stu

TVs were now every third Monday and Tuesday. On the other Mondays of the month, Vince added a
show called Monday Night Raw, which would alternate between live and taped matches. The
concept for Monday Night Raw was that it would be at the same venue each week, a historic 3,500-
seat theater within walking distance of Madison Square Garden called the Manhattan Center. In
January 1993 alone, the WWF produced something like fourteen hours of TV and a major pay-per-
view. For the shows that didn’t air live, commentary was overdubbed in a number of languages at
the WWF’s slick in-house production facility in Connecticut and beamed via satellite to networks
worldwide. That’s not to mention the forty-two towns run that month with two teams of wrestlers
for the house shows. This schedule became normal. They published it for fans in the monthly WWF
magazine under the banner “Killer Kalendar”—and that’s what it was.

~

As I walked past the marble and bronze statues of Le Jardin des Fontaines Pétrifiantes, I was
remembering our first night, in London. The televised special went well enough. After all, England
had its wrestling fans, and it was a rarity for them to see the likes of Hulk and André: We were just
beginning to get over big in the U.K. I couldn’t help but see a glimpse of the future and the past
when Rollerball Rocco and a bunch of the English boys dropped their bags in the dressing room. Pat
had hired them to work the opening dark match. Rollerball’s Black Tiger gimmick had long since died
in Japan, and now he and the other lads toiled endlessly for a few quid, crisscrossing the U.K. riding
four to a car. In the WWF dressing room they wore envious expressions that reminded me of pack
horses who suddenly found themselves corralled with groomed Clydesdales.The Brits were
awestruck as André lumbered past. To them he might as well have been a brontosaurus.

As I walked past the marble and bronze statues of Le Jardin des Fontaines Pétrifiantes, I was
remembering our first night, in London. The televised special went well enough. After all, England
had its wrestling fans, and it was a rarity for them to see the likes of Hulk and André: We were just
beginning to get over big in the U.K. I couldn’t help but see a glimpse of the future and the past
when Rollerball Rocco and a bunch of the English boys dropped their bags in the dressing room. Pat
had hired them to work the opening dark match. Rollerball’s Black Tiger gimmick had long since died
in Japan, and now he and the other lads toiled endlessly for a few quid, crisscrossing the U.K. riding
four to a car. In the WWF dressing room they wore envious expressions that reminded me of pack
horses who suddenly found themselves corralled with groomed Clydesdales.The Brits were
awestruck as André lumbered past. To them he might as well have been a brontosaurus.


A lot of pro wrestling’s old horses were falling away or dying off. Britain’s Big Daddy Crabtree had
died in 1997, Loch Ness was failing and then the legendary wrestler BoBo Brazil died at seventy-
three. But the Grim Reaper of wrestling wanted more young bones too. On February 15, 1998, a
drunken Louie Spicolli downed twenty-six Somas and died at the age of twenty-seven, drowning in
his own vomit. The sad thing was that more guys were worried about drug testing being introduced
as a result than about dying like Louie did, or like Brian Pillman had. Eric Bischoff was pissed off after
the news hit the dressing room about Louie, and said to me: “Man, these guys are just getting
dressed and nobody gives a shit.”


Jim and I went on early in what was really a call to go out and kick the show into high gear. The Nasty
Boys headed out with Jimmy Hart, who was wearing a spray-painted motorcycle helmet as
protection from us. Our music played and off we went, the pink tassels on our epaulets swinging as


we high-fived fans on our way to the ring. I pulled open my jacket to expose the shiny gold belt that
had meant so much to me once upon a time. But now I was galloping beyond that. Beware the dark
horse!

An hour or so later we hiked up to the saltwater pool in Diamond Head, Christian and Tate lugging a
cooler of beer and a bucket of KFC. I took three strides and jumped into the pool. I kept calling Owen
to come in, but he was so cautious that he wouldn’t. I finally coaxed him out and we straddled the
pool wall like a horse, while big, warm, salty waves washed over us. Hanging by our arms we looked
out at the blue Pacific as little crabs scurried over the rocks. A pensive Owen said, “There are some
at home who don’t understand how hard you’ve worked to get this far. They think Vince just hands
you everything on a silver platter. They’re so envious of you and me!” I knew full well that the
business had saved us and that if we were back home with the rest of them, we’d likely be sinking
fast. I told Owen I’d do what I could to get Jim and Davey hired back. Davey quit WCW after he had
been extradited back to Canada to deal with the assault charge stemming from his bar fight. And Jim
had already blown the $380,000 from U.S. Air.

The following day, Julie and I went for a stroll along the beach, but we were taken aback by the
numbers of beggars and drug addicts, many of whom sniffed glue from plastic Baggies while they
pleaded with us for spare change. A murky-green tide washed slime and garbage up at our feet, and
one desperate Filipina woman tried to sell me what appeared to be her ten-year-old daughter for
some quick sex. To escape the beggars and drug addicts, I paid $80 for a horse-and-buggy ride so we
could see the sights, but the road was lined with street people and prostitutes. The driver whipped a
small, emaciated black pony until I finally insisted he let us off. I figured the poor horse was about to
drop dead as it panted and wheezed, with white froth and snot hanging from its nose.


34



THE CLIQUE



BY NEW YEAR’S EVE, I was packing to leave again. I couldn’t help but feel like a tired horse being
hitched to the wagon one more time. I had a feeling that 1995 was going to be a telltale year for me.
I told myself that it was out of my hands and just to do my best.


“And Bret Hart . . . talks about his loyalty to his WWF fans. And that’s ultimately what made him
return to the World Wrestling Federation. Well, that is a load of horse shit. The reason Bret Hart
returned to the World Wrestling Federation, after using a rival organization against this man and the
company that made him what he was, he stabbed the World Wrestling Federation in the back! Why?
For his financial gain! Bret Hart did not come back to the World Wrestling Federation for his fans, he
came back for the almighty dollar!”



~~~~


Finally, Yoko and I enacted our usual David and Goliath story. Soon I was dragged to a corner so Yoko
could squash me like a grape for his finish. He climbed up on the second rope, then slipped and
toppled backward. I was quick to move out of the way, because if he landed on me for real he’d
most certainly kill me! I was on him like a monkey on a beach ball, hooking his big leg to reclaim the
WWF World Heavyweight title!



The rafters shook when guest referee Roddy Piper proudly raised my arm in victory. The ring filled
up with wrestlers—Lex, Tatanka, Razor, Kid—and then I saw Gorilla, Pat, Vince and even Burt
Reynolds in the ring! Macho Man charged out and gave me a hug. He had tears in his eyes when he
said, “I’m proud of you, brother! You deserve it!” Then Roddy and Randy, two legends, told all the
boys to pick me up. Like in a dream, suddenly I was back in Grade 8 on my friends’ shoulders after I
had punched out that bully Brett McFarlane. It’s curious that at WrestleMania X, a total work, I felt a
similar kind of triumph.



I saw Julie, Carlo and Gord in the audience clapping. Owen stood in the aisle glaring at me with
burning blue eyes. Despite how he pretended to seethe, he was so happy, he could have kissed me.



This was one of the greatest nights of my life, arguably the highlight of my career, and I was grateful
that a beaming Vince had given us this moment. I was exhausted and dripping in Yoko’s sweat in the
hallway when suddenly Julie was beside me. She was wearing a nice new outfit, and when I didn’t
give her a sopping wet hug, she misinterpreted it. By three in the morning, the celebration canceled,
Julie was gripping her suitcase with her eyes ablaze. “Bret, I want a divorce. We’re done! And I mean
it this time!” She slammed the door behind her. I expected her to come back, but she didn’t.



When I showed up for TV in Poughkeepsie the next day, I was as deflated as I’d ever been. My heart
felt abandoned and scorched, with bits of ash blowing around in it—and yet I was champion of the
world.




For the next several days I toured England feeling so despondent about Julie that even being
mobbed by fans didn’t make me feel better. I called home on her birthday, but the phone bleeped
and bleeped. I could only assume that she was out with her friends. When I dropped my bags on the
dressing-room floor at the Royal Albert Hall, I remembered the last time I wrestled there thirteen
years earlier. It occurred to me that Julie was leaving me then too. Things hadn’t changed.



Every night Owen and I worked an even better match than the night before. It was always the pop of
the night when I reversed Owen’s sharpshooter and came up with mine, with a remorseless Owen
tapping out. We’d perfected the story of what a mean little brother he was.



Between matches Owen occupied himself with orchestrating ribs in the dressing room. One of his
latest victims was Oscar, the fat rapper manager of a new black tag team called Men on a Mission, or
M.O.M.Three-hundred-pound Mo was cool and mellow with a dyed-white buzz cut and carried the
team. Mabel was a 450-pound mass with a white mohawk, who didn’t do much but stand there in
hideous, baggy purple silk pants. But their gimmick capitalized on the new rap sound, and when
Oscar came out shouting on the live mic, “Get your hands up in the air!” he really pumped up the
crowd. Owen egged on The 1-2-3 Kid until he tried to seize the heavy, out-of-shape Oscar in close
quarters. Kid expected to manhandle Oscar and jumped right on his back, but Oscar panicked,
charging back and forth into the walls and knocking Kid silly!



Back in Israel, I was touched to see a street kid about eight years old waiting to greet me at my hotel.
He was wearing a crudely sewn pink and black replica of my ring outfit and holding a cardboard sign
that read, HITMAN NEW REL WORL SIMPION. I put my arm around him and asked who helped him
make his outfit. In broken English he proudly explained that he had made it all by himself and added,
“I don’t want to bother you. I just want to look at you. You are my hero.”



When the bus pulled away for double shots in Haifa and Halon, the boy rode his bike alongside,
popping wheelies and giving me the bullhorn sign. At every traffic light he’d catch up and wait below
my window so he could pull his Hitman shades down and pop another wheelie just for me. He kept
up with us for miles. Soon the boys on the bus were cheering him on. Just when we thought he
couldn’t keep up anymore, he’d come around a corner and give me the bullhorn sign, until he finally
faded into the distance. I never saw him again. I loved that little boy.



I finished off the tour in Tel Aviv with Owen, on last in the main event, pro wrestling’s version of Cain
versus Abel. Later that evening I strolled down the soft, brown-sugar sand behind the Holiday Inn in
Tel Aviv. Another beautiful night, the black sky filled with stars and the red blinking lights of Israeli
military jets fading in and out between clouds. The shore was still lined with barricades that looked
like giant steel jacks glistening in the moonlight. The girl from last time gave me a long kiss good


night and walked out of my life forever. The scent of her perfume lingered as I lay in bed tasting her
on my lips. What started out as a slow tremor of guilt soon thumped in my chest, and like something
had suddenly taken over my controls, I grabbed for the phone to call Julie.



It was a long call, but we patched up our battered warship and sailed on—again. I told her if things
went right for me as champ I really could be home in only three more years and asked if she could
last. She said she could, but I heard the sob in her voice and felt like a real bastard as I smelled the
Israeli girl on my fingers. The world was my cage, and home was a dream that I wet my lips on.



At the end of April, I called my mom to tell her some good news: Because of the success of the angle
with Owen, Jim and Davey were going to be hired back, that is if Davey could get out from under his
assault charge. From the lilt in her voice, I could tell that the jolt of joy was as good for her as the
electrical one the doctors had given her heart. I told her I’d come up to see her and Stu that Tuesday
to wish Stu a happy seventy-ninth birthday before I left for a tour of Japan.



I arrived at Hart house around four-thirty with Julie and the kids in tow and parked beside Owen’s
new van. I couldn’t help but smile at seeing one of my mom’s crayoned signs taped to the outside of
the kitchen door. “Happy 79th birthday Grampy!” She’d hang a perfectly lettered sign with the
relevant details for birthdays and other occasions because with such a big family, it helped everyone
to keep track. We barged into the kitchen, and I could see Stu’s tattered ostrich-skin cowboy boots
sticking out of the stairwell where he was sitting talking on the phone. He put his huge hand over the
receiver and bellowed upstairs to my mom, “Tiger, there’s someone here to see you.” Jade clamped
a large toy tiger in her arms, and Beans carried a small gift box in tiger-striped wrapping as I heard
the flip-flop of my mom’s slippers coming down the stairs. Stu wasn’t so big on receiving presents
but loved it when we brought something with us for my mom.



Over the years, Stu affectionately modified my mom’s nickname from Tiger Belle to Tiger Balls. She
let out her gorgeous laugh when she saw that the box was filled with tiger-striped Ping-Pong balls.
Soon a pot of coffee was brewing. Stu was still trapped on the phone. My mom explained, “It’s
Diana. She and Ellie call him every single day about Jim and Davey.” She cupped her hand over her
mouth to whisper, “They’re losing everything now.”



I wanted to wish my dad a happy birthday. My mom pleaded with him to get off the phone, but Stu
had a hard time saying no to his daughters, and the conversation stretched on. Stu finally told Diana
that he just wanted to say good-bye to me before I left, and she took offense. With a pained look, he
sighed, “She hung up on me!” I shook his hand, but the phone rang again. This time it was Ellie. Stu
put his hand up, signaling me that he didn’t want me to go, so I chatted with my mom a while
longer. After a few minutes he set the phone down to tell me Ellie wanted to thank me herself for


the new break for Jim. But Ellie was cold and distant as she went on a bitter rant about how Vince
McMahon owed her and Jim a living, conveniently overlooking the fact that it’d been Jim who’d got
himself fired in the first place and that he was lucky to be hired back at all after throwing that TV
monitor at Chief. As far as I knew, Jim hadn’t paid Vince back for the lawyers who’d won him the
settlement, which was all gone now anyway. When I hung up, I realized that she hadn’t thanked me
for anything.



There was a lot of doom and gloom at WWF headquarters. Vince had to pay out two huge
settlements: one to Jesse Ventura for $810,000 in back royalties and a staggering $26.7 million to
Chad Austin, the jobber paralyzed by The Rockers. Not to mention that Vince’s trial was fast
approaching. Bam Bam and Yoko, who kept up with the business in Japan, warned me that the WWF
tour was going to bomb big-time.



That first day, the Japanese press was mostly interested in the impact of Hogan going to WCW and
Vince’s legal woes rather than the tour itself. Nonetheless, when I peeked through the curtain at the
crowd in Yokohama, it wasn’t such a bad house after all. I was working a title match with Macho
Man. Although he’d never worked Japan, his exposure on Vince’s TV had made him a legend over
there. He saw me as the ideal opponent to, in a sense, restore him to his proper place: Vince hadn’t
done anything with him for so long that it was beginning to eat at him. All Randy wanted was a little
respect. When Jack Lanza came to us and flatly said to me, “Catch something quick on ’im,” it wasn’t
hard to read the dejected look on Randy’s face. It showed Randy how little the office cared. Not so
long ago, Lanza would never have spoken to Randy like he was a jobber. So I told Randy, “Let’s just
do it for us.” We went out that night and had a beautiful match, although I did give him a small spud
when he caught a boot in the face, opening a gash in his eyebrow. The blood only added to the
drama, and the usually somber Japanese fans came to their feet when I slapped on the sharpshooter
and Randy tapped out.



“Sorry ’bout your eye,” I said back in the dressing room. It was a deep cut, but he smiled and said,
“That’s okay, it’s good for the business.”



Lanza came up to us, his bad eye looking like a burned-out headlight, and swatted us on our asses
with his clipboard, “Great, guys!”



Randy shot back, “Save it, Lanza!”



I thought the Japanese media would appreciate how I worked completely different matches with
Macho, Yoko and Bam Bam, but it didn’t seem to mean anything to them. I thought back to Puerto


Rico and couldn’t believe it’d been sixteen years since I was a naive kid sitting out on the rocks in the
ocean promising myself that I’d make my mark in this crazy wrestling business. I owed so much to
my old teacher, mentor and friend Mr. Hito. Upon arriving in Osaka, Owen and I went to visit him at
his restaurant. He looked thin and beat up and I could see every dent and scar, but he was just as
sharp as ever.



He cooked us up a Korean barbecue and while we talked I thought back to when he taught me the
art of wrestling; how to fall, how to protect myself and how to protect the guy I worked with. When I
thought about The Rockers breaking Chad Austin’s neck, it dawned on me that thanks to Hito, I’d
never seriously injured a single wrestler. From what he said, it seemed Hito was wise enough to be
content being an old dog chained to the porch, yet I sensed he really missed the way things used to
be.



The night before the final show of the tour, I sat with a dog-faced 1-2-3 Kid in Sapporo. By the end of
our one day off, we had grown tired of samurai soap operas. Restless at the hotel, we had ended up
at a sleazy fuck show. Only a little while back I was bobbing around in the Dead Sea—how did I end
up here?



Pretty Russian girls were lying on the stage rolling condoms over tiny thumblike dicks, getting fucked
and giving blow jobs, while Japanese businessmen fingered them and laughed. It’s strange where
people end up in life. A voice in my head reminded me that once upon a time I cut my head with a
razor for $50 a night and thought nothing of it.



After the last show, we were bused straight from the arena to a chartered plane for an eight-hour
flight to Guam. We all slept on the plane and ate only dry cucumber sandwiches that we washed
down with beer. When we landed we were sent straight to the building like cattle. In the dressing
room, wrestlers were flopped out on dirty floors, too tired to chow down on pizza. Owen and I
spotted a fully stocked gym out back, and as wiped out as we were, we squeezed in an intense
workout—we hadn’t seen a gym in two weeks.



More than once that night, I felt my legs buckle and go out from under me, but the crowd was so
pumped up we couldn’t help but work hard for them.



After the show, we went straight back to the airport. All I remember of Guam is a few palm trees.
Back on the chartered plane, the only thing to eat was more pizza, with plenty of beer to wash it
down. Like hungry animals we obliged. We crossed the International Date Line, and when we landed
in Honolulu we lived the entire day of May 12, 1994, all over again—like Guam was just a dream.




Owen had turned twenty-nine a few days earlier, so I suggested to him that he stay over with me to
celebrate in Hawaii. My two surfer dudes were waiting at baggage claim, only now there were three
of them. Tate’s younger brother, Todd, had come along. While Owen and I always made a point of
kayfabing, today would be a rare exception because the surfer dudes couldn’t care less about our
storyline. We went straight to the beach, where we strapped on some life jackets and took off in a
six-man rubber dinghy. The sun was high and bright, and waves splashed my hand as it hung over
the side. Owen and I each held a beer, and he was as purely happy as I’d ever seen him, and then
maybe so was I. After about a half hour we coasted close to the shore, ready to get back on land,
when Chris decided he wanted to show us the barrier reef, where the ocean floor drops off a couple
of miles off shore. A few minutes later he idled the dinghy and pointed to where the blue water
fades to black and said, “That’s hundreds of feet deep.” Then the motor cut out. From the worried
looks on the surfer dudes’ faces, I realized we were out of gas.



Tate kept asking Chris whether he thought he could swim ashore. Chris stood on his tiptoes and
peered out at Waikiki, a couple of miles away. No sooner did Chris decide that he could do it than he
changed his mind. He explained that there had been shark attacks in the area recently. We had no
flares, no food, no drink, and we were drifting farther and farther out to sea.



Owen thought it was all a rib and just smiled at me.



“Owen, I’m not kidding.”



“Good try, Bret.”



After a half hour, when we really started to cook in the hot sun, it dawned on Owen that this was no
joke. All we could do was hope that someone would rescue us, maybe the coast guard. Finally,
Christian decided that waiting wasn’t going to get the job done and dove into the water. I feared for
him, but he was a terrific swimmer. I reminded Owen of the episode of The Simpsons where Homer
gets lost at sea, but Owen was in no mood for humor. Then I joked about what would happen if
Owen and I were lost for several weeks. Perhaps we could even upstage the negative headlines
about Vince and be seen as a welcome diversion! The whole wrestling world, along with our friends
and families, would search everywhere for us and finally when we were rescued, when we would
meet the onrush of reporters, Owen and I would kayfabe like the pros we were and persuade them
that despite being lost at sea in a dinghy we still weren’t talking to each other! A smile started to
break on Owen’s face, and we were both grinning as we caught sight of a motorboat speeding
toward us carrying Chris waving a gas can. In no time we were safe on Waikiki beach.




Afterwards, Owen and I went back to the saltwater pool and gorged on fried chicken and cold beer.
That night, Taker was back on the card. He’d been home for a few months, and it was great to see
him. After the show, Owen and I went back to kayfabing because there were too many fans around,
but later on, like two colliding marching bands, the babyfaces and the heels ran into one another on
a Honolulu street corner. Lost wrestlers. Ones like Owen, who were out long past their bedtimes.
Ones so cheap they wouldn’t blow their dough on beer or girls or expensive hotel rooms. And, of
course, wild ones, who lived just for moments like this. Nobody had slept yet and delirium was
setting in.



Taker had a grin on his face like Jack Nicholson when he got returned to the ward in One Flew Over
the Cuckoo’s Nest. We soon sat at a crowded strip bar with beautiful, naked girls prancing around
us. Everyone was doing shots in honor of Owen’s birthday and Taker’s return.



I hugged Owen on a street corner just before he left for the airport. It was one of the few times I
ever saw him celebrate; he was drunker than I could ever remember him being, smiling his face off,
sunburned and swaying. I slapped him on the shoulder, “I’m happy for ya. Oje! ’Bout time you let
your hair down.”



“I had such a great day,” he said. “I’ll never forget it.” And neither would I.



Hours later I lay in bed, the room spinning just a bit. I wasn’t expecting anything as the China doll I’d
brought back to my room stared at the ocean from my balcony. She turned around casually
unbuttoning her white blouse. I was captivated by her shy smile. As she worked my jeans off I looked
deep into her catlike eyes. My lust was always stronger than my guilt.



I felt like I was being carried by a strong current in a fast river. With Owen and me headlining,
Anaheim, San Jose, Chicago and New York did the best house show business since the glory days of
Hulkamania. We were each making $7,000 to $10,000 a week. Even Martha stopped hating wrestling
for a while.



We headed back to Europe at the end of May, landing in Nuremberg on May 29.



After the show that night, I asked one of the locals where there was a good rock ’n’ roll bar and he
suggested a place called Lizard Lounge. I told Oscar, the manager from Men on a Mission, to meet


me there, but when I showed up with Kid, my faithful sidekick of late, it turned out to be a heavy
metal hangout with neo-Nazi skinheads guarding the door.



Then Oscar strolled through the front doors, oblivious to the slack jaws and scowls of the doormen.
When he said, “Wassup, Bret?” I told him to stay real close. Only then did he check out the place and
realize he might as well have come to a Klan rally. But Oscar was a man, and he wasn’t going
anywhere. So we had a few beers, and Oscar confided that he was afraid that something was going
to go off between him and Shawn, Razor and Diesel, who’d made it clear that they didn’t like
M.O.M. I told Oscar if it got serious to tell me and I’d keep an eye on things. Then Oscar shuffled out,
nodding politely to the skinheads at the door, who nodded back dumbfounded, no doubt wondering
whether he had brass balls or no brains!



By four in the morning, Kid and I were at the Green Goose, which was packed with American GIs and
drunken WWF fans who spent every mark they had traveling from town to town partying every night
with the touring wrestlers. Kamala’s former ring manager, Harvey Wippleman, had met an English
fan in Germany and married her like she was a mail-order bride. Yoko, a big, fat bullfrog with a
ponytail, sat perched on his lily pad, a cigarette hanging from his lips next to Mabel, black as coal and
as big as a mountain. Which lucky girl would win their hearts? Diesel weaved his way toward me
through the sweaty mob. Vince had just put the IC belt on him so he could work with me at King of
the Ring. Since he’d come to the WWF, he had only been Shawn’s bodyguard, and he was worried
about how he would handle our match. I liked Kevin and said I would do all that I could to make him
look good. He told me that earlier that evening, Shawn and Razor got so wasted on pills and booze
that some fans helped them back to the hotel and tucked them into their beds. The pill problem was
getting dangerously out of control.



Berlin was the crown of the tour. When I did an autograph session they had to shut down major
downtown streets. I signed for more than four hours to keep the peace.



Then it was on to Italy. In Milan, after a barn burner with Owen, I stood on the middle rope in the
corner watching him storm down the aisle, turning back to flip me the bird. I nearly burst out
laughing as he jammed his thumbs under his armpits and flapped his elbows, shouting, “You’re a
chicken!” My music blared as young kids pressed in around the barricades and I high-fived hundreds
of eager hands as I made my way down the aisle. I couldn’t help but feel as though my hand had
been touched by angels.



The next day the bus drove by the ruins of the Colosseum in Rome, where gladiators had once
fought starved and tormented lions, tigers and bears to the death as a form of entertainment. Near
the Colosseum hung color posters trumpeting the rivalry between Owen and me. Whatever it was


that we were doing certainly made more sense than what they did back then. Who’d have ever
thought that two Hart brothers would battle it out in Rome right across from the Colosseum?
Sometimes it was too much for both of us.



33



BIGGER THAN I EVER IMAGINED



IN BALTIMORE for King of the Ring on June 20, the talk in the dressing room was all about Hogan
signing with WCW. Turner’s operation had begun taping all its shows from Universal Studios theme
park in Orlando. It made for a strange TV audience. The wrestling show was looked at as a free
attraction by vacationers who were herded in and out and had to be prompted to cheer and boo
because they didn’t have a clue what the story-lines were. But Hogan had already had some positive
impact on WCW’s ratings, and there was concern for the financial stability of the WWF. It had
settled the big lawsuits and was now staggering from two failed ventures: the WBF and the
disastrous launch of a bodybuilding supplement line called ICOPRO. I kept thinking that if only
Vince’d find some new talent for me to work with, I could do so much more for him. I was facing
Diesel, with Shawn in his corner, so Jim walked out with me, and it was just like old times. I retained
the World belt when The Anvil attacked Diesel because Shawn kept on interfering during the match.



Minutes later, The Anvil slammed Razor into a post to help Owen win the King of the Ring
tournament—and the fans suddenly realized that The Anvil had only helped me keep the belt so that
Owen would have a chance to take it from me later. Just like that, The Anvil was a heel, aligned with
Owen. Owen never looked happier than when the huge, purple King of the Ring crown was placed
on his head. I just hoped for Jim’s sake, not to mention Ellie’s and their kids’, that his troubles with
drugs and booze were over, which he insisted they were.



I had been on the road for twenty-three days straight, and I couldn’t remember ever feeling this
tapped out. It wasn’t just me—everyone was wiped. The last three days of the tour were TV tapings
in small towns hundreds of miles apart: Bushkill and then Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, and finally
Ocean City, Maryland. I had to arrive each day by eleven to do promos, media and photo shoots, and
then I was expected to work at least twice each night. I almost always finished up well after
midnight, when there was no hot water left in the showers. On the night before I was supposed to
be in Bushkill, I drove two hundred miles on only a few hours sleep, then caught a morning flight
from Toronto to Newark. There to meet me at the airport was the smiling face of Marcy Engelstein, a
Bette Midler–like blonde two years younger than me. We’d met after a match back in the 1980s,
when I was limping along with a badly sprained ankle and she asked me if I needed help. We fast
became close friends and she’d been helping me ever since. When we met she didn’t know anything


about wrestling or me, but she quickly took to, and was taken in by, the strange mix of humanity in
the wrestling business. I?rode with her to countless towns, which was always a much-appreciated
respite as I?was often dead tired. Marcy developed an uncanny ability to accurately analyze my
career in ways nobody else could. My trust in her judgment became vital to me and when I wasn’t
riding with her, I always called her right after my matches to see how I came across. She’d been
flying under Vince’s radar for years, leading a team of diehards who rallied my fan support in every
nook and cranny of the world, growing a vast international network of contacts and connections and
doing it all before the age of the Internet. Marcy saved my ass lots of times in lots of ways, but on
this particular trip I really think she saved my life.



With Vince’s trial only days away, we weren’t expecting him to be at the Bushkill taping, so we were
surprised when he walked in, his neck in a soft brace following recent surgery. I was about to take on
The 1-2-3 Kid, who was pacing around nervously. It was a big match for him, but I also knew it was
important to someone else, a ten-year-old named Jason, pale and thin, clutching a Hitman teddy
bear under his arm. Even cancer couldn’t take away his smile as I draped the belt over his narrow
shoulders. When I told him I’d dedicate my match to him, he excitedly coached me to beat Kid but
not to beat him too bad. We posed for pictures, and I signed his shades. I’d been told that Jason
wasn’t expected to see next week. When I said good-bye to him, he hugged me tight. Later I showed
a Polaroid photo of him to The Kid, as an exercise in keeping our perspective.



The enthusiastic, small-town crowd knew there was little chance that The 1-2-3 Kid could take the
belt from me. I rocked Kid with some of the best lifters I’d ever thrown, and he took them
beautifully. After only a few minutes the crowd was in awe and kept cheering like crazy—right up
until Kid climbed to the top turnbuckle and went for a drop kick. I caught his feet in mid-air and
stepped into the sharpshooter. He tapped out instantly and I was crouched down beside him,
helping him, as the crowd applauded both of us. This was the true art of wrestling: no cheer and boo
signs needed here. When the match was over, Vince smiled and thanked me for being the hardest
working wrestler in the business, and Jim was stunned to hear him. Jim was only just starting to
realize that I wasn’t just one of the top guys, I was the top guy.



It struck me as odd when Pat told me that my next big angle would be with Bob Backlund, who’d
first won the WWWF World title back in 1978. The new marketing angle of the WWF was that we
were the new generation, whereas WCW was the retirement league. I did my job, heading off to
Ocean City, where I scored a clean win over Backlund in a classic old-school match. But when I went
to shake his hand, the normally good-natured Bob flipped out and cracked me across the face with a
stiff slap. Then he pounced on me and locked me into his cross-faced chicken wing, a serious shoot
hold that was every bit as painful as it looked. After several long minutes a hysterical Bob had to be
pried off me by agents and referees. As I lay writhing in the ring like a twisted-up old coat hanger,
Backlund stared at his hands as if even he couldn’t believe he’d just gone nuts: He played his role
perfectly.




I still had one last match to do with Owen, at the end of the night. And I was not looking forward to
the five-hour drive in the dark that’d get me back to Newark in time to catch an early flight home. As
Joey Morella checked my hands and gave me instructions at the beginning of the match, he suddenly
said, “I don’t know how you do it. You’re the best worker I’ve ever seen, brother, I mean it!”
Afterwards, when he was leaving with Harvey Whippleman, I called out to him to be careful driving
home. I was so burned out I could barely keep my eyes open, so Marcy took the wheel and got me to
the airport on time.



I slept all the way home on the plane. The phone was ringing as I walked into my house. It was
Marcy, who could barely get out the words to tell me that on the same road we’d traveled, Joey had
fallen asleep at the wheel and veered into a ditch. He was killed instantly and Harvey Whippleman
was badly injured (he eventually recovered). People would accuse Vince of causing the deaths of
many wrestlers over the years in various ways, but I can say that Joey was most certainly a victim of
the WWF’s Killer Kalendar. It could just as easily have been any one of us.



Julie was coming with me for a tour of the Far East, including the Phillipines, Hong Kong and
Singapore. After a wild all-night flight on July 14—after which the wrestlers were banned from flying
Cathay Pacific Airlines—Julie was amazed by the frenzied reception that greeted the wrestlers when
we cleared customs. It was the first time she became aware of the magnitude of my crazy day-to-day
life on the road.



The bus ride to the hotel was an eye-opening series of contrasts that neither of us was prepared for.
Gardeners manicured lush green lawns of palatial homes that seemed to flash by in an instant, only
to be replaced by countless cardboard shacks in which poverty-stricken families barely existed.



At the hotel, we were ushered to a huge suite that had a balcony with an oceanfront view, revealing
a rundown plaza over which hung a pall of thick smog that stuck to everything in the hot, humid air.



The following day, Julie and I went for a stroll along the beach, but we were taken aback by the
numbers of beggars and drug addicts, many of whom sniffed glue from plastic Baggies while they
pleaded with us for spare change. A murky-green tide washed slime and garbage up at our feet, and
one desperate Filipina woman tried to sell me what appeared to be her ten-year-old daughter for
some quick sex. To escape the beggars and drug addicts, I paid $80 for a horse-and-buggy ride so we
could see the sights, but the road was lined with street people and prostitutes. The driver whipped a
small, emaciated black pony until I finally insisted he let us off. I figured the poor horse was about to
drop dead as it panted and wheezed, with white froth and snot hanging from its nose.




On the walk back to the hotel we stepped over discarded syringes and maneuvered our way past
street people who were shooting up, or sitting naked, or fornicating, as sad-eyed kids sniffed glue to
make it all go away. A warm sprinkle of polluted rain pissed down on the whole wretched mess, but
even a downpour of biblical proportions couldn’t have begun to wash this place clean. Back at the
hotel I looked out the window and saw rising up from this cesspool an inordinately large number of
Catholic church spires that, despite the grime that was everywhere, were immaculately kept.



That night we all bused to the other end of Manila for the first of two shows in as many days. It was
pouring rain as the bus made its way through bustling streets. We were paralyzed by the sight of
such widespread human degradation: It actually made what we’d seen around the hotel seem tame.
Expensive cars zoomed by the poor. No matter what direction I looked, I could see people hiking up
their dresses and pulling down their pants to urinate and defecate wherever they pleased. Manila
reminded me of a backstage toilet in Poughkeepsie after three days of TV tapings. It seemed to me
that there were police everywhere who were just as helpless as anyone else to do anything about it.



Both shows were completely sold out and the enthusiastic fans seemed to love every bit of them. I
had a tremendous fan base in the Philippines, and the letters they’d written to me over the years
told me that there were good and decent people there, but I don’t know how they managed to keep
their heads above the squalor. I felt a renewed gratitude to people who devote their lives to
environmental and humanitarian causes in an effort to keep the whole planet from turning into a
living hell.



Hong Kong was a different story. We stayed at an Omni hotel located right next door to a Planet
Hollywood, where we were given free drinks all night, every night, because celebrities rarely got out
that way. Hong Kong was the land of Rolexes, silk suits and knockoffs. Julie and I went shopping and
visited pagodas, Buddhist temples and markets where the stink of fresh fish hung in the air and
ducks hung from hooks, which didn’t seem so bad after Manila.



Backstage, the agents announced that Vince was acquitted of all charges. Now he could turn his
attention to fighting off the onslaught from Ted Turner and WCW. I had no doubt that Vince would
set things right, and I was eager to help him.



When I looked at Vince’s roster, I didn’t see anyone who could unseat me as champion, unless he
had a new star somewhere under wraps. Also, it would take a couple of months to build someone
up. Still I had a strong hunch Vince would head into winter with a new champion. Vince was growing
desperate for fresh talent, but there were few wrestlers left to bring in or bring back. I mentioned


that Chris Benoit and Stunning Steve Austin might be available, both of whom were working for a
brash, upstart outfit called Extreme Championship Wrestling.



ECW was based out of a bingo hall in Philly and was fast becoming the number-three player in the
business. Their TV shows aired in only a few markets, but they were starting to have an impact and,
in my view, not a good one. They prided themselves on what they called hard-core wrestling, the
bloodier the better, with wrestlers who purposely hurt each other to get a pop. Alternative music
was big at the time, so ECW billed itself as alternative wrestling. For wrestlers who couldn’t get into
WWF or WCW, they were another option.



At TVs in Cincinnati in early August, I learned what I already suspected. Vince was indeed thinking of
a new champion and was toying with the idea of putting the belt on Bob Backlund. I argued that this
was not something Vince should do. I liked and respected Bob, but he wouldn’t be able to carry the
house shows. The idea also didn’t mesh well with Vince’s slick, humorous new generation
promotional campaign. Backlund was older than Hulk Hogan and just a little younger than Ric Flair.



But that night I went to sleep happy because a friend of mine named Mitch Ackerman, who was with
Disney studios, had come up with a line on an acting gig for me that I was really looking forward to.
On August 23, I met with Steven North, the producer of a TV series filming near Calgary called
Lonesome Dove, based on the critically acclaimed book and miniseries by Larry McMurtry. They
were going to start on a script for me right away.



August 29 in Chicago. SummerSlam ’94 was the inaugural event for the brand-new United Center,
and twenty-three thousand tickets sold out in hours. The entire Hart family was there except for
Keith and Alison, and all of them were going to be involved in the storyline of the cage match
between Owen and me, which the WWF had told us was going to be our last match together. We
knew the match itself was going to be easy, despite the fact that we couldn’t chance any blood
because the latest ticks on Vince’s hide were citizen groups lobbying to censor TV violence. Vince
was forced to remove anything even remotely violent or he risked losing his time slots. Besides,
neither Owen nor I wanted to put my poor mother through a match where two of her sons were
covered with blood. Our only option was to make as many dramatic near-escapes as we could.



Owen came through the cage door looking cut in his black singlet and tore straight into me. For the
next thirty minutes we brawled up and down, back and forth, until finally Owen made a last escape
over the cage. I climbed up to the top and managed to catch him by the hair and pull him back
inside. I suplexed him standing off the top corner; falling backward, I held him safe and secure. Then
I tried to escape, but Owen caught me by one foot, dragged me back and twisted me into the


sharpshooter. I’ll never forget the pride I felt when I heard the crowd pop even without the blood. I
slowly reversed the sharpshooter as Owen frantically fought his way to the ropes.



Below us, sitting behind Bruce, was Jim, who was doing a great job looking like a school bully
slouched at his desk. Owen and I climbed over the top to the outside. Owen discreetly braced a leg
through the bars as I gave him one last bash into the cage, and he fell back, hanging upside-down, as
I dropped to the floor. The crowd exploded. Right on cue Jim jumped over the railing and took Davey
out from behind with a clothesline, while Davey purposely flipped Diana over the railing to get her
involved. They thought this was clever, but it infuriated me and Owen. Jim and Owen worked me
over inside the cage until Davey peeled off his shirt and led my brothers in a charge over the top to
rescue me. Jim and Owen made a quick getaway, and while I was being helped out I looked up to see
an amused Smith straddling the top of the cage, posing and flexing his muscles. When it was all over,
it was hailed as the greatest cage match of all time, which it certainly wasn’t, but it was surely the
best one without blood.



I arrived home on September 3 for five days’ rest before heading over to Europe again. I had one
important thing to do. I saw Owen enough on the road that I rarely visited with him at home, but
this time I drove over to his perfect house. We both loved our coffee, so I’d bought him a cappuccino
machine, which I left on his front steps along with a note.



It has truly been a pleasure working with you and I’m sure going to miss all the fun and high energy
you brought with you to each and every match we had. I always knew you were a great and gifted
worker and I’m very proud of you. I’m happy to have helped in any way to bring your talent to the
forefront where it always belonged. Owen, you’re all pro! Good luck in the future, call on me when
you need me, and come home in one piece. Love, Bret



Back on the bus in Europe. Davey and I worked tags all over Germany and the U.K. with Owen and
Jim. The thing I remember most about that tour was Shawn, Razor and Nash talking to me in
Hamburg about the idea of forming a clique of top guys who strictly took care of their own. This was
what Buddy Rogers did in the 1950s, working only with his selected clique to get him over, so they
could monopolize the cash flow. These boys wanted me to be the leader, to voice concerns
pertaining to the group as a whole. Even though they were my friends, I couldn’t see it, and with the
exception of Nash, their degree of pill popping was something I didn’t want to be around. I told
them, “Ultimately everybody has to work their way to the top all by themselves. If someone can
outperform me, every night in every part of the world, then go ahead, step up and do it!”



September 27, 1994. Poughkeepsie. I gingerly took a seat in Vince’s office, sensing the decision had
been made about me dropping the belt. Backlund had slammed me as hard as he could ass-first into


the mat in a dark match the night before at TVs in Utica. I wouldn’t find out for another two weeks
that he’d actually cracked my pelvis.



This new Crazy Bob was beginning to get over. The Howdy Doody heel with his red brush cut was a
character disappointed with the crowd for booing him, since he’d always been so true and good; he
was angry at them for having lowered their moral values. In the dressing room, Bob continued to be
the picture of class. He often had his face buried in huge books about politics, or he’d be working
out, in push-up position, relentlessly pushing a little metal wheel with handles on each side, back
and forth, back and forth, on the dressing-room floor.



Vince began to lay out the finish for our Survivor Series match. Owen would be in Bob’s corner and
Davey in mine in a submission match where only they could end it by throwing in a towel. At some
point Owen would incapacitate Davey, and in an emotional twist he’d persuade my poor mother,
who would be seated in the front row with Stu, to throw in my towel out of fear for my safety,
costing me the title. Even though I was losing the belt, I liked the drama of it. My feelings about Bob
getting the belt had completely changed. He was trying so hard, and besides, how would I feel if a
young buck had misgivings about putting me over some day?



I felt kind of bad for Bob when Vince told me that he’d only be champion for three days and then
drop the belt to Diesel. By then I’d be at home, supposedly injured, and Diesel would take my place
wrestling Bob at Madison Square Garden. Diesel was six-foot-nine: Maybe Vince felt he needed a
champion physically as big as Hogan. I suggested to him that he keep the belt on Bob—there was
plenty of time for Diesel to make it to the top—but his mind was made up.



Vince was full of surprises that day. He went on to say that he was thinking of moving me up to
being more of a spokesperson, the Babe Ruth of the WWF, as he originally had in mind for Hogan.
He told me he wasn’t putting me out to pasture and, more importantly, he said my salary wouldn’t
change; in fact, he insisted, it would go up. He caught me further off guard when he presented me
with a handsome custom-made pink and black leather jacket with my name sewn onto it. But the
more he talked, the more I wondered whether this was, in fact, the end of the line, just as it had
come for Macho Man and even Lex, who, as of late, knew nothing but the sound of their own tires
spinning. But for the time being, I was still his champion.



At the end of September a match between Owen and me, once again billed by the WWF as the last
we would ever do together, was supposed to be the highlight of the debut of yet another of Vince’s
TV shows. But my broken pelvis clicked with each step. I confided to Owen that I was hurt and that
not only could I not take any bumps, I wasn’t sure I could work at all. Owen told me not to worry,
that he’d do all the work. The match turned out to be a ballet of two brothers who really loved each


other. After we pushed off, Owen slapped me, spinning my head: Sweat flew, but he barely even
touched me. The slap sound came from Owen slapping his own thigh. We worked like this until we
eventually wound up in some kind of a leg lock, which looked painful, but was as comfortable as
crossing our feet watching TV. I sold it like crazy while Owen pretended to press against my knee
with his boot. We took the match higher and higher, totally faking every move, while the crowd,
Vince and all the boys in the back marveled at how intense it was. Finally Owen appeared to have
me beat as he climbed the top rope. Then Davey tripped him up, causing Owen to lose his footing
and crotch himself on the top rope. Owen writhed in mock agony as I slid over him, hooking his leg
gently. “Thank you, brother,” I said. It was the most pain-free match I ever had.



That October I was back in Calgary with time off to work on Lonesome Dove. Despite early-morning
set calls and the freezing cold, I was having more fun doing the show than I could ever remember.
Being picked up before dawn for sunrise drives out to the set was a peaceful way to wake up; there
was wildlife everywhere, even a huge, antler-less moose who loped alongside the van, framed by a
backdrop of snow-covered Rockies rising out of early-morning mist. The days were long, but I was
happy with my scenes, especially one where I brawled in a saloon, slamming a cowboy across a
table, when, bang, I got shot, or squibbed, and fake blood oozed out of my shoulder. No retakes in
wrestling, I thought, before going absolutely nuts on everybody in the saloon—and they loved it. In
fact, they wrote me in for the season finale to be shot in early December.



By the time I got to TVs in Bushkill, Pennsylvania, on November 8, the news was only just hitting, and
hitting hard: Randy had jumped to WCW. Jack Lanza told me how Randy called Vince at four in the
morning, drunk, to tell him he’d signed: “Randy never even gave Vince a chance to make him a
counteroffer.” I found Vince in his office, and I could see he was shaken. I told him, “I’ve only really
worked for two people in my life, you and my father. I want you to know that no matter what
happens, I’m loyal to you.” Vince had tears in his eyes and so did Lanza when he came up to me later
to thank me for being so supportive. \\

~

Davey, Jim, Tom and I—all of us were now signed on for the whole ride down the rough roads of pro
wrestling, a pack of wild stallions, each taking chances and praying we wouldn’t get lost along the
way. At that time I had no way of knowing that we’d end up together again, in a completely different
place. And in this stampede of wild horses, it felt to me like I was the darkest one.

My right knee would never survive Japan. I realized that if I wanted to feed my family, I needed to
heal and fast: I’d have to take steroids. This was one of the most difficult decisions I ever made. I
called Tom, and within minutes he showed up at my house armed with two loaded needles, one for
each butt cheek. Later on that night I lay shivering in a fever, running to the bathroom with diarrhea
and vomiting. It turned out the steroids were from a veterinarian and were meant for horses. Tom
got sick too.


As I walked past the marble and bronze statues of Le Jardin des Fontaines Pétrifiantes, I was
remembering our first night, in London. The televised special went well enough. After all, England
had its wrestling fans, and it was a rarity for them to see the likes of Hulk and André: We were just
beginning to get over big in the U.K. I couldn’t help but see a glimpse of the future and the past
when Rollerball Rocco and a bunch of the English boys dropped their bags in the dressing room. Pat
had hired them to work the opening dark match. Rollerball’s Black Tiger gimmick had long since died
in Japan, and now he and the other lads toiled endlessly for a few quid, crisscrossing the U.K. riding
four to a car. In the WWF dressing room they wore envious expressions that reminded me of pack
horses who suddenly found themselves corralled with groomed Clydesdales.The Brits were
awestruck as André lumbered past. To them he might as well have been a brontosaurus.




Roller’s face lit up when Hulk came into the dressing room. They’d been good buddies in Japan and
Roller had no doubt bragged to everybody that he and Hulk were friends. But that was millions of
dollars ago; sadly, Hulk barely remembered him. The dejection on Roller’s face was pitiful, and at the
same time, I felt empathy for Hogan. So much had changed for all of us.


And so, I learned at the same time as the fans did what was in my heart and on my mind. I told them
what Owen meant to me and that I was at a crossroads in my life and I just didn’t know if I’d ever be
back. “I’m gonna take some time, put things in perspective, but if I never get the chance to ever say
it again, I just want to thank all my fans everywhere that I ever had and still have. You’ve been with
me from the very start and if this is the last chance I ever get to talk to all my fans all over the world,
thank you very, very much. I wanna thank all the wrestlers in dressing rooms all over the world, it
was a pleasure to work with each and every one of you. I hope I wasn’t too stiff!”


That’s when I buckled my seatbelt. Smith drove like an absolute lunatic at speeds in excess of a
hundred miles per hour through city traffic. We made the sharp curve into the airport with the
speedometer pinned and the car tilted up on two wheels, a hair’s breadth away from careening forty
feet down off the elevated departure ramp! My yell was drowned out by André’s loud roar. When
we screeched to a stop, Andre, his big eyes bulging out of his head, was about to explode. I watched
my brother march him into the terminal, thanking God I was alive.


WHEN I WALKED INTO THE DRESSING ROOM at the Georgia Dome, the boys rose from their chairs,
one after another, to offer heartfelt condolences. In that moment, as in too many others, I felt more
support and unity from my wrestling brothers than from my blood siblings. It meant so much to me
when Randy Savage gave me a hug, with tears in his eyes. “Brother, I’m so sorry.” Jim Duggan put his
hand on my shoulder. “Sorry man!” (Hacksaw had beaten the cancer and was now back at work,
minus his right kidney.)



Before I knew it, I was caught up trading Owen stories with Randy, Hacksaw, Crush and Brian
Knobbs. I felt safe being back with the men who truly understood this life. These were my brothers
from other mothers.



Suddenly, I was called out to do my interview. My terrible WCW entrance music rumbled and the
crowd cheered as I made my way up the aisle, still having no idea what I was going to say! This was
going to be a shot from the heart. Without even thinking about it, that day I left The Hitman behind
and for the first time came out to the ring as Bret Hart, as real as real can be. No Hitman shades,
leather jacket, ring gear, hair gel—not even the strut and the attitude. I did all I could not to break
down as twenty-five thousand fans grew still for me, and for Owen.



And so, I learned at the same time as the fans did what was in my heart and on my mind. I told them
what Owen meant to me and that I was at a crossroads in my life and I just didn’t know if I’d ever be
back. “I’m gonna take some time, put things in perspective, but if I never get the chance to ever say
it again, I just want to thank all my fans everywhere that I ever had and still have. You’ve been with
me from the very start and if this is the last chance I ever get to talk to all my fans all over the world,
thank you very, very much. I wanna thank all the wrestlers in dressing rooms all over the world, it
was a pleasure to work with each and every one of you. I hope I wasn’t too stiff!”



Super Bowl XXI turned out to be another lopsided contest. The New York Giants thrashed the Denver
Broncos, and I considered that maybe wrestling had become so popular because our orchestrated
finishes were often more exciting than the outcomes in pure sports.


As we all knew, Vince had grown up fantasizing about becoming a wrestler. As a boy he dreamed up
a gimmick for himself, a filthy rich heel who would throw money out to the crowd and buy his way
out of everything. When Ted Dibiase, a second-generation wrestler out of Amarillo, joined the WWF,
he became The Million Dollar Man, the embodiment of Vince’s dream. Ted was brawny with chiseled
features and was always immaculately groomed. He’d been taught by the Funks and was being
positioned to become the next NWA world champion when Vince changed all that. Now Ted was
going straight to the top as the WWF’s hottest heel. He had his own personal valet named Virgil,
worked by Mike Jones, which was intended to be a dig at NWA booker Dusty Rhodes, whose real
name was Virgil Runnels. (Vince never missed an opportunity to take a jab at anyone he believed
had crossed him.) Ted also lived his gimmick outside the ring. The Million Dollar Man was driven
everywhere by stretch limo, stayed in four-star hotels and flew first class, all paid for by Vince, which
set the boys to grumbling because most of the larger wrestlers had to cram into coach seats.


I’d had a good showing at WrestleMania III, with a payoff of U.S.$15,000 (only a disappointment
when I thought about the fact that Vince had drawn that record crowd of 93,000 to the Silverdome).
Jim and I had won and lost the World tag titles. Julie and I were still holding on to a fragile dream
with the big house, and our third child on the way. I guess I had no right to complain, because not
everyone in my family was doing so well. Smith, without Maria, was more bitter and miserable than
ever. Dean’s life now consisted of getting high and simply existing. He made it look like he earned his
keep at Stu’s by tinkering around on old Cadillacs and moving piles of bricks and debris from one end
of the yard to the other for no apparent reason. Bruce and Ross lived and breathed for Stampede
Wrestling, Ross taking no pay and living on what he earned as a schoolteacher. Wayne still refereed
and served as a driver; I could never figure out why my parents never gave Wayne, who was so
reliable, a larger role. I guess it was a case of the squeaky wheels getting all the grease. Not that any
of their sacrifices and obsession made that much difference: Even the local Calgary fans now
regarded the dying embers of Stampede Wrestling as small-time compared to the WWF.


With Curt, I was able to do moves that I could never dream of doing with Bad News or Honky. We
adjusted to each other’s timing in an epic back and forth battle where we constantly gave back to
each other. I had Curt beat after I came off the second rope, spiking his chest with the point of my
elbow, hooking his leg for a one . . . two . . . when the bell clanged. Curt made his escape while I
grabbed the house mic and pleaded for five more minutes. Curt turned to leave, signaling me to turn
my back on him. In a flash he was back in the ring, viciously beating me down to the mat. Curt
climbed to the top turnbuckle, but I popped up to my feet and greeted him with a fist to the gut,
causing him to lose his balance and crotch himself on the corner strut. The crowd was going crazy as


I dragged him off by the hair and clobbered him from one corner to the next until he bounced out of
the ring and slithered away in full retreat. The fans thundered their approval. It was one of the best
matches I’d had in years, and I owed it to Curt, a great worker.

In March, after working in Auburn Hills, Michigan, I was whisked away by Lear jet to South Bend,
Indiana, to wrestle again that same night, taking The American Dream Dusty Rhodes’s place against
Macho Man in a main event with a packed crowd. Since the last time we had worked together,
Randy and I had wanted another match, but with no time for preparation, this one would hardly
count. I’d kept my gear on and literally jumped out of the limo and ran straight down the aisle into
the ring, through a frenzied crowd that had waited nearly an hour to see the main event. Randy and
I clicked like we’d worked a million times together—and saved the show. It was proof that I was over
enough to work a main event singles match and not disappoint the crowd. The office surely had to


be realizing that I had the versatility to have great matches, playing babyface heel one night, pure
babyface the next, in tags or singles. I tried hard to keep the faith that my day would come.


Vince had one more jerk-around in store for me. In May he announced that he’d changed his mind
and was putting me back with Jim. Three weeks later, after much worry on my part, I was
summoned to see Vince at the Sacramento TVs, where he did another about-face: I’d be taking the
Intercontinental belt from Curt at SummerSlam at Madison Square Garden, just like I’d figured out
back in April. I remembered that day in 1979 when Hito told me Vince McMahon said I didn’t have a
big enough name to wrestle in Madison Square Garden. As I left Vince’s office, I felt a deep sense of
pride and accomplishment. The Intercontinental belt was the first step in my far-off dream of being
the WWF World Champion.

Flair called every spot, even the outdated ones, including a barrage of his painful, stiff open-handed
chops that left red handprints across my chest. Some guys liked it stiff, while some worked too light
and phony. To me, chops were stupid and brainless and went against everything logical about the
business. We’re only supposed to pretend we’re hurting each other; when you really are hurting and
being hurt, you’re the mark. The only guy more stupid than the guy chopping you is the guy taking
them. I suffered through more than enough chops, out of respect, before exploding into a huge
comeback. I suplexed him off the top corner into the ring and stepped into the sharpshooter. My
mind flashed back to all those wrestling magazines I created as a kid; the times I made my own
championship belts out of cardboard and broken bottle glass. Ric Flair pounded his hands on the mat
screaming uncle, and my childhood dream became a reality. I was champion of the world!



On my Christmas break, Julie and I celebrated what had to be the best year of my life. It appeared
that we might actually succeed after all: the house, the kids, the dream. It all looked so nice through
my rose-colored glasses. But there I was leaving on Christmas Day again. When my bags were
packed and set by the door later that night, Blade came down in his pajamas and said, “Can I come
to the ’port, Dad?”



Boy I’d sure miss him. He was already two and a half. I picked him up and said, “You can come if you
promise me that you won’t cry when I leave.” He nodded and scampered away to put on his winter
boots.

On August 16, Owen and I arrived in Memphis. As our plane landed, I thought back to the day that
Elvis Presley died, when I had a dream that the world was ending. In my dream, I sat on the back
steps of Hart house with Owen, Ross and Georgia, all of us serene as we waited for the end. The
western sky, in front of us, was lit with a deep red mushroom cloud that drifted toward us. Behind
us, framed by a pale blue sky, lay the quiet innocence of Calgary.




Owen and I headed down to the Mid-South Coliseum, where we were to work a tag match against
Lawler and Jeff Jarrett, the son of wrestler Jerry Jarrett. Jeff was about Owen’s age and size, with
long blond hair and thick legs; he was working a gimmick for Vince as a rhinestone cowboy country
singer called Double J. Despite all the dirty deeds the fans had seen Lawler do on WWF TV, in
Memphis he was still a beloved babyface. Memphis had always been the most insane outpost of the
goofiest and phoniest types of wrestling and wrestlers, going back to the 1960s, when promoter Nick
Gulas and his son, George, ran the territory. (George was the all-time worst example of a promoter’s
kid going over all the time, beating everybody when he couldn’t beat his own pillow at night. He’d
cry out, “Daddy says go down!” )

Owen and Bruce sat in the front row, representing the Hart family, dressed in their finest Western
wear. Owen was bummed out because he’d just learned he’d been rejected by the fire department.
His dream of a happy home life was put on hold, and again wrestling was all he had.

As we got closer to Jerusalem I studied the rounded gold dome I could see off in the distance,
against a pale blue sky dotted with white clouds. The Dome of the Rock is the holiest place for
Muslims after Mecca. As I entered I was abruptly snatched by the wrists by a long, tall gangly Arab
version of Abe Lincoln with bushy black eyebrows, thick, muscled forearms and huge, strong hands.
He bared his white teeth: “Come, you, wrestle me now!” I had a tough time getting free and


suspected that this wiry old fellow had milked a lot of camels in his day. I had an unsettling image of
the two of us rolling around, a tangle of arms and legs, Arab Abe putting me in a camel clutch. This
was his home turf, surely Allah would side with him. It was a serious standoff, and I didn’t take it
lightly, because wrestlers were expected to be as tough as they were on TV at all times. I was
relieved when a stunned Dorit snapped at him to leave me alone and shooed him off. So much for
his dream of beating The Hitman!

The rafters shook when guest referee Roddy Piper proudly raised my arm in victory. The ring filled
up with wrestlers—Lex, Tatanka, Razor, Kid—and then I saw Gorilla, Pat, Vince and even Burt
Reynolds in the ring! Macho Man charged out and gave me a hug. He had tears in his eyes when he
said, “I’m proud of you, brother! You deserve it!” Then Roddy and Randy, two legends, told all the
boys to pick me up. Like in a dream, suddenly I was back in Grade 8 on my friends’ shoulders after I
had punched out that bully Brett McFarlane. It’s curious that at WrestleMania X, a total work, I felt a
similar kind of triumph.

It was a long call, but we patched up our battered warship and sailed on—again. I told her if things
went right for me as champ I really could be home in only three more years and asked if she could
last. She said she could, but I heard the sob in her voice and felt like a real bastard as I smelled the
Israeli girl on my fingers. The world was my cage, and home was a dream that I wet my lips on.

After the show, we went straight back to the airport. All I remember of Guam is a few palm trees.
Back on the chartered plane, the only thing to eat was more pizza, with plenty of beer to wash it
down. Like hungry animals we obliged. We crossed the International Date Line, and when we landed
in Honolulu we lived the entire day of May 12, 1994, all over again—like Guam was just a dream.




Owen had turned twenty-nine a few days earlier, so I suggested to him that he stay over with me to
celebrate in Hawaii. My two surfer dudes were waiting at baggage claim, only now there were three
of them. Tate’s younger brother, Todd, had come along. While Owen and I always made a point of
kayfabing, today would be a rare exception because the surfer dudes couldn’t care less about our
storyline. We went straight to the beach, where we strapped on some life jackets and took off in a
six-man rubber dinghy. The sun was high and bright, and waves splashed my hand as it hung over
the side. Owen and I each held a beer, and he was as purely happy as I’d ever seen him, and then
maybe so was I. After about a half hour we coasted close to the shore, ready to get back on land,
when Chris decided he wanted to show us the barrier reef, where the ocean floor drops off a couple
of miles off shore. A few minutes later he idled the dinghy and pointed to where the blue water
fades to black and said, “That’s hundreds of feet deep.” Then the motor cut out. From the worried
looks on the surfer dudes’ faces, I realized we were out of gas.

Three days later, wrestling was all a strange, faraway dream. I sat on the Lonesome Dove set in a
saloon called the Ambrosia Club waiting for my next scene. I was thrilled to hear that it was all but
certain that I’d be a full-time cast member next season, playing the sheriff in all sixteen episodes.



On August 6, Vince called to tell me that he wanted me to win the belt, at Survivor Series, by
crashing through a table. I listened to Vince tell me my finish as if I’d never heard it before. The only
thing I could come up with was that he’d read what he’d written down in his black book and
somehow actually thought it was his idea. All I could do was hope that he’d write down all my ideas
from now on!



In late February, Jim Ross and a WWF camera crew flew up to Calgary to get some footage of me
training for the big match. They had filmed Shawn in sunny San Antonio, where he ran the steps at a
football stadium, did upside-down sit-ups and pretended to spar with his mentor, Jose Lothario.
Vince was selling Shawn as a guy trying to realize his boyhood dream of winning the gold. I was
portrayed as the wily veteran from the dungeon who had every intention of being the champion for
a long time.

February in Calgary is the coldest time of the year, but they had me jog along Scotsman’s Hill so they
could get panoramic views of the city with the Rockies in the background. I don’t think J.R. and the
camera crew were trying to be funny, but I couldn’t help but see the humor in the footage they shot.
It was so icy that I had to run carefully, so it came across on film like I was running about a mile an
hour. Another magic moment taped for the world to see was when they asked me to swim laps in
my pool. But the topper was when they filmed Stu stretching me in the dungeon, an eighty-year-old
man tying me up in knots with me eagerly tapping out!



I trained for that match as hard as I ever had for anything. Shawn was eight years younger than me,
and I wasn’t going to let him outshine me. Like me and Davey at Wembley, I wanted the fans to
remember the loser in this one. I would break their hearts and disappear until Shawn had nobody to
work with except me. I saw a rematch up ahead with me taking back the title, which would build up
for yet one more match where I’d be more than happy to put Shawn over—to once and for all thrust
the torch into his hand. Done right, Shawn and I could draw money for years with a big rivalry, taking
turns putting each other over.

After Stu, Ross, Bruce and I had wrapped up the usual Sunday booking session, I headed to the
basement, where I found Tom working out. Just then Owen brought the kid from Edmonton down to
the dungeon, and Tom and I immediately kayfabed each other. I backed away from Tom, making it
clear that I wasn’t about to turn my back on my old enemy, but that sometimes enemies do cross
paths. Things as subtle as that were all it took to keep a mark from getting smart.




Then Stu came in wearing his baby-blue wool trunks, and his eyes lit up like an old lion seeing his
quarry. The kid called out with a goofy grin, “Ready for me, Stu?”

On that flight home I finally found time to study my lines for my first episode of the new season of
Lonesome Dove. I’d done two shows as mountain man Luther Root and was now written in as a
semi-regular character. I saw Lonesome Dove as a sabbatical from wrestling. I’d still wrestle
weekends, but I’d finally have more time at home, where I celebrated my thirty-eighth birthday and
my thirteenth wedding anniversary. I spent time with my kids riding hard around the bike paths of
Calgary to keep up my cardio conditioning and the elasticity in my knees. My world was spinning as
fast as the blurred spokes of my wheels. Blade rode in front of me, and I had to admire him when he
said, “Don’t worry about me, man. I’m a happy little kid!” So was I.




Shawn was now the Intercontinental champ. While I’d been home, the clique had managed to
maneuver themselves into all the top spots, and it wasn’t sitting well with the boys in the dressing
room.



I showed up for Raw in Louisville, Kentucky, on July 24, where I was booked against Hakushi again. I
liked him enough to have established him as a serious heel, but, unfortunately, because of his kindly
nature, everyone who had worked with him since had made a point of eating him up. He seemed
relieved to see me and got real serious when I explained that we’d just have to go out and show
them all over again. I put together a match filled with all the aerial moves we thought were too risky
to do at our In Your House match. Midway through it, I was on the floor when Hakushi hit the far
ropes and did a cartwheel, a handspring and then back-somersaulted over the top rope, spinning
right on top of me in what Dave Meltzer aptly described as the first space flying tiger drop ever seen
in the United States. With one kick out after another, we tore the house down until I suplexed him
standing off the top and twisted him in the sharpshooter. The Louisville Gardens came unglued.

When it came time for the main event the fans were electric. I never saw André work harder until
Hogan finally clotheslined him to the canvas. Hogan was able to pick André up and slam him like no
one had ever done before. Then came Hogan’s finish, the running leg drop. All I can say is that I
never heard a sound like that of 93,000 people counting André out along with referee Joey Morella.

Later, Maria came down to the kitchen where Katie, in an attempt at normalcy, offered her a
Snickers bar. For no reason anyone else could understand, Maria grabbed it and hurled it, as hard as
she could, at Alison, who had one-year-old Brooke in her arms. Maria then attacked Alison and
started dragging her around the kitchen by the hair, with Katie valiantly trying to intervene. In the
fierce struggle Alison focused on a finger and, fearing for not only her own safety but that of her
baby girl, bit that finger as hard as she could! Maria never even flinched but continued to pull on
Alison’s hair, so Alison just kept on biting that finger. Then she made eye contact with Katie, who
had tears running down her cheeks. Katie said, “Sweetie, that’s my finger.”



Bruce was despondent because Stu had finally sacked him as booker; Stu could no longer afford to
tolerate Bruce’s way of running the show. He replaced him with Keith, which meant Leslie was in
charge too.

I had so much more respect for Randy than for The Ultimate Warrior, who was getting over more
every day just because of his look. His matches, however, consisted of him quivering and shaking as
he gripped the ropes with his twenty-inch, tasseled arms. He never really sold anything for anybody
as he tripped around waiting for the gods to energize him. Eventually he’d explode into running
clotheslines and, as a finisher, pick his opponent up over his head, drop him hard to the mat and
then race across the ring three or four times as if it somehow added to his momentum before he
dove on top of the downed wrestler for the one . . . two . . . three.

On my last day at home Jade ran in the front door looking scared and grabbed her cousin
Bronwyne’s hand. “We gotta hide! I saw your dad parked in his car right down the street!” All the
kids scurried off. I jammed on my running shoes and marched straight out to face Tom. Even though
he couldn’t miss me coming, he seemed startled when I pulled open his car door and got in.




“That twat send you down here?” he sneered, clutching the steering wheel. He was trembling and
looked unkempt. He’d never bothered to fix his teeth, even though Vince had given him the money
for it, and his hair was scruffy and dark sunglasses hid bloodshot eyes.

The day after WrestleMania VII was Julie’s birthday. We sat parked in a rented convertible looking
out over Red Rock Canyon, just outside Las Vegas, sipping wine coolers in the warm breeze. The
thousands of giant red boulders reminded me of a Road Runner cartoon. We were relieved to have
found some peace and quiet after six days in L.A. running around with so many Harts and a teething
Blade. The night before he’d slept between us as we quietly whispered back and forth so as not to
wake him. Then Blade sat up looking cranky, slapped me on the hand and then brought his fat little
hand down right on Julie’s forehead, as if to say, You two, keep it down, I’m trying to sleep! He rolled
over and fell back asleep instantly. I laughed so hard I had to get up and leave the room.

The next day Julie came with me on a tour to Japan. I was happy to see a familiar, smiling face
waiting for us in the lobby of the hotel in Tokyo. Hito, bowlegged as ever, had moved back to Japan a
few years earlier, after finishing up his career in Calgary. He was now oddly content running a
profitable noodle shop left to him by his late sister. He kindly took Julie and me out for dinner and
drinks, and we talked about old times. Hito spoke well of Owen and regarded Stu like he would a
father.




The next day the WWF had me booked to reunite with Jim for one more tag team match in The
Tokyo Egg Dome. There was no pressure on me whatsoever because I knew it would be nothing but
easy working with The Rockers. Unfortunately, once we got out there, the serious Japanese fans
didn’t buy the phony rehearsed high spots. Just because there were sixty-something-thousand of
them didn’t mean that they weren’t the same deadpan Japanese fans. We took it up a notch, and it
felt good hearing both Snuka and Valentine say afterwards that it was the best tag match they’d ever
seen.

Pulling up to the Saddledome I could see the Pavilion and was flooded with memories; but Stampede
Wrestling was no more. Foley was dead. Schultz and Dynamite were finished for good. Bad News,
thank God, had been put out to pasture like a mean old bull. Bruce and Jim were still holding on to
faint hope. The only two Stampede boys still really running were Davey and me. That night as I
walked out to my music I was blown away by the thundering response. It touched me in a way that
said, You hang in there, Bret Hart. You show ’em you’re the best!




After the tapings, Stu and Helen invited Vince and all the boys to Hart house for homemade corned
beef sandwiches and beer. Davey Boy asked The Nasty Boys to stay over at Stu’s house, intentionally
misleading Sags, who was severely allergic to cats, by telling him that Stu had got rid of the all.
Sags soon started sneezing and broke into a rash and was forced to flee.


“Damn right!” I had a beer in one hand and a shot of J.D. in the other, but was conscious enough to
think, My God, what did I just say? Owen’s eyes got big. I considered running out of the place as I
watched a determined Jim nonchalantly pick up a grinning Vince like he was jokingly hugging him.
The boys parted before me, and Hulk stared as if there was no way I had the balls to do it. I set my
drinks down and before I could even think about it I leapt high in the air clotheslining Vince with a
thud! His head bounced off the carpeted floor, his skinny neck stretched out like a turtle’s. There we
both were lying on our backs, and I thought, What have I done?

“Damn right!” I had a beer in one hand and a shot of J.D. in the other, but was conscious enough to
think, My God, what did I just say? Owen’s eyes got big. I considered running out of the place as I
watched a determined Jim nonchalantly pick up a grinning Vince like he was jokingly hugging him.
The boys parted before me, and Hulk stared as if there was no way I had the balls to do it. I set my
drinks down and before I could even think about it I leapt high in the air clotheslining Vince with a
thud! His head bounced off the carpeted floor, his skinny neck stretched out like a turtle’s. There we
both were lying on our backs, and I thought, What have I done?



“You owe me a drink, Hitman!” Vince drunkenly slurred.



“Don’t worry, I’m buying.”



“Double Dewar’s on ice.”



We tossed them down.



Last call came and went and the lights came up, but nobody was leaving. Davey had Vince over his
shoulders and was running around looking for a place to powerslam him! The police were called to
clear us all out. With Owen and an assortment of strippers in my car, we joined a train of about
thirty cars about to head downtown for a party in Flair’s penthouse suite at the Marriott. The
procession couldn’t get by a police cruiser, parked in front of the strip bar, so Slaughter, with his big
chin sticking out, burned the rubber off his tires as he pushed the cop car to the side of the road.

There wasn’t a ticket to be had for Sheffield, Birmingham, Hamburg, Munich, Dortmund, Kiel or
Berlin; in fact the entire tour was sold out months in advance. The European fans were watching
American-style pro wrestling for the first time, and it was like another wall coming down. Germany
loved me as I loved it, and I actually enjoyed the long scenic bus rides from city to city, usually
sobering up from one wild night to the next. I had my headphones on listening to Pearl Jam’s Eddie
Vedder yelling about running away and seeing the world. Every day mobs of screaming fans, mostly
teenaged girls, waited for me at the hotels. I was more over in Germany than any other wrestler I’d
ever seen anywhere in all my years in the business. I wondered about a conversation I’d had with
Chief at the Winnipeg TV tapings. Chief told me that Vince was looking for a new world champion
and there was a list with six names on it, three of them circled, and mine was one of them. “You’re
on it, Stu, so don’t fuck up! They’re thinking of putting the big belt on you!” I was flattered, but I’d
learned not to get my hopes up because nothing is ever for sure in wrestling.


When he was showing me the H-block, we got pulled over by an Ulster special police officer, and
Sean broke into a sweat. He hurriedly filled me in that this officer, whom he’d seen many times
before, was nicknamed Lurch by Catholics such as him, and had killed many of them. Lurch, who was
about six-foot-five and dressed in an all-black uniform that reminded me of an SS storm trooper,
approached the taxi suspiciously, machine gun in hand. It was a tense few minutes as Lurch
questioned us. I handed over my passport while Sean explained. While Lurch ran a check on us, a
terrified Sean confessed to me that he had a criminal record for gun-running and that he’d done two
years in the H-block himself, where they’d worked him over pretty good. He was in at around the
same time that Bobby Sands died while on a hunger strike. But after a very long ten minutes Lurch
let us go.

A tenacious WCW was adding more pay-per-views. Vince had exclusivity deals with many of the
cable conglomerates that aired the WWF, similar to the deals that kept anyone else from running
wrestling in “his” buildings. To maintain control of the cable outlets and hold on to the pay-per-view
industry that he, in large part, helped create in the first place, Vince soon promised to deliver a pay-
per-view every month. What started out as the annual WrestleMania extravaganza each spring had
already grown to five major shows a year with the addition of King of the Ring in June, SummerSlam
in August, Survivor Series in November and Royal Rumble in January. Now, for every month that
there wasn’t an already established pay-per-view, we were going to do a new series called In Your
House. WrestleMania would still be the biggest show of the year, with the original big four feeding it
and the In Your House pay-per-views keeping the storylines going. The danger was that with so many
pay-per-views between the two promotions, the market would become saturated and the big shows
would become nothing special. Not to mention that it was getting too expensive for the casual fan,
who, as a result, would be forced to choose between WWF or WCW.

Davey Boy double-crossed Lex and turned heel. Undertaker was, once again, called upon to work a
miracle, this time with Mabel, who had won the King of the Ring crown. And Bob Backlund was
running for president of the United States. Not really, but they had a lot of people actually believing
that he was a candidate!

I went out drinking with Italian girls and talked about American politics and music. Owen stayed
mostly in his room; after a few days he seemed on the verge of cracking, as did many of the
wrestlers. Warlord and Warrior said they thought they were shrinking because there were no gyms
and the food was too un-American. By the time we arrived in Cagliari, on Sardinia, the wrestlers
were almost ready for an uprising.

WAGES OF SIN



I SPENT HOURS AND HOURS OF 1989 rolling across America with Owen. We’d always been close, but
it was on those long, lonely trips that we really bonded. I loved his mischievous sense of humor, his
directness, his good nature and his integrity. He had a deep respect for both our parents, and he was
aware of the sad truth that so many of our siblings seemed more and more helpless and hopeless,
always relying on Stu to bail them out. Like me, he never wanted to become one of them. It meant a
lot to me when Owen told me that he had faith in me, and that I was well regarded by the other
wrestlers for being truthful and dedicated.



His hopes and dreams, doubts and fears, were much the same as mine. He was going to marry
Martha on July 1; he knew that few in the family really appreciated her, and he couldn’t have cared
less. I told him how I’d gone through similar experiences with Julie not being accepted and that he
should just follow his heart. Owen liked that Martha was smart and controlling: He had no doubt
that she’d keep him on the straight and narrow. He also liked how he was treated by her family.

Owen hated being a jobber and asked me what I thought he should do about his situation. It was
obvious that Vince had no plans for him, no matter what he’d said, so I suggested that it might be
time to leave the WWF and try Japan—if he stayed much longer, a jobber was all he’d ever be. Then
he could come back when the WWF was hungry for fresh talent again. I passed on to him what
Pedro Morales had told me: “You can’t stop talent.” He confessed that he planned to give his notice
at the next TV tapings. Quitting the WWF was a bold decision, but he was young and talented in a
business where so few were. He’d be back someday.



Just before he quit, I remember Owen and me driving through Eugene, Oregon. I couldn’t help but
read the glaring words radiating from a huge billboard: “The wages of sin are death!” I thought
about Julie back home. Lately she’d become paranoid about being “alone” in the house, even though
the place was full of people, including a live-in nanny and handyman. Julie’s moods were up and
down, and she had recently checked herself into a hospital with severe chest pains. The doctors told
her it was all in her head and released her. I was worried about her, but I had my own chest pains—
of a different sort: that petite, redheaded hairdresser from Boston; that melt-in-your-mouth blond
corporal from the Wisconsin National Guard; the knockout Budweiser girl from Baltimore. I was such
a bad dog that I wondered whether I’d end up in heaven or in hell. I smiled at the vision of a place
where a guy like Owen would be dressed in white, playing checkers, while another guy gently
plucked a harp. This was a sharp contrast to another vision, where a devil with a face oddly similar to
Jim’s, wearing red tights, sets aside a pitch fork, pulls on his beard and pounds nails into my head
like in that Hellraiser movie.



Owen’s wedding was another overcrowded and plastic affair at Stu’s house. Surprisingly, the Hart
clan showed considerably more class than some of the Patterson clan, one of whom put his cigarette
out on one of Stu’s oriental rugs, leaving a deep, black hole. Tensions were such that he was lucky he
didn’t get beat up. Bruce was Owen’s best man. Just days before the wedding, Tom had broken
Bruce’s jaw in an overreaction to some petty slight, so it was more than awkward to have them both
there.

Since Owen had by now quit the WWF, he was called back into action after a brief honeymoon to fill
in for Davey. Owen and Dynamite ended up selling out the Pavilion for the next three weeks in what
would ultimately be the last great matches for both Dynamite and Stampede Wrestling.

My knee throbbed as my mom took me into the living room to show me her Christmas tree. I
adjusted a stray strand of tinsel thinking that with all the chaos around here at least let my mom
have her perfectly decorated tree. Then Owen walked in with Martha, who might as well have been
holding her nose it crinkled so much at the odor of cat pee that permeated parts of the house. She
and Owen had recently paid cash for a brand-new house, which was something the rest of us only
dreamed of. Both of them had worked very hard, saving every penny.



Owen shook my hand with a big smile that brought about even bigger smiles from my mom and dad.
He scooped Beans up in his arms laughing, “She’s sure getting big!” We all had tea with gobs of
honey in it as Stu turned up the volume on the TV so we could watch flickering images of Germans
hacking down the Berlin Wall. Owen announced that he was going to work in Germany, just after the
New Year. We couldn’t help but compare the political situation in Europe to the crumbling wrestling
territories over there. The European promotions were still in business, pushing feeble old stiffies
such as Axel Dieter and his cronies, but with the flash and glitter of the WWF wrestlers seen on TV
everywhere, Vince would be taking over soon enough.

Back at Hart house we listened to a cassette tape Owen had sent from Germany on which he talked
passionately about Dean and how much he wished he could be there with us.



There were those in the family who felt that my parents should have had a more elaborate funeral
for Dean. Personally I loved the honest simplicity of it, and I think Dean would have liked it just the
way it was.



On January 16, 1991, fighting began in the Persian Gulf. Three days later, at the Royal Rumble,
Slaughter dethroned Warrior for the WWF World title. The angle felt eerie to most of us in the
dressing room. Some of us debated whether wrestling was too much of a cartoon to make light of
something as serious as war, especially one where the U.S. was bracing for a high body count. Yet,
most of the wrestlers had faith in Vince, since he’d always had an uncanny sense of giving the public
just what they wanted and his gambles always seemed to pay off. And Vince had a vision of more
than 100,000 fans coming out to WrestleMania VII at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum to watch
the WWF’s real American hero, Hulk Hogan, give that traitor Slaughter what he had coming. The
WWF even asked Slaughter to burn the American flag, but he flat-out refused: He had enough heat
as it was. He had received death threats, and there were bomb scares at the buildings he worked in.



The next day Julie came with me on a tour to Japan. I was happy to see a familiar, smiling face
waiting for us in the lobby of the hotel in Tokyo. Hito, bowlegged as ever, had moved back to Japan a
few years earlier, after finishing up his career in Calgary. He was now oddly content running a
profitable noodle shop left to him by his late sister. He kindly took Julie and me out for dinner and
drinks, and we talked about old times. Hito spoke well of Owen and regarded Stu like he would a
father.

On December 3, I was in San Antonio, which I loved because I got to visit the Alamo and I always
stayed at the historic Crockett Hotel right next door. After having a decent match with a relatively
new arrival named Skinner on a one-time-only pay-per-view called Tuesday in Texas, I zipped over to
the airport in a rented Mustang convertible to pick up Owen, who’d flown in from Germany. I’d
suggested to Vince that he could team Owen with Jim and call them The New Foundation, and Vince
had gone for it. I was in a great mood as I pulled up to the terminal and spotted him waiting for me
curbside with a big smile. I hadn’t seen him for over a year.




Most of the wrestlers were meeting at a strip bar after the show, one of our regular hangouts in San
Antonio, and as we drove over there Owen told me that things had gone well for him in Germany
and that Martha was expecting their first child in March. He was happy to be back in the WWF and
said he thought he could work well with Jim. I told him Jim was thrilled about it too. Jim was thrilled
in general: He had finally won his settlement from U.S. Air, a whopping U.S.$380,000. Owen asked
me for advice on how to handle Jim, and I told him that I’d tried just about everything but that in the
end it was reverse psychology that worked best.

He shook his head as he told me how unbelievably over I was in Germany. I could tell it also meant
something to him that I had the Intercontinental belt. We talked about home, about losing and
missing Dean and about Rhett’s struggle in the hospital.

Most of the wrestlers were meeting at a strip bar after the show, one of our regular hangouts in San
Antonio, and as we drove over there Owen told me that things had gone well for him in Germany
and that Martha was expecting their first child in March. He was happy to be back in the WWF and
said he thought he could work well with Jim. I told him Jim was thrilled about it too. Jim was thrilled
in general: He had finally won his settlement from U.S. Air, a whopping U.S.$380,000. Owen asked
me for advice on how to handle Jim, and I told him that I’d tried just about everything but that in the
end it was reverse psychology that worked best.



He shook his head as he told me how unbelievably over I was in Germany. I could tell it also meant
something to him that I had the Intercontinental belt. We talked about home, about losing and
missing Dean and about Rhett’s struggle in the hospital.



The previous day I’d been to El Paso, where some buddies I called Cheech and Chong had given me a
giant baggie filled with Mexican dirt-weed. So, of course it figures that before the tapings in San
Antonio, Vince called a meeting to inform all the wrestlers that in a few weeks drug testing would be
expanded to cover any and all non-prescription drugs, including marijuana. Vince said that with the
FBI and the media waiting to pounce on him, the WWF couldn’t take a chance on another scandal. I
believed, and still do, that Vince’s decision was shortsighted. With weed taken off the menu, even
more wrestlers wound up as alcoholics; instead of smoking a bit of weed holed up in their hotel
rooms talking about the business, they roamed hotel bars drunk and on downers.



I handed a big, fat joint to Owen and explained that it was probably the last time we’d be able to
smoke pot for a while. Owen, so straitlaced most of the time, let his hair down, and we both took a
few hits. We pulled up to the strip bar feeling good.



Inside, a bunch of wrestlers crowded around Hulk at the far end of the room. Beefcake was there,
having recovered enough from the parasailing accident to come back for limited duty.
Unfortunately, with steel plates holding his face together, he could no longer wrestle in a serious
capacity. Standing off to the side were Hawk, Animal, Curt, Bossman and Ray Hernandez, a muscle-
bound Tampa powerhouse who worked a Hercules gimmick. I introduced Owen around, spotted Jim
and Davey at a table, and ordered beers for us all.

Damn right!” I had a beer in one hand and a shot of J.D. in the other, but was conscious enough to
think, My God, what did I just say? Owen’s eyes got big. I considered running out of the place as I
watched a determined Jim nonchalantly pick up a grinning Vince like he was jokingly hugging him.
The boys parted before me, and Hulk stared as if there was no way I had the balls to do it. I set my
drinks down and before I could even think about it I leapt high in the air clotheslining Vince with a
thud! His head bounced off the carpeted floor, his skinny neck stretched out like a turtle’s. There we
both were lying on our backs, and I thought, What have I done?



“You owe me a drink, Hitman!” Vince drunkenly slurred.



“Don’t worry, I’m buying.”



“Double Dewar’s on ice.”



We tossed them down.



Last call came and went and the lights came up, but nobody was leaving. Davey had Vince over his
shoulders and was running around looking for a place to powerslam him! The police were called to
clear us all out. With Owen and an assortment of strippers in my car, we joined a train of about
thirty cars about to head downtown for a party in Flair’s penthouse suite at the Marriott. The
procession couldn’t get by a police cruiser, parked in front of the strip bar, so Slaughter, with his big
chin sticking out, burned the rubber off his tires as he pushed the cop car to the side of the road.




At about 3 a.m., the drunken mob descended upon a young male desk clerk to call Flair’s room. No
answer, so Vince demanded a key. The flustered clerk said it was against hotel policy, but Vince cut
him off. “I’m Vince McMahon. Give it to me right now!” He got the key.

We all packed into the elevators and headed up to the fortieth floor. We piled into Flair’s room,
waking Earl Hebner, the referee, who was asleep on a rollaway bed. Flair hadn’t yet returned from
his own night of misadventure, so we made ourselves at home. It was a beautiful suite with a full-
sized bar, but the bar was stocked with only one full bottle of vodka. The party was about to die
when a bag of dirt-weed mysteriously appeared and joints were rolled and lit. I saw first-hand what
the boys thought of Flair when everybody used his king-sized bed as a urinal, even Vince, stripped
down to his boxers, black shoes and socks, and his tie. I remember Hercules and Curt laughing as
they hosed it down, and for some reason, I thought nobody would have done this to Harley Race!



Then Vince got it in his head to have some fun amateur wrestling with us. When he came for me I
was careful and playful with him, as was Curt. Then Vince took Hawk down and pinned him to the
floor. When he grabbed Herc, Herc hurled Vince upside down into the air, but Vince somehow
bounced off Earl’s rollaway and landed on his feet. Vince gave Herc a sober glance that said, In the
morning, if I can remember any of this, I’ll fire you! (In fact, only days later Herc was released.)



Then Vince sized up Jim: “Ya big rhino, you’re the only guy I haven’t tried yet!” Jim twisted the tip of
his beard and asked Vince whether he’d ever seen that scene in Die Hard where Bruce Willis tackles
some villain and they both fall forty floors down to the lobby. Vince nervously glanced at the window
knowing that Jim was crazy and drunk enough to do something like that. He decided to leave Jim
alone.



By sunrise Flair still hadn’t made it to his own party, and I was drunk and leaning on a stripper as she
helped me get my room key in the door at the Crockett Hotel.



That morning everybody had to drive up to Austin for the second day of TVs. Vince was red-eyed and
red-faced, still clearly feeling the effects of his wild night. In his office I told him that he could hold
his head up high for having the balls to hang with the boys for one last hurrah. And then I promptly
went out and drew a big blackboard cartoon of Vince in his boxers pissing in Flair’s bed. It broke
everybody up, especially Vince!



A few days later, Owen and I boarded a plane at LAX to go home. I took my usual seat toward the
back of the cabin, where I found myself surrounded by an all-girl basketball team out of Chino,
California. I was trying to read but was pleasantly distracted by their loud chant: “Who rocks the


house? The Hitman rocks the house!” I lowered my book and they gathered around, flirting and
telling me they’d voted me the best-looking guy on the plane. I looked over at Owen and he just
smiled and shook his head.

With Jim gone, they threw Owen together with Koko B. Ware (who had been hired back after his
European misadventures) and renamed the team High Energy. Despite it being a lame idea, Owen
stayed upbeat and full of that supposed high energy as he and Koko tried to get over as best they
could. On the bright side, Martha gave birth to a baby boy. They named him Oje, which was Owen’s
nickname when he was a baby.




On March 4, as a result of the allegations of sexual misconduct, Pat Patterson, Terry Garvin and Mel
Phillips all resigned, though none of them admitted to having done anything wrong. Vince and Bruno
Sammartino ended up de-bating the whole sorry mess on Larry King Live. It was too late to nail that
closet door shut, and all sorts of people who’d ever had any kind of a falling out with Vince suddenly
brought out their own stories of sexual improprieties.



The birthday party was held a few days late, on May 5, so that Owen and I could make it. Ellie was up
from Florida to surprise Stu, and they hadn’t seen each other in a while. There was such joy in Stu’s
eyes when Ellie walked in.

And there was Owen, making the very best of being tagged up with Koko, who clapped and sang like
he was in a gospel revival tent. Owen danced and clapped along, smiling through clenched teeth,
wearing ridiculous, baggy, fluorescent-green pants held up by suspenders, because it was better
being a funky white boy than taking hip-tosses from old Germans.

A

 few days later, Owen also injured his knee; he would be out of action for the next few months.



As the summer slipped away, I spent my time training and working on another big cartoon drawing
of all the wrestlers, this time for Vince. I couldn’t help but feel indebted to him. I constantly phoned
Davey down in Florida, but all Diana could tell me was that he was out with Jim somewhere. I finally
tracked Jim down just hours before I was leaving for England and was shocked when he told me that
he’d just taken Davey and Diana to the airport. Davey was high as a kite when he caught his flight,
Jim said, because he’d been up all night smoking crack with him! Jim told me that Davey had a gorilla
on his back and he was worried about him. I wished Jim would take a good look at himself.

 The crowd was stunned, and so was I! No one figured I’d be the one to pull the sword out of the
stone. I had to respect that Flair at least passed the torch to me. I came back through the curtain,
limping and holding my finger, to an ovation of handshakes and backslaps, Owen clapping the
hardest.



Before I was taken to the hospital, I did a live interview with Mean Gene Okerlund in which I said,

I was Vince’s brightest hope now, and I finally understood that he needed me as much as I needed
him. Life was great.



When I got home from Germany, I found myself in a dressing room in Red Deer, Alberta, to work a
sold-out show with Ric Flair. Chief pulled me aside to tell me that on Vince’s direct orders I was to
catch the very first flight the next morning to Saskatoon TVs and go straight to the building to see
him. When I arrived in Saskatoon and saw the WWF’s always immaculately clean ring trucks and the


stagehands all wearing matching blue coveralls unloading state-of-the-art TV production equipment,
I was struck by the contrast with the old days, when one of Stu’s dilapidated vans and a rusty old
ring trailer would have been parked out back.



I patiently sat in a chair at the end of a long backstage hallway waiting to see Vince, who was having
a closed-door meeting. After a few minutes the door opened and out came Flair, who turned around
and shook Vince’s hand in the doorway. Neither of them saw me waiting at the end of the hall as
Flair briskly walked away in the other direction. Then Vince turned and saw me and waved me over.
He shut the door behind us. I could detect neither good nor bad as I tried to read his face. He took
his seat, tenting his fingers as he looked at me.



“You’ve been with me now for how many years?”



“Eight years,” I replied, realizing that I’d been with him longer than any other working wrestler left in
the company, with the exception of Mr. Fuji, who was a manager now. Everyone from the early days
was gone.



“And how many towns have you missed in that time?



“One.”



Vince praised me for my dedication. Then he said, “I’ve done everything I could think of, put the Tag
belts on you, and the Intercontinental belt, and I finally reached the point where I don’t know what
else to do with you.”



I wondered if this cold-hearted son of a bitch was actually firing me the very same day that he was
supposed to be flying my dad up to be in my corner! I envisioned trying to explain all this to Stu. The
blood going to my heart began to churn thick as mud, when suddenly Vince broke into that goofy
grin and said, “So that’s why I’ve decided to put the World belt on you tonight!”



Dead silence. I simply did not grasp what he’d just said.




“Hell, aren’t you going to smile or something?” He laughed that famous Vince McMahon yuk-yuk-
yuk. I promised him I wouldn’t let him down.



He said he wasn’t worried about that. All I had to do was keep on being the best worker in the
business, and he’d take care of the rest. “Nothing’s ever written in stone, but my plans are to keep
the belt on you for at least a year. Congratulations, Bret!”



We talked a little longer about what this would mean. “From now on you’ll fly only first class,” Vince
said. When I asked him if that meant the customary limo every night in every town, like all the
champions before me had had, he said no, and that he was also cutting out the private dressing
room complete with fruit basket. I told him I didn’t mind because I preferred to be one of the boys
anyway.



I was in complete and total shock as I shook Vince’s hand, promising him that I’d do the best I could
every night for him and the company. I left the office like I was walking on air, called Julie to tell her
what was going on and asked her to pull Jade and Dallas out of school so they could fly up to
celebrate the big moment; it would be easier without the two little ones. Then I called Stu and
Helen.

The following night at Regina TVs it was announced that I was the new World Champion, and I
received a long ovation. After the show I celebrated with all the wrestlers at the hotel bar. Taker,
Curt and Shawn Michaels grinned at me with the deepest respect. Owen, Bruce and Davey all
slammed down empty glasses and even Stu honored me by tossing down a shot of J.D. It burned his
gums and eyes and really lit him up, like Dracula drinking holy water.



28



ONWARDS AND UPWARDS



I QUICKLY ADJUSTED to being the biggest star in the company, the guy with the heaviest load and
the biggest pay. I got a $55,000 check for SummerSlam 1992, and my paychecks tripled to around
$6,000–7,000 a week. I finally believed that I’d one day be able to pay my house off, and took down
the FOR SALE sign for good.



One of the first wrestlers I called after I won was Roddy. I’d already said to Owen that I was relying
on him to help me watch my back, because as much as the wrestlers all said they were happy for
me, everybody wanted my spot. Roddy echoed those words, stressing how important it was for me
to get close to Vince, to try to be his best friend. I’d already been told by Pat that Vince liked to hear
from his champion every day, so I was calling Vince daily even though to me it just felt like brown-
nosing.

I took my seat up in first class next to Owen, who had been upgraded for the flight, and who wore
the same heartbroken expression as I did. In a few hours we’d be sleeping on the airport floor in
Toronto, with our bags for pillows, waiting to connect to another flight to work back-to-back double
shots.




TVs were now every third Monday and Tuesday. On the other Mondays of the month, Vince added a
show called Monday Night Raw, which would alternate between live and taped matches. The
concept for Monday Night Raw was that it would be at the same venue each week, a historic 3,500-
seat theater within walking distance of Madison Square Garden called the Manhattan Center. In
January 1993 alone, the WWF produced something like fourteen hours of TV and a major pay-per-
view. For the shows that didn’t air live, commentary was overdubbed in a number of languages at
the WWF’s slick in-house production facility in Connecticut and beamed via satellite to networks
worldwide. That’s not to mention the forty-two towns run that month with two teams of wrestlers
for the house shows. This schedule became normal. They published it for fans in the monthly WWF
magazine under the banner “Killer Kalendar”—and that’s what it was.

On February 18, I heard that Kerry Von Erich had committed suicide—shot himself in the heart. Left
a note that said he was joining his brothers in heaven. Owen and I were deeply saddened, but who


could be surprised? As the son of a wrestling promoter, Kerry never found it easy living up to the
hopes and expectations put before him. I’ve always thought that despite the closeness of the Von
Erich boys, they were still so competitive that they thought topping one another with this final exit
was the ultimate act of bravado.

On February 22, Owen and I flew to Texas for Kerry’s funeral, held in the local Baptist church. Fritz
and Doris had recently divorced, but they put on a unified front, stoic in their acceptance. Of their six
sons, only Kevin remained. I could see that it meant a lot to Fritz that two of Stu’s boys were there.

The day only got worse. Owen was getting a push, working with Bam Bam. While springing up to the
top rope for a back somersault, he slipped coming down and tore a ligament in his knee, injuring
himself so badly that instead of being given a push, he was pulled out of the ring and taken to the
hospital. He was expected to be out for a long time.

WCW was waiting in the wings with huge guaranteed money contracts; they had made overtures to
Hogan over the last year or so. I wondered whether Vince had put the belt back on Hogan with such
a cheap win over Yoko just to lower his stock should he decide to go to WCW. Still, former WWF
names such as Rick Rude, Jake The Snake and Sycho Sid, to name only a few, all landed WCW
contracts at one time or another with lots of perks and time off. Davey was there now too, feuding
with Vader.



Owen had come back to work because he couldn’t survive on what Vince paid him while he was
hurt. Martha was pushing him hard to pack it in, and he’d applied for a job with the Calgary fire
department. Meanwhile he taped his knee and carried on despite the torn ligament. He took pride in
the actual wrestling, but he had the same love-hate relationship with the business that I did. You
can’t stop talent, but, unfortunately, in Owen’s case, he’d been stopped by one thing or another
every time he was on the verge of a break.



King of the Ring was a one-night tournament concept, and it was a good sign that my stock was
rising again when Vince told me that I’d be crowned the winner. My guess was that Vince was
starting to build me for what I already knew was coming, a SummerSlam showdown with Hogan—in
many ways, a showdown between my fans and his. On May 24, I was summoned to a secret photo
shoot in Halifax to do promotional shots for SummerSlam 1993. Hogan and I posed doing a mock
tug-of-war with the World belt, standing chin to forehead, sneering and gritting our teeth. If I faced
Hogan at SummerSlam, win or lose, I knew he’d be booed and I’d be the underdog. What didn’t
occur to me was that Hogan knew it too.



On May 29, Vince called me at home to tell me the big news that I was getting the belt back. What I
didn’t expect to hear was that he was getting ready to call Hogan and hated the thought of telling
him that he was too old and tired for a company whose marketing strategy was now based around a
“new generation” concept. Vince wanted to make Hogan into the Babe Ruth of the WWF and use
him as more of a special attraction. He asked me not to say anything until he had spoken to Hogan.




Ten days later, Vince called again. He warned me that he was about to tell me something that would
make me really angry: Hogan was flat-out refusing to put me over, saying I wasn’t in his league.
Vince had decided that Yoko would be getting the belt instead. I couldn’t believe that Hogan would
do this to me. I remembered him shaking my hand at WrestleMania IX, and telling me he’d be happy
to return the favor. Vince said he’d have one more meeting with Hogan to try to sell him on it, but if
he didn’t go for it, I’d work with Lawler at SummerSlam -instead.



Hogan didn’t go for it. I wanted to believe that Vince hadn’t told me the whole story, and I made up
my mind to confront Hogan as soon as he’d dropped the belt to Yoko. I’d wait till then, because it
didn’t seem right for me to change Yoko’s destiny.



I showed up in the dressing room for King of the Ring in a dark mood and promptly drew a
blackboard cartoon of Beefcake with his face buried in Hogan’s ass cheeks with a caption that read,
“Be careful, Brutus, you don’t want to loosen the screws in your face . . . speaking of screws . . .” I
was taking my frustration out on Beefcake, which wasn’t right, but I was too pissed off to know it at
the time.



What Hogan had done was perfectly clear to the boys, and they enjoyed the humor of my cartoon.
Since Hogan rarely bothered to come into the dressing room, he didn’t see it, but Beefcake sure did
and went slinking back to Hulk. But it didn’t matter to me: Hogan was no longer one of the boys, and
he never would be again.



I was determined not only to have the three best matches on the pay-per-view, but three of the best
matches of my career.



Razor and I opened the show. For some reason, Pat told me not to win any of my matches with the
sharpshooter, so I worked a spot with Razor where he stomped and broke my fingers as an excuse as
to why I couldn’t use them for the rest of the night. His work had improved a lot since the Royal
Rumble, and we pulled some clever spots going into the finish, with Razor falling backward off the
top and me twisting to land on top of him for a pin fall.



My second bout was with Mr. Perfect. Vince hadn’t done much with Curt since he’d returned to full-
time wrestling after recovering from his back injury. Curt wanted to have a great match just to show
Vince that he still could, and he did. In what many would come to rate as our greatest bout ever,


Curt and I danced a tango that left them speechless backstage. Our impromptu pre-match interview
was casual and hilarious as we kidded each other about whose dad was tougher.



With timing like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, we worked a rugged babyface match with most of
our old great spots. Just as I went for the sharpshooter, Curt bent back my taped and supposedly
broken fingers, bringing me instantly to my knees. He went for his perfectplex, honoring me by
letting me kick out of his finish again. I went for a standing suplex, and we jackknifed backward over
the top rope where Curt slammed his bad back hard across the ring apron. With both of us lying on
the padded floor, a grimacing Curt rolled in first and I crawled in right behind him. Hebner stepped
between us long enough for Curt to slide in and fold me up in a small package, but I managed to flip
us over, pinning Curt cleanly with a one . . . two . . . three. It was a classic. Curt beamed with pride
when I shook his hand in the ring.



I went backstage and watched Hogan and Yoko on a monitor. They moved in slow motion like a
walrus squaring off against a hippopotamus. I rolled my eyes at how lame the finish was. Hulk
proceeded to knock Fuji off the ring apron only to turn around and see a Japanese photographer in
an obviously fake beard on the apron with his camera. Hulk got close and the cameraman exploded
flash paper, supposedly burning Hogan’s eyes. It was a disgraceful way of doing the job. When Yoko
pinned him, the crowd seemed relieved it was finally over.



Once Hogan got back to his dressing room, I knocked on the door and stepped in. Jimmy Hart, Dave
Hebner and Beefcake were with him. I said, “Terry, I want to speak with you.”



We stared at each other.



“You told me at WrestleMania IX that you’d be happy to return the favor, and as I understand it,
now you don’t want to even work with me, you won’t put me over and I’m not in your league.”



Hogan stood there speechless, so I carried on. “Well, you’re right. You’re not in my league. On behalf
of myself, my family and most of the boys in the dressing room, you can go fuck yourself.”



He stuttered, “Brother, you don’t know the whole story.”




“I got the story directly from Vince,” I said. “Terry, you haven’t said ten words to me since you got
back almost four months ago. If you want to level with me, then go ahead. I’m right here!”



“I can’t.”



“Why not?”



“Because you just told me to go fuck myself.”



“That’s right, and I’ll tell you again. Go fuck yourself.”



I turned and walked out, heading straight for the ring to wrestle Bam Bam for the main event finale
of the tournament. Bammer and I had our best match ever. After twenty long minutes of Bammer
bouncing me around like a basketball, I jumped on his shoulders, dove down to grab his ankles and
pinned him with a victory roll. There was no mistaking who the real champion was.



At the end of the show, I stood triumphantly on the podium, wearing a purple cape and crown and
holding my scepter, being interviewed by Mean Gene, when, as planned, Jerry Lawler came out to
attack me. Lawler recklessly bashed me with a wooden stool and then picked up the heavy wooden
throne and smashed it down hard on top of me—he really hurt me. I vowed to myself that I’d get
even with him later.



When I finally got back to the dressing room, Vince pulled me aside to lecture me about how it was
unprofessional of me to tell Hogan off. In fact, of the three of us, I felt that I was the only one who
was being professional.



“Winning the King of the Ring is great,” I said, “but just doesn’t pay the same as being the World
Champion, and you and I both know it!” It was one of those rare times when Vince had no
comeback.



For perhaps the first time in my career I really did believe that I was the best worker in the business
and that I would never take a backseat to another wrestler again.




The next day I was so sore that I could barely drive to the building in Columbus for TVs. As I hobbled
in, Hogan came straight to me. He motioned with his big finger, “C’mere.”



I stared at him, and he softened and asked me, “Can I have a word with you?”



I nodded and off we went for a walk.



Terry told me that, yes, I was supposed to win back the belt, but that when Vince changed our
contest at SummerSlam to a non-title match, he no longer wanted to do the match with me. But I
clearly remembered the photo shoot we’d done with the belt and that Vince had told me I’d beat
Hulk with the sharpshooter. I knew what I’d been told—and I stood firm.



“Vince said that you said I wasn’t good enough for you to even consider putting me over and that I
wasn’t in your league!”



“That’s just not true, brother!” With a mad look in his eye Terry tugged me by the sleeve toward
Vince’s office and barged right in. I didn’t mind. I wanted to know which one of my supposed friends
was lying to me. Vince directed pleading eyes at me. And then when Hogan retold his version Vince
coolly lied to my face. “I never, ever said it would be a title match.”



I realized that there was some kind of head game going on between Vince and Hogan, and I was
merely a pawn to be played with and discarded.



When Hogan left the office, he had tears in his eyes. It would be a long time before I’d see him again.
He finished up a few days later, and most of the boys suspected he’d be back just in time to score
the main event spot with Yoko at SummerSlam. Either way, it wouldn’t be me. I had Lawler whether
I liked it or not.



When I made my rounds through the dressing room, several of the boys patted me on the back and
praised me for telling Hogan off. Kevin Nash laughed hard as he described the look on Beefcake’s
face when he saw my blackboard drawing. Nash hailed from Michigan, played basketball in Europe
and was now called Diesel; he was playing the role of Shawn’s bodyguard. At just under seven feet,
Kevin had an imposing presence that was offset by his good-natured sense of humor.




I was so physically wrecked from the three matches the day before that the promotion gave me the
day off to recover: a first. I left to clear my head. Five hours later I got back to the hotel from a bar
with a pretty girl with long black hair. In the wee hours of the morning she slept with her breasts
pressed against my back. I thought of Julie, how she’d sleep with her breasts against my back just
like this girl. I forgave myself as always. I wasn’t so bad, I was just very stressed and lonely.



As for Vince and Hogan, their actions spoke louder than their words—and even their words
contradicted each other. I kept thinking, I will show them that I really am the best there is, the best
there was and the best there ever will be.



PART THREE



STEAL MY CROWN



30



LONE WOLF



TO BE A GREAT WRESTLER, you have to be a real athlete and a great actor. To be a great champion,
you need to be the best storyteller of them all, because your job is to work with the top hands,
whoever they are. Whatever his opponent’s age, size, skill or style, whether he is a heel, babyface,
Olympic-style shooter, showman, big brute or clumsy oaf, the champ has to have the versatility to
bring the best out of each contender. A champion needs to be a champion first to his fellow
wrestlers, and to protect and honor the profession for their sake. Or at least that’s the way it used to
be when I was involved in pro wrestling. Even without the belt, I wanted to play this role and leave
my mark on the business for years to come. My formula was simply to outwork and outwrestle my
competition. And I would never stab backs.

Each time I got home I’d train, tan and play touch football with Dallas and his friends over at the
schoolyard. Then, just two-and-a-half days later, I’d find myself plopped down next to Owen as the
wheels of the plane tucked themselves underneath us and we headed out on the road again, and
we’d compare notes on the goings-on at Hart house. One time that summer I’d stopped by to find
my mom upset and crying in her office. Stu sat across from her, with his glasses pushed up on his
forehead, his lips pursed and the tip of his tongue sticking out, as he fidgeted with his hearing aid.
My mom hesitated to tell me what was wrong until I insisted. As a result of the last few years of
Stampede Wrestling, and a few bad investments, they were nearly broke. Although Stu couldn’t hear
us, I had the feeling he knew what we were talking about. When he left the room for a moment, my
mom told me, “We’ve done a few things with our savings that we shouldn’t have.” Stu came back
and she lowered her voice, adding, “It would break his heart to tell you.” I told her not to worry, I
would always be there for them. Owen was angry that Bruce, Ellie and Smith were ceaselessly
burdening our parents with their money problems, and I figured that this is what my parents had
been doing with their life savings: bailing them out.



Owen had given up all hope of ever making it as a top wrestler and was anxiously awaiting news
about getting on with the fire department. I reminded him that being a firefighter carried certain
risks and that maybe if he hung on a little longer things would improve; I’d nearly thrown in the
towel back in 1984, when my fate suddenly changed and the wrestling business saved me. He gave
me his little-kid grin and said, “Nah, I’m ready to go home.” I told him to hang on until after


SummerSlam ’93, when I thought I’d be in a better position to speak up for him. That was when I
expected to play my hand with Vince and press him to re-evaluate and renew my contract. I was
going to gamble that he couldn’t afford to lose me, especially since WCW was the last place I really
wanted to be.

he following day, I had a long meeting with Vince at Madison Square Garden. While I thanked him
for my WrestleMania IX payout, I told him I felt frustrated with the direction I was going in. Lex was
never going to get over, especially with The Wrestling Observer ripping him apart for his mechanical
work rate. In Vince’s usual evasive way, he switched trains on me, telling me that he needed both
Owen and me to work a couple of shots down in Memphis for Jerry Lawler’s struggling Mid-South
promotion. I pointed out that Vince had refused to allow me to help my father when Stu was in the
same situation, saying he couldn’t afford for me to get hurt. Vince assured me that if Owen or I were
injured in any way he’d take care of us as though we were working for him. I only agreed because I
needed Lawler to work with me at -SummerSlam.



On August 16, Owen and I arrived in Memphis. As our plane landed, I thought back to the day that
Elvis Presley died, when I had a dream that the world was ending. In my dream, I sat on the back
steps of Hart house with Owen, Ross and Georgia, all of us serene as we waited for the end. The
western sky, in front of us, was lit with a deep red mushroom cloud that drifted toward us. Behind
us, framed by a pale blue sky, lay the quiet innocence of Calgary.

Owen and I headed down to the Mid-South Coliseum, where we were to work a tag match against
Lawler and Jeff Jarrett, the son of wrestler Jerry Jarrett. Jeff was about Owen’s age and size, with
long blond hair and thick legs; he was working a gimmick for Vince as a rhinestone cowboy country
singer called Double J. Despite all the dirty deeds the fans had seen Lawler do on WWF TV, in
Memphis he was still a beloved babyface. Memphis had always been the most insane outpost of the
goofiest and phoniest types of wrestling and wrestlers, going back to the 1960s, when promoter Nick
Gulas and his son, George, ran the territory. (George was the all-time worst example of a promoter’s
kid going over all the time, beating everybody when he couldn’t beat his own pillow at night. He’d
cry out, “Daddy says go down!” )



Jackie Fargo, Mr. Pogo, Lawler and Honky Tonk were all born from this hillbilly territory. Jeff Jarrett
was one of the rare exceptions from Memphis who could work. Lawler had the biggest crowd in
years, more than five thousand rasslin’ fans hollerin’ and hurlin’ garbage at us. Owen and I saw a
whole new relevance to the old joke: “What has a hundred legs, three teeth and an IQ of thirty? The
front row of the Mid-South Coliseum.” The ring made the worst rings I’d ever been in seem like
featherbeds. It had wired garden hoses for ropes, and sharp bolts jutted out beneath the pad-less,
cloth-covered turnbuckles. The patchy old ring canvas had little or no padding underneath.



As heels, Owen and I snatched the house mic and borrowed from a combination of Cool Hand Luke
and Deliverance—“What we have here is a failure to communicate”—followed by me twisting
Owen’s ear while he squealed like a little ole pig, spoofing the hillbillyness of it all. We had a great
time working the fans up and went on to have a fabulously phony match with Lawler bleeding,
pleading and crying in desperation, reminding me a lot of the televangelist Jimmy Swaggart. Owen
and I made faces, cussed and wiggled our asses as we wound up our punches like Dusty Rhodes. By
the end the fans were fixing to fetch ropes to string us up.



Lawler was more than grateful. Owen and I actually looked forward to going back two weeks later
for a return cage match. The day after that cage match, I’d work with Lawler at SummerSlam ’93—if I
didn’t trip and kill myself in his pathetic ring or get lynched by hillbillies in the parking lot. Those two
Memphis shows would end up being some of the most fun that Owen and I ever had in the ring
together



I had a bad flu when I worked SummerSlam ’93, but there’s no such thing as too sick for a pay-per-
view. Everything was centered around Lex and Yoko’s American hero angle. Undertaker was
expected to carry Giant Gonzales again, and like with so many horrible workers he’d been saddled
with, he made a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. As for me, the Hart family had now been written into
my storyline. My mom and dad had been in the audience at Monday Night Raw, and Lawler took to
ridiculing them with a series of one-liners: “Hey, Stu, I heard you wrestled when the Dead Sea was
only sick!” By the end of it, my mom pretended to be in tears. Even Stu’s legit knee surgery was said
to be the result of Lawler having shoved Stu in the stairwell as he was leaving the building.

Lawler was more than grateful. Owen and I actually looked forward to going back two weeks later
for a return cage match. The day after that cage match, I’d work with Lawler at SummerSlam ’93—if I
didn’t trip and kill myself in his pathetic ring or get lynched by hillbillies in the parking lot. Those two
Memphis shows would end up being some of the most fun that Owen and I ever had in the ring
together



I had a bad flu when I worked SummerSlam ’93, but there’s no such thing as too sick for a pay-per-
view. Everything was centered around Lex and Yoko’s American hero angle. Undertaker was
expected to carry Giant Gonzales again, and like with so many horrible workers he’d been saddled
with, he made a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. As for me, the Hart family had now been written into
my storyline. My mom and dad had been in the audience at Monday Night Raw, and Lawler took to
ridiculing them with a series of one-liners: “Hey, Stu, I heard you wrestled when the Dead Sea was
only sick!” By the end of it, my mom pretended to be in tears. Even Stu’s legit knee surgery was said
to be the result of Lawler having shoved Stu in the stairwell as he was leaving the building.




Owen and Bruce sat in the front row, representing the Hart family, dressed in their finest Western
wear. Owen was bummed out because he’d just learned he’d been rejected by the fire department.
His dream of a happy home life was put on hold, and again wrestling was all he had.



My match had a great storyline that Pat put together, only he didn’t tell Bruce about a rib they had
planned for him. As I stood in the middle of the ring, Lawler hobbled out on crutches, grimacing with
each step. Bruce and Owen did an interview from the front row, blaming Lawler for Stu’s knee injury.
Lawler explained that he was on crutches because he’d hurt his own knee in a car accident, and as
badly as he wanted to whip me, Doink the Clown (Matt Bourne) would wrestle for him. Of course,
The Hitman went ballistic when Doink came out. He was carrying two pails and made out to the fans
that they were filled with water, but when he hurled one at the crowd, they were relieved to find it
was filled with confetti instead. As Doink got closer to where Owen and Bruce were sitting, it looked
like he was going to dump confetti on them too. Totally caught off guard, Bruce took a pail of water
right in the face while Pat and Vince rolled with laughter backstage.



Owen had caught wind of the rib before the match and had warned Matt that if he got a drop on
him he’d rib him back for the rest of his days. This was a serious threat because Owen was a serious
ribber! Matt managed to soak only Bruce.



Matt could work when he wanted to and built up terrific heat. Soon enough I had him twisted into
the sharpshooter, with my back to Lawler, who crept up behind me, revealing to the fans that he
really wasn’t hurt at all. He hit me across my face so hard with his crutch that I was worried he’d split
me open! I was furious that, once again, he seemed to enjoy being dangerous. Writhing on the mat
in real pain, I decided to make him pay for every bit of it. Lawler knew he’d hurt me and gave me
some working kicks before fleeing the ring. Jack Tunney, who was still playing the role of figurehead
president of the WWF, appeared in the aisle to tell him that the people had paid to see him wrestle
me and that since he wasn’t really hurt he had to turn around and have a match or face permanent
suspension.



The crowd was on fire as I busted my way past a half-dozen refs to get my hands on Lawler. It was
payback time and he was in trouble! It’d been two and a half months since he’d jumped me with the
scepter at King of the Ring, and it still hurt me to take a breath. I unloaded on him, potatoing him
with every punch, and soon he was jabbing me in the throat with a piece of broken crutch, working,
building his heat better than any heel in the business at that time. He punched and kicked me,
pulling every dirty trick he could think of, until I rallied with another stiff, full-force comeback. When
I stepped into the sharpshooter I almost bent him in half—for real. He begged and pleaded for me to
ease up, but it was payback time.




The ring filled with referees and agents who pretended not to be able to pull me off Lawler; many of
them had trouble keeping straight faces as they actually leaned their weight on me—they didn’t like
him either! After subjecting him to four minutes of excruciating agony I released Lawler, who was so
pained he couldn’t move. Keeping to the storyline, the ref announced that because I wouldn’t
release the hold, I’d been disqualified. Of course I became incensed and attacked a groaning Lawler
as they carried him off on a stretcher.



When I came back through the curtain I smiled as I watched Lawler crawling like an alligator to his
dressing room. Singer Aaron Neville, who was there to perform the national anthem before Lex’s
match, laughed, shook his head and said to me, “You did a job on him, man!”



As I drove up to Grand Rapids TV with Owen and Bruce, I was in a good position to negotiate. I’d
been subpoenaed and I knew it wouldn’t sit well with Vince to have me testify while there was
animosity between us. The first thing I asked him was why he couldn’t do more with Owen. I pointed
out that he’d never come through on his promises to Owen and that with the shortage of talent, it
would be a damn shame to see him quit the business. Vince feigned surprise at the directness of my
remarks, but after a few minutes he promised me he’d come up with something for my brother in
the next few weeks.



Then I told him I didn’t like anything he was doing with me. I pointed out that as hard as he tried to
paint over me with Hogan’s and Luger’s colors, the pink and black kept coming through: The fans
weren’t going to let me fade away. It wasn’t fair that he still expected me to carry the shows and do
the brunt of the work, while Lex got the belt and the top pay. If he didn’t have anything big in store
for me, I said, I was thinking of taking a year off. The color drained from Vince’s face, and when I
closed the door behind me, I knew I had him.



Just before I flew to New York to testify at the grand jury on September 22, Vince’s lawyers carefully
prepped me. One even wrote me a note that read, “If asked about the indictment, *say+ it’s absurd,
that after nearly two years of investigating, the Federal Government would indict Vince on an
alleged $530 steroid purchase from 1989 when steroids were legal.” Vince’s lawyers encouraged me
to be honest, yet they counseled me on what was safe to say. I went into the hearing unafraid to tell
the truth and braced for almost anything, but what went on in that room still falls under the legal
cone of silence.



Meanwhile, my lawyer, Gord Kirke, crafted a tactful letter to Vince, listing my demands for a better
deal, including the rights to my Hitman name. He also reminded me that, should I wish to opt out of
my contract, I needed to submit a letter of resignation to Vince by the end of September. If I decided


to stay, I could rescind it. Even though I knew it was just legal maneuvering, that awareness didn’t
shrink the lump I had in my throat when I signed it. When Vince received it, the whole WWF office
erupted into chaos.



After the next TVs, in Glens Falls on October 19, I talked with Vince and Pat at a Holiday Inn bar until
3 a.m. I explained that I’d prefer not to go anywhere, and that all I wanted was a fair deal. I said I’d
quit over it, and at last they believed me.



The next day, Vince surprised me with a crazy idea for a storyline. He wanted me to have a falling
out with one of my brothers, possibly Bruce. He’d grown jealous of me, so he’d challenge me to a
match. I’d take the high road, refusing to fight my own brother out of respect for my parents. Then
maybe it would be Owen who would step in and offer to face Bruce instead. Bruce would work
against Owen and wipe the floor with him so badly that I’d have to come to Owen’s rescue. The idea
was that I’d eventually end up taking Bruce on at WrestleMania X. Then, after all that, Vince would
put me with Lex at King of the Ring in June 1994, but he hadn’t made up his mind who’d go over. I
felt confident enough that if it came down to a popularity contest between me and Lex, which it
likely would, I’d win.



I could imagine how devastated Owen would be to have Bruce beat him so handily. As badly as
Bruce needed a shot in the arm, Owen was a better worker, and he really deserved this chance. I
suggested that if I had a pretend falling out with any of my brothers, it should be with Owen.



Pat argued that Owen couldn’t handle it, and I suddenly realized that for all these years it was
probably Pat who had kept Owen down. I had no idea why, but maybe Pat thought he wasn’t big
enough to make a huge impact with the fans. I insisted that Owen could do it, assuming I agreed to
any of this. Vince raised his index finger as he ran it through his mind. “Hold on a second, Pat. Maybe
he’s right, Owen would be just fine.” I said I’d think about everything and get back to them in a few
days.



Afterwards, I told Owen what Vince and Pat had proposed. He actually loved the idea. He reminded
me that it was a work, and that this could be the break of his career. Why shouldn’t he be able to
make main event money working with me like anybody else? I told him there’d be no turning back.
We’d have to do this old school: no more riding together, hanging out together. Never insult the
fans’ intelligence: make them believe it’s real. And, I reminded him, I’d have final say on everything.



On November 7, I flew to WWF headquarters to meet with Vince and Pat. I was happy to see the
cartoon I’d given Vince hanging behind his desk. Vince joked that he was worried that I was turning


into an Ultimate Warrior. I laughed and said. “No, I’m worried about turning into Tito Santana.” Tito
was a hard worker who’d been used up and pushed aside.



Before I signed my contract, I wanted to make sure I had the rights to my Hitman name and the
freedom to pursue acting, as Roddy had suggested. I’d recently agreed to let Carlo represent me,
and he was bursting at the opportunity to get me into Hollywood. Vince agreed, which was a huge
victory for any wrestler at that time. We shook on it, with Vince telling me that he and I had been
friends for so long that we didn’t need a contract. Our word was our bond. But days later, Vince sent
me a twenty-page agreement. It was even more controlling than the old one, and my lawyer told me
I’d be crazy to sign it.



On November 12, J.J. Dillon called to say that Vince had signed off on my revised contract. The
thought crossed my mind that a victory over Vince probably meant he’d fuck me somewhere down
the road.



31



KANE AND ABEL



IN THE DRESSING ROOM in Niagara Falls in mid-November, I heard that Vince finally had been
indicted by the Feds. Then the WWF took another hit when Jerry Lawler was charged with having sex
with an underaged girl. My entire Survivor Series match was centered around Lawler and his
constant jabs at my family; without him, the match would mean nothing. Lawler was hastily edited
out of the weekend TV show, with no explanation given to the fans, and Shawn was thrown in to
replace him at Survivor Series.



On November 23, Smith, Bruce, Keith, Wayne, Ross, Georgia and my parents all flew into LaGuardia.
Vince had invited my brothers to have a brawl at the Survivor Series against three masked wrestlers
and Lawler—now Shawn would be standing in his place—with Stu managing from the floor, and he
thought it best that we have a rehearsal at the WWF’s TV studio in Stamford the day before the pay-
per-view. I got the Harts, Shawn and The Knights (the one-time-only name they picked for the
masked wrestlers) in the ring to explain how the match would go. Owen gave me a nudge to alert
me that Bruce had pulled the biggest and greenest of the Knights aside and was giving him a script
the size of Gone With the Wind, with Bruce presumably playing Rhett Butler. I told Bruce the
spotlight needed to be on Owen because Survivor Series would be the beginning of Owen’s heel turn
on me. After I explained what everybody’s role would be, Bruce went right back to designing the
match around himself, and I had to reprimand him in front of everyone. Shawn muttered at him, “If

That night at the Boston Garden I had a strange sense of melancholy as Keith, Bruce and Owen got
dressed, while Stu sat with Killer Kowalski reminiscing about the old days. We wore Olympic-style
singlets with no leggings, my brothers all in black and me, The Captain, in pink. Martha sat in the
front row with the rest of the Hart family, holding Oje. Shawn did a superb job carrying the match,
though in fairness everyone worked hard. The biggest pop of the night came when Shawn staggered
past Stu on the floor and Stu drilled him with one of his big elbow smashes, which Shawn later told
me he was honored to take.



Owen was highlighted throughout the match and eliminated two of The Knights, but midway
through the match, as planned, he “inadvertently” collided with me on the apron and ended up
being the only Hart brother eliminated. After throwing a tantrum he left the ring, only to come out
afterwards when we were all celebrating the victory to yank me down off the second rope and give
me a hard push. I tried to reason with him that it didn’t matter because we’d won anyway, but he
still acted furious.



Walking back to the dressing room with my brothers after that match was a magical moment. We all
knew going in that we weren’t expected to have the best match on the card, we were just expected
not to have the worst one either. The Hart boys had more than risen to the occasion, and I was
proud of my brothers. Stu had a twinkle in his eye.



A week later Owen and I cut promos saying we’d patched everything up and were teaming up at the
Royal Rumble to defeat the current WWF tag champs, The Quebecers, who were Jacques Rougeau
and Pierre Ouellette. My fans would see this as a conciliatory gesture to keep the peace in my family,
one that would put my shot at regaining the World title on hold. Pursuing the tag strap was seen as a
voluntary step down.



There was a shot in Honolulu on December 8. Owen and I landed early that morning. There was no
sense in getting a hotel room because we were flying out after the show. In a few more weeks we’d
be bitter enemies on TV again, so I said, “C’mon, hang out with your big brother and live a bit!”



That day I introduced Owen to my two surfer-dude buddies, Christian and Tate, who offered to show
us around. We hiked through a dense tropical forest, clearing a path as we went, until we came upon
a gorgeous freshwater pond. Hanging from a thick, heavy branch was a long rope, and soon we were


swinging from it and dropping off into the water, all except for Owen. Bobbing in the water I yelled
up to him, “It’s okay, Owen, it’s safe.” Grinning, he shook his head. “Nah, I don’t wanna take a
chance on getting hurt.”



An hour or so later we hiked up to the saltwater pool in Diamond Head, Christian and Tate lugging a
cooler of beer and a bucket of KFC. I took three strides and jumped into the pool. I kept calling Owen
to come in, but he was so cautious that he wouldn’t. I finally coaxed him out and we straddled the
pool wall like a horse, while big, warm, salty waves washed over us. Hanging by our arms we looked
out at the blue Pacific as little crabs scurried over the rocks. A pensive Owen said, “There are some
at home who don’t understand how hard you’ve worked to get this far. They think Vince just hands
you everything on a silver platter. They’re so envious of you and me!” I knew full well that the
business had saved us and that if we were back home with the rest of them, we’d likely be sinking
fast. I told Owen I’d do what I could to get Jim and Davey hired back. Davey quit WCW after he had
been extradited back to Canada to deal with the assault charge stemming from his bar fight. And Jim
had already blown the $380,000 from U.S. Air.



“Someday we’ll come back here with our kids and hang off this spot and remember this moment,” I
said as I leaned against the rocks with a beautiful red ball of sun blazing above the blue ocean. “To
hell with the diet, Owen, you only live once!” The beer from the cooler was ice cold, and we
devoured the last pieces of fried chicken.



Blade, Beans and I managed to track down several invisible monsters who were holed up in my
bedroom. Kicking open the door to an explosion of giggles and imaginary bullets, I crashed onto the
king-sized bed but, like always, I wasn’t going to make it. As Beans put bandages on me, Blade
dribbled some water into my mouth from a make-believe canteen, tongue stuck out in
concentration. My dying scene was interrupted when Julie called out that we were going to be late.



For the first time since becoming a wrestler, I got to celebrate an uninterrupted Christmas Day at
home. As we walked into the kitchen at Hart house for another Christmas dinner, Stu and Helen
were quietly watching TV as barking dogs and hissing cats wove their way through a maze of legs—
people and chairs. An excited stampede of nieces and nephews raced in to greet us. Our three eldest
disappeared upstairs to play dolls or down to the dungeon to play wrestle. Life at Hart house hadn’t
changed much.



Stu lit the stove and put on the tea kettle. “How’s tough guy?” he gruffly asked Blade, who was
struggling to hold on to Bertie the cat. Then we sat sipping tea while the various lean novice
wrestlers that Stu was schooling hung around doing chores and marking out at the same time. “Karl,
dawling, would you let the dog out?” my mom said as she smiled at me. Karl was one of the famous


LeDuc clan out of Montreal, and Stu and Helen had just let him move in. They always had a meal and
a place to sleep for any lost, out-of-luck wrestler wannabe.



It wasn’t long before we gravitated to talking about wrestling, my mom pretending to make her
usual fuss: not that again. Stu immediately barreled into a story about how, way back in the 1930s,
this old shooter, Reb Russell, of similar size and personality as Dynamite, had been in a hotel room in
Newark one night when a couple of “black fellas” climbed up the fire escape, came through his
window and held him up with a straight razor. Old Reb tore into both of them, with one of them
slashing his back as he choked the other one out. Stu said that Reb had prevailed in the end, tossing
both thieves off the fire escape to the pavement below.



Stu loved to talk about the tough guys of the business. In his opinion, Haku, Earthquake and The
Steiners were the toughest guys around right now. He told me he liked the promos Owen and I were
doing, and I could see that the fan in him was eager to see his sons take center stage at
WrestleMania X. The talk eventually turned to whether Vince would go to jail. My parents were
concerned about what would happen to him and how it would affect me and Owen. I told them that
Vince was too clever to wind up behind bars, and that when I had called him about his indictment,
he had sounded in good spirits, optimistic even.



That Christmas I received the best presents in the world: memories of the holidays to keep forever. I
played road hockey with Dallas. Dallas also dressed Blade up to look like Razor Ramon. In his fake toy
gold neck chains, with a greasy curl on his forehead, Blade announced, “Say hello to the bad guy!”
Sometimes I’d push the living-room couches against the wall and wrestle Dallas and Blade, and
before long Jade and Beans would join in, and it would go until I let all four of them pin me. Then
there was seeing Beans through losing her front tooth, and a much appreciated one-on-one
conversation with Jade, now almost eleven, who looked so tall and slender that my eyes welled up
as I asked her not to grow up too fast.



At least this time when I packed my bags my heart was full. I’d had a great Christmas and things
seemed to be back in alignment between me and Julie.



Every week Vince held on to the belief that Lex would still get over, even though my popularity only
seemed to climb higher. It didn’t help Lex’s cause when the fans voted me the most popular
superstar in the WWF. These were my last great days as a babyface hero working in America.



In the days leading up to Royal Rumble ’94, Owen and I enjoyed our last rides together. On January
12, 1994, at TVs in Florence, South Carolina, Owen and I were paired up against The Steiners for a


 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!”



I loved it. The match. Everything. If I ever wanted my fans to remember just one picture of me, it
would be that moment, as I was walking back to the dressing room.



As I headed past Taker, he smiled and said, “Helluva match, man, not a chance in hell me and Sid are
ever gonna top that!” He said this respectfully, from one worker to another. I was numb with pride
as I waded into my fellow wrestlers to handshakes and praise. When Steve came in, we shook hands
as he beamed, all the while pretending to be up-set about his cut head.

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.



I was home and this was real.



“O Canada!” echoed majestically through the Saddledome, and then each member of The Hart
Foundation made a separate entrance; first Pillman, then Anvil, then Davey, with Diana on his arm.
After Owen proudly strode out, I stepped through the curtain and stood at the top of the ramp
savoring the moment. There was no doubt that this was the loudest pop I’d ever heard.



We’d touched a nerve across Canada, but for the fans in Calgary it went much deeper than that.
They’d grown up with and stood by Stu’s old Stampede crew through decades of highs and lows, and
now we were squarely on top of the business, all of us like brothers. These fans were here to thank
all of us, especially Stu.



When I made my way to the ring, the explosion from the crowd gave me chills. The sight of the
entire Hart family cheering in the front row, with a sea of fluttering Canadian flags behind them,
made my chest thump like a war drum. I dropped down to the floor and carefully placed my
sunglasses on my mother’s head as she blushed. Stu smiled and winked at me.

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.”

After taking my mic off and changing into my gear, I found Shawn. One last time, I tried to be
straight with him. He was visibly nervous and said he wanted no problems with me, that he had no
problems doing anything. Pat told me that he thought it would be a helluva spot to let Shawn put me
in the sharpshooter and then reverse it on him. It would be a great spot that would set the stage for
a fantastic second half.



“Who’s the ref?” I asked.



“Earl,” Pat said.



I smiled to myself. “Okay.”



I ran the whole scenario by Earl, Owen, Davey and Rude while Hunter and Chyna meekly nodded
their heads in approval.



Vader pulled me aside to warn me. “Be careful out there, brother. Vince is known for fucking people
in these kinds of situations.”



“I’ve got it covered,” I assured him, lowering my voice.



People still ask me, “Didn’t you see it coming?” The truth was, I’d been reasonable in every way, and
with Earl watching my back I thought I had nothing to worry about.



I paced around backstage and waited. When I heard Shawn’s music drowned out by boos, I had no
idea that he had just pretended to wipe his ass with the Canadian flag and then laid it out in the
middle of the ring and pretended to fuck it hard. Back home in Calgary, Stu was watching in disgust.
He took very real offense to Shawn’s actions, as did everyone in the building and all across Canada. If
I’d done that in the United States, I might have been lynched.



I grabbed my own flag, handed it to Blade and said, “Let’s go, boy!” He marched all the way to the
curtain with me, Jim, Davey and Owen, with Paul Jay’s crew trailing right behind us. Hunter was not
where he was supposed to be for the run in. An annoyed Rick Rude was suspicious. He pursed his
lips and told me, “I’ll watch your back in case they try to jump you or pull anything funny on you out


there.” Excitement and doubt pulsed through me as my music blared. I disappeared through the
curtain to an explosion of noise.



I entered the ring tense but unafraid—and proud. If Shawn so much as tried anything, I’d take him
out hard and fast. Shawn jumped me before the bell, but I battled right back, and we began working.
We fought through the crowd, with me decking agents and referees one after another. Somewhere
in the middle of it I locked eyes with Vince and shook my fist at him. Shawn was flopping and flying
for me everywhere. Before long I had a blue-and-white Que-bec flag wrapped around Shawn’s neck,
and the Molson Centre was coming apart at the seams. Only when I finally got him into the ring did
the bell signal the start of the match.



Halfway through what was to be a thirty-minute match, I made my way to the top corner. When I
leaped off, Shawn pulled Earl in front of me, and the collision left both me and Earl sprawled out on
the mat. Shawn then stepped over me to put on the sharpshooter, but he crossed my legs wrong, so
I called up to him, “The other way,” and he switched them. As Shawn turned me onto my stomach, I
saw Earl for a split second motioning with his fingers and Vince, strangely, standing at the ring apron
wearing an angry scowl. Then he screamed at the bell ringer, Mark Yeaton, “Ring the bell! Ring the
fucking bell!” Yeaton, in stunned disbelief, couldn’t bring himself to do it. I frantically tried to reverse
the sharp-shooter on Shawn as Vince snapped hard at Yeaton—and the bell clanged, over and over.



I couldn’t believe Earl fucked me.



It felt like all the blood in my veins had just evaporated.



Earl jumped out of the ring and ran away as fast as he could toward Jack Lanza and Dave Hebner,
who were waiting at the top of the ramp with a car running.



My first thought was that I’d somehow let the whole country down.



Shawn put on a show, cussing and carrying on as if he wasn’t in on the whole thing.



I saw Vince on the floor. The thought crossed my mind to jump out and go crazy on him. I looked
over at Mark Yeaton, his mouth open and tears in his eyes. I leaned over the top rope, carefully
aimed, and spit at Vince, hitting him right between the eyes. I saw Shawn hoisting the belt in the air


in victory, and then being hustled away down the aisle by Hunter and Jerry Brisco. Vince kept trying
to wipe my spit from his eyes.



The crowd totally got what had just happened and began angrily chanting, “Bullshit! Bullshit!” The
Montreal fans were outraged: a spark was all it would take to have a full-scale riot—and that was a
bad idea. I had to calm myself and think smart. What would my dad do?



Looking out at the stunned crowd, I fought the tears that were swimming in my eyes and thought,
Don’t you dare give these backstabbers the satisfaction of seeing you cry over any of this! Don’t you
dare cry! I worked so hard for him, fourteen years, all I wanted was my dignity.



They’d cut the ring mic, but the cameras were still rolling, so I painted WCW in giant letters in the air
for all to see. Owen, Davey and Jim soon surrounded me. Owen said, “You don’t look bad for this,
they do! You were all class!” When I met their eyes, I could feel myself dying inside.



My lower lip start to quiver, so I bit it.



Owen stood beside me, and his strength helped me keep it together. He told me that he and Rick
had been duped into looking everywhere for Hunter, when Hunter was at ringside all along. For
what seemed like an eternity, I looked out at the sea of sad people who felt as betrayed as I did,
knowing what disrespect had been paid to me, my family and millions of fans all around the world! I
told myself to never forget this feeling, ever.



I jumped down from the ring and commenced smashing Vince’s expensive TV monitors to the floor
and tossing his headsets out into the crowd, surrounded by security guards who couldn’t quite figure
out whether this was part of the storyline. On my way backstage I passed by Blade, who looked
equally sad and puzzled, then by Julie and the rest of the kids, all of them shocked to silence.



Surrounded by Paul’s crew, I headed straight for Vince’s office and tried to break the steel door
down. I gave up and walked back toward the dressing room, hounded by Japanese reporters who
thought I’d explain everything that had happened for them right then and there. I felt like The
Terminator. I wasn’t the only one. I saw the Harris twins kicking over barrels of garbage and
punching the walls. The wrestlers were ready to riot too.




Nothing to do but go home now. Blade trailed after me as I headed to the dressing room, but when I
got to there, I found my bag sitting out in the hallway. I picked it up and walked inside only to see
Shawn sitting in the corner.



“Shawn, you weren’t in on that?”



“I swear to fucking God, I had nothing to do with it!”



“You weren’t in on it?”



“So help me God, I don’t know anything about it!” He threw the belt on the floor and said he refused
to wear it. Paul Jay’s camera crew were right behind me filming everything they could. I wanted to
rip Shawn to shreds—deep down I knew he was in on it all the way—but I didn’t want to lose my
cool in front of Blade. “Shawn,” I said, “I’ll judge you by what you do tomorrow on TV.” I looked
around at a roomful of stricken wrestlers and calmly said, “If they can do this to me, they can do this
to anyone. Remember that.”



Taker blew his stack and shouted, “Fuck! I’m gonna bring his ass down here. I want Vince to explain
himself to me, you and everyone else!” He kicked the dressing-room door open. As he stomped off
down the hall, I could hear angry wrestlers calling out to Taker where he could find Vince.



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.




“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 had no hard feelings about anyone staying on with Vince, including Jim, Davey and Owen. I left it up
to them. If things got rough for all of them, I’d see if Eric was interested in any of them, but only if
they wanted me to.