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Authors: Bruce Hart
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wrestling. Most of the bands my brother Dean booked out at the beach were these one hit wonder types or bands who were on the downhill slide. One time Dean and I had this old stoner band called Iron Butterfly, who’d had one hit in ’60s called “In-a-Gadda-da-Vida.” Prior to the show, they appeared to be so wasted and out of it that Dean and I wondered if they’d even be able to drag 53
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♥ BRUCE HART ♥
their asses out onstage, but when the show started, they began to get energy from the crowd — most of whom were probably polluted themselves. They ended up having an awesome concert. Upon further reflection, I came to realize how critical it was for any performer — be it a band or wrestler — to feed off the crowd and have the crowd, in turn, feed off them. Without that, everything else is kind of moot.
54
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Although I had a lot of fun doing the rock concerts and enjoying assorted misadventures out at the beach, I was chomping at the bit to get back into the ring. After several months of arduous rehabilitation, I was finally given medical clearance and was eagerly anticipating making a triumphant return.
On my first night back, I was booked to work against this career jobber named Thunderbolt Cannon who hadn’t won a match ever, I don’t think. Since it was my long awaited return to the ring and since I’d been one of the top faces before I went down, I, naturally, assumed I’d be going over, but before my match, my brother Keith — who had somehow climbed the corporate ladder to become the booker — informed me that he needed me to do the job (lose), because he was intending on giving Cannon a big heel push. Therefore he needed him to get his hand raised. I, initially, figured he must be kidding and that maybe this was a rib — kind of like something Terry Funk might have pulled; that, unfortunately, didn’t prove to be the case. Keith assured me he was dead serious, so my big return turned out to be anything but an auspicious one, with most of the fans almost stunned when I got beat by a guy like Cannon. I’m not sure what happened to the “big push” that Keith was planning on giving Cannon.
If I recall correctly, that was the only match he won that year and maybe in his 55
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♥ BRUCE HART ♥
whole career. It was one more than I’d win though, as Keith had me doing jobs, night in and night out, for the rest of the year.
I became kind of accustomed to the role of jobber — which is like being a pawn on a chessboard, being sacrificed for the kings, queens (of which, there were more than a few, especially in the WWF) and whatever else. Though I wasn’t getting my hand raised, I still took pride in being able to get the guys I was working with over. Quite often though, I’d find that the guys I was working with (and busting my ass to get over) had this notion that jobbers were little more than disposable objects — kind of like human punching bags — whose sole purpose was to get their asses kicked and make the stars look good. As such, they’d potato (stiff) you, drop you on your head, give you all kinds of dangerous bumps before finally beating you. Quite often, they were such marks for themselves that they seemed to think you were supposed to be thanking them for the honor of working with them. The whole charade was disheartening at times and later on, when I became a booker, I was always more than empathetic to the plight of the lowly jobber and went out of my way to make sure they were made to feel like integral parts of the team — the old “chain is only as strong as its weakest link” adage.
Near the end of 1975, I had a rude awakening, of sorts, when Keith had me booked to work a televised match against this pudgy little part-time referee named Rocket Moreau. Moreau bore an uncanny resemblance to the Pillsbury Doughboy. Even
StraightFromTheHart.indb 53
10/8/10 5:08:56 PM
♥ BRUCE HART ♥
their asses out onstage, but when the show started, they began to get energy from the crowd — most of whom were probably polluted themselves. They ended up having an awesome concert. Upon further reflection, I came to realize how critical it was for any performer — be it a band or wrestler — to feed off the crowd and have the crowd, in turn, feed off them. Without that, everything else is kind of moot.
54
StraightFromTheHart.indb 54
10/8/10 5:08:56 PM
Although I had a lot of fun doing the rock concerts and enjoying assorted misadventures out at the beach, I was chomping at the bit to get back into the ring. After several months of arduous rehabilitation, I was finally given medical clearance and was eagerly anticipating making a triumphant return.
On my first night back, I was booked to work against this career jobber named Thunderbolt Cannon who hadn’t won a match ever, I don’t think. Since it was my long awaited return to the ring and since I’d been one of the top faces before I went down, I, naturally, assumed I’d be going over, but before my match, my brother Keith — who had somehow climbed the corporate ladder to become the booker — informed me that he needed me to do the job (lose), because he was intending on giving Cannon a big heel push. Therefore he needed him to get his hand raised. I, initially, figured he must be kidding and that maybe this was a rib — kind of like something Terry Funk might have pulled; that, unfortunately, didn’t prove to be the case. Keith assured me he was dead serious, so my big return turned out to be anything but an auspicious one, with most of the fans almost stunned when I got beat by a guy like Cannon. I’m not sure what happened to the “big push” that Keith was planning on giving Cannon.
If I recall correctly, that was the only match he won that year and maybe in his 55
StraightFromTheHart.indb 55
10/8/10 5:08:56 PM
♥ BRUCE HART ♥
whole career. It was one more than I’d win though, as Keith had me doing jobs, night in and night out, for the rest of the year.
I became kind of accustomed to the role of jobber — which is like being a pawn on a chessboard, being sacrificed for the kings, queens (of which, there were more than a few, especially in the WWF) and whatever else. Though I wasn’t getting my hand raised, I still took pride in being able to get the guys I was working with over. Quite often though, I’d find that the guys I was working with (and busting my ass to get over) had this notion that jobbers were little more than disposable objects — kind of like human punching bags — whose sole purpose was to get their asses kicked and make the stars look good. As such, they’d potato (stiff) you, drop you on your head, give you all kinds of dangerous bumps before finally beating you. Quite often, they were such marks for themselves that they seemed to think you were supposed to be thanking them for the honor of working with them. The whole charade was disheartening at times and later on, when I became a booker, I was always more than empathetic to the plight of the lowly jobber and went out of my way to make sure they were made to feel like integral parts of the team — the old “chain is only as strong as its weakest link” adage.
Near the end of 1975, I had a rude awakening, of sorts, when Keith had me booked to work a televised match against this pudgy little part-time referee named Rocket Moreau. Moreau bore an uncanny resemblance to the Pillsbury Doughboy. Even
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