn’t submit but was rendered unconscious. Shamrock stopped the match and
raised my hand. The bell sounded. I coldly began to attack his knees, then stepped into the
sharpshooter to give him some more, but before I could, Shamrock gripped me around the waist and
threw me down hard to the mat. I was right back up and furious, with the taste of blood on my lips,
and Ken and I squared off with fists clenched. He challenged me to bring it on, and the Chicago
crowd came unglued. For him, a seed was sown for some other day. As for me, I stood alone but
defiant, proud and unbowed, that remorseless pink soldier on his dark bloody battlefield.




As I dropped to the floor, signs danced in my face: “Bret who?” and “Go back to Canada!” But kids
still pulled out the front of their Hitman shirts as they high-fived me to show me that they were with
me. I touched hands of support that reached out, but one frothing-at-the-mouth, irate fan gave me
the middle finger. I thrust one right back and mouthed, “Fuck you too!”

My anti-American rants had been going down big time with the Canadian fans. The Calgary crowd
had shed its usual polite shyness and was ready to explode: Canadian flags waved everywhere.
Owen, Davey, Jim and Pillman were pumped up and chomping at the bit, Brian reminding me of a
happy jackal who’d befriended a pride of lions. We did a live promo from the dressing room that
played on the big screen in the arena, and the crowd response was so loud that the brick walls
shook. Leo and I had worked hard at polishing up Shamrock, who was really coming along now and
was pacing the dressing room anxiously. Goldust had a hot feud going with Pillman, and the Legion
of Doom couldn’t have been more pumped. Hawk came to me knowing that it was me and Taker
who’d got L.O.D. hired back. He awkwardly fumbled for the words to tell me that this time he’d give
us everything he had, adding, “This match is for your dad.” Beside Stu and Helen in the front row
was Alberta premier Ralph Klein. I was worn out; my knee wasn’t healed enough to wrestle safely,
and I knew it. My doctor warned me that it needed at least three more months, but I had to be there
for Vince, not to mention that I’d waited my entire life for this night, wrestling at the top of my game
in a really hot angle in front of fans who had been there for me from the very beginning.


In contrast to the week before in Alberta, Owen, Davey, Brian and I walked out to a blizzard of spit
and a hail of boos. (Jim was briefly off, sorting out some contract problems arising from having
signed with a small-time promotion before coming back to WWF.) As I stood with a Canadian flag
draped over my shoulders, each of The Hart Foundation members spelled out the conditions of our
various SummerSlam matches. If Davey lost to Shamrock he’d be forced to eat a can of dog food; if
Owen lost he’d pucker up and kiss Stone Cold’s ass; and if Pillman couldn’t beat Goldust he’d wear
his valet Marlena’s dress. My vow? If I lost to Taker I’d never wrestle in America again.

I retained the title in a triple-threat match in San Jose on October 12 with Stone Cold, Hunter and my
boy Shamrock. Shawn was the guest referee. After the match, with Jim Neidhart and Ken beside me
in the dressing room, I made a short speech to Shawn, knowing that it was official that we would
face each other in a title match at Survivor Series ’97, which was going to be in Montreal this time. “I
just want you to know that despite any differences we’ve had this past year, I have no problem


working with you. You can trust me in every way to be a professional. What you need to know,
Shawn, is that you’re not in any danger.” I added, “I also want you to know that I have no problem
dropping the belt to you if that’s what Vince wants.”

Paul’s crew left so I could undress. I somehow found some humor in the fact that after his match
Davey had borrowed my towel (as he often did), leaving me without one as I headed to the showers.
My head was spinning and my heart had a giant hole in it as the water poured over me. Rick Rude
and Davey appeared just out of range of the showers to tell me that, true to his word, Taker had
made Vince open his door. Vince had rounded up a makeshift crew of bodyguards consisting of
Slaughter, Brisco and his son Shane. I had my friends: Taker, Sham-rock, Foley, Vader, Rude, Crush,
Savio and especially Owen, Davey and Jim.



This whole thing could turn into a damn mutiny—or worse!


Finally Vince came down the hall with his posse and stepped into the dressing room.

Finally Vince came down the hall with his posse and stepped into the dressing room.




“He says he wants to talk to you,” Rick called to me in the shower.



“Tell Vince to get the hell out of here before he gets hurt.”



Rick and Davey returned seconds later and told me in unison, “He says he’s staying.”



I told them to please warn him to leave. “If he stays, he’s gonna get knocked out.” But they came
back with the same answer.



I came out of the shower sopping wet, with no towel, and calmly walked past Vince. I was actually
thinking that if they ever did a movie about this, it wouldn’t look very good if I beat Vince up naked.
As I picked up a damp towel from the floor, Vince dryly offered, “It’s the first time I ever had to lie to
one of my talent.”



“Who are you kidding, you lying piece of shit?” I shot back. Shawn now sat crying in the corner.



Brisco and Slaughter tried to clear everyone out of the dressing room. Owen was about to leave
when Davey grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t leave,” he said. “Remember what happened to Bruiser
Brody.” None of my boys left.



With Davey, Rick, Owen and Jim on my left, I sat down and glared at Vince, surrounded by his
henchmen, who all stood with their arms behind their backs. Taker was also there, offering me full
support. Shawn was still blubbering like a baby, his head in his hands.



“You told me I could leave any way I wanted. That I was Cal Ripkin. That I was doing you a favor. That
you appreciated everything I ever did. That for everything I’ve done there was no reason for any
problems. You’ve told me nothin’ but lies all week, all fucking year!” I said in a surprisingly calm
voice. Then I added, “If you’re still here when I’m finished getting dressed, I’ll have no choice but to
punch you out!”



Vince seemed unfazed, even tried to take credit for my deal with Turner, but I cut him off to remind
him that I’d taken the lesser deal from Vince because I’d wanted to stay loyal to him. “After fourteen
years, you just couldn’t let me leave with my head up?”




I shot him down on every lie. I was calm and rational as I sized up the room and who was where,
noticing too the look on Owen’s face: I could see he was afraid of what it might be like to stay on
with Vince after this, whatever this was, was over, but that he was backing me to the fullest. Like
one of my best matches, I could see it all play out in my head. I knew a fight with Vince was likely to
come down to a half-assed pull-apart, so I intentionally left my shirt off so no one could grab it. I’d
be lucky if I got one good shot in before they all pounced on me. When I tied the laces of my high-
tops, I stood up and said, “Okay.”



I picked up my knee brace, thinking to smash Vince over the head with it, but I tossed it down,
declaring, “I won’t need this!” and went straight for him. Cockily Vince came back at me and we
actually tied up. Fourteen fuckin’ years! I launched a rocket-launcher uppercut that connected with
Vince’s jaw. My right fist actually popped him like a cork off the ground, and he collapsed
unconscious to the carpet. His cavalry jumped in, but they were too late. I found myself jostling with
Jerry Brisco, who I would find out later was the one who had designed the whole screwjob for Vince.
I told him if he so much as touched me again, I’d give him exactly the same as I’d given Vince, and
the lying little coward backed away with his hands up. For the next forty seconds we all stared at
Vince unconscious, splayed like an X on the floor. I calmly took my seat again and noticed that my
hand was throbbing. I thought it might be broken. Shane pulled Vince into a sitting position and
pleaded with me to let his father get his bearings.



I thought of my dad, who had been at home watching me get screwed on live TV, and my sons out in
the hallway, and I remembered that Paul Jay was just outside the door. Vince was blowing like a
horse, still out of it, and I couldn’t help but think that maybe Paul should capture some of this. I
angrily shouted, “Get him out!” Slaughter and Brisco dragged him backward by the armpits and
plopped him on the bench across from me. I stood up and snatched my knee brace with a wild, mad
look on my face, and I think I meant it when I shouted, “Get him the fuck out right now or I’ll finish
him with this!”



When I came toward him, Shane and his helpers propped Vince on his feet and walked him limping
out the door. I would find out later that my punch lifted him high enough off the ground that when
he came down he rolled his ankle and nearly broke it.



And as history would have it, Paul filmed a dazed Vince staggering down the hall.



The dressing room was now quiet, except for Shawn’s sniffling. I walked toward him, thinking I
should kick the shit out of him too, while I had the chance. Instead I held out my hand. “Thanks for
the match, Shawn.” He shook my broken hand and started crying even harder.




It all seemed so surreal. After a few more moments of silence, Jim said with a mischie-vous smile, “I
guess they won’t say anything to me anymore about smashing TV monitors.” Rude, Taker, Owen, Jim
and Davey all burst out laughing.



When I got back to my hotel I asked Marcy, who was seething over how I’d been treated, to get the
truth out to the media and the fans before Vince rewrote history—and with her vast network of
contacts, I knew she could. It was an international news story before Vince’s damage-control team
had their morning coffee, and by then it was too late for Vince to smooth it over.

The next afternoon, while I was on the plane home, Vince had a talent meeting at Raw in Ottawa,
during which more than a few of the boys nearly quit. After the match, wrestlers kept calling my
hotel room saying that they wanted to boycott Raw. I deeply appreciated their support but told
them to think of their families first. Ken Shamrock was one of those who nearly quit. Davey and
Owen came home too; Davey pretended that he had reinjured his knee during the scuffle with
Vince, but Owen didn’t offer any excuse. Mick Foley actually quit.

I felt honored to shake Rick Rude’s hand. He’d been at a taped Raw on November 17, which aired on
November 24, just as he walked out live on Nitro. This was the first and only time a wrestler
appeared for both organizations on TV at the same time. Raw was taped on alternate weeks from
the live Nitros, and Bischoff liked to give out the results of Raw matches before they aired. Rude
walked out there and delivered a well-spoken monologue about the rights and wrongs of
professional wrestling. He said it was wrong for Shawn to claim he was the World Champion when
Vince had cheated me out of the title. A lot of wrestlers were disgusted by what Vince had done in
Montreal, but Rick Rude was one of the few who actually quit the WWF for good over it.




Mick Foley had quit too and missed a Raw but then returned the next day. He was finally making a
name for himself as Mankind. For him, going back to WCW would have been career suicide. Steve
Austin called to tell me how sorry he was that it ended up this way for me but warned me that WCW
was a black hole of bad booking and bad organization. Ken Shamrock had been so furious that he’d
also wanted to quit, but I advised him to do what was best for his family and he finally elected to
stay, though he said, “I’ll always be one of your crew, Bret.” Then he was quoted in a story in
Maclean’s magazine on the screwjob, saying, “I can’t speak for what happened between Vince
McMahon and Bret Hart, but I can say that Bret Hart was the kind of guy everyone looked up to.”


I spoke to Eric the night before, and he told me to go down to the show, that it would really feed the
rumors on the Internet. When I arrived at the back of the Saddledome, Carlo was there to meet me
and seemed overly concerned about letting me come backstage. The closer we got to the dressing
room, the more I realized that Carlo was the only one who had a problem with it. I was soon
surrounded by the smiling faces of Owen, Mankind, Edge, Test and Papa Shango. Even Hunter came
out to greet me, with Chyna, who clearly had had radical cosmetic surgery since the last time I’d
seen her; she looked drastically altered, reconstructed and beautiful in a ghastly kind of way. I gave a
hardy handshake to Ken Shamrock just as agent Jack Lanza waded in with a big smile, flashing a look
of annoyance at Carlo, who was still standing around like a useless guard dog. “What the hell?” he
said to Carlo. “Of course he can come down. Are you kidding?”



It felt good to see my old friends, and I could tell by the huge smile on Owen’s face that it meant a
lot to him that I was there. I was soon pulling my pants down just enough to show them the four-
inch incision from my surgery. Then I went to watch Taker’s match, and when the fans glimpsed me
in the wings, they began chanting “We want Bret,” over and over. After his match, Taker walked past
me grinning and said, “You’re next.”



I noticed Stone Cold playing innocently enough with some black-haired girl’s hand. I couldn’t see her
because she was all wrapped up in the curtain, but I assumed this might be a new girlfriend. Like so
many of us, Austin had just gone through a divorce. Then Steve noticed me and I noticed that the girl
he was playing around with was Diana. She’d dyed her hair. I’d seen Davey do a lot more than flirt,
but still, this seemed a bit callous with Davey in the hospital, for whatever reason he was there.
Steve left her to come over and chat with me; we parked ourselves on some equipment boxes, and
soon we were talking about our divorces. Then Owen asked me to say hi to Earl, and I had no
problem doing that.



Moments later, I stood with The Rock, who told me, “I’ll never forget what you did for me.” He also
said that I should come back, that WCW was screwing me over worse than Vince had. Shawn wasn’t
wrestling anymore, just playing the role of a commissioner, so he, Taker and Austin were the ones in
charge. I shrugged and said, “I don’t think so.”



After the show, I sat with Taker at a bar and we laughed like the long-lost friends that we were. I
went home that night feeling better than I had in months, because finally, at least in some sad, small
way, I got to say a proper good-bye.




Three days later, on the same day as the Columbine high-school massacre, the Grim Reaper came
calling for Rick Rude, who was found dead of a heart attack from an overdose of painkillers. He was
forty. I’ll never forget how Rick stood by me after Montreal. Rick was one of those guys who never
took his wedding ring off; he’d wrap a piece of white tape around it when he went into the ring. He
was the kind of guy who, when you needed someone to back you up, wouldn’t flinch at all. Not for
money. Not for anything.



And then, in early May, that crazy lumberjack, Jos The Maniac LeDuc, died. I can’t express how much
the constant string of wrestlers’ deaths affected me. They developed drug habits and took such risks
with their health, all for what? Just to make the next town? To entertain people? This sort of funeral
march happens to most people when they hit their seventies. To me it felt like the casualties of war.