by Mick Foley
Brian was perhaps my closest friend in wrestling. I had met him on the night of my first match, June 24, 1986, and we had hit it off instantly. That night in Clarksburg, West Virginia, also marked his last match under the "Professor Heimi Schwartz" moniker. The next morning he showed up at DeNucci's school, and despite the fact that he was a polished worker (performer) as well as a consummate manager (performer who helps make matches interesting, not an official money manager), he was a mainstay at the gym from that moment on.
If pro wrestling had offered a lightweight division in the mid-eighties, Brian would have been a big star. He could work in any style, be it classic American comedy, Mexican lucha libre, Japanese mat work, and later, submission. Unfortunately, Brian's metabolism was practically superhuman, and although he could keep pace at a buffet with the best of them, nature never let him get above 140 pounds.
Independent wrestling can be a tough row to hoe. Small crowds, bad payoffs, long rides, and worst of all, from a performance standpoint, no one in the audience knows who the hell you are. Guys who had received previous television exposure had a major advantage, but for no-name performers like we were in the eighties, getting over with the crowd was an incredibly difficult task. It was also a task that I never saw Brian fail at. The guy had the ability to generate heat and interest almost instantly and he stole many a show that I was on.
Unfortunately, the knock on Brian was that he couldn't cut promos. It was a knock that I disagreed with, but nonetheless, it kept him from getting full-time work for many years. In my career, I have seen managers land work who couldn't lace Brian's boots, and I've seen women with nothing to offer but a boob job become national celebrities. I wish someone would have realized that Brian Hildebrand was more than a manager and more than a wrestler—he was a teacher. He knew as much about the wrestling business as anyone I've ever met, and loved it with a passion that I've never seen rivaled. Many a young wrestler would have benefited from his guidance—as I did, and some promotion would have learned the value of his mind.
I got my first full-time wrestling job in the summer of 1988, in Memphis, the territory that was dearest to Brian's heart. We continued to stay in touch, and got together many times over the next several years. In 1992, he was brought to Tennessee by Jim Cornette, as a referee for Smoky Mountain Wrestling, where, while holding the territory together with his many in-ring and out-of-ring talents, he found the time to fall in love with and marry a wonderful Virginia girl named Pam.
I worked quite a bit for Smoky Mountain in the fall and winter of 1994, and I was always a welcome guest in the Hildebrand home. Being a guest there was not always easy, however. Brian loved watching videos of Smoky Mountain house shows that his dad had shot with a single camcorder. He would watch these damn tapes for hours at a time. Unfortunately, I didn't share this particular passion, but never said a word for fear of hurting the poor guy's feelings. He would literally sit on the edge of his seat, as if the closer proximity would somehow improve the tiny, poorly lit images flickering on the screen. The word eventually got out on Brian (who had somehow assumed the nickname "Gerbil" in Tennessee), and "That Gerbil's a hell of a guy, but don't let him get you trapped on that couch with his videos playing," was a warning that was warmly given.
As I write this, I realize how similar that sentiment was in regard to former wrestler and current governor of Minnesota, Jesse "The Body" Ventura, who had been an announcer on WCW in 1992 and 1993. "Jesse's a great guy, but don't let him trap you in a corner with his stories about Verne [Gagne] and the Crusher," was a frequent locker-room warning. Now that he is one of the most famous people on the planet, I would like nothing better that to talk over old times at the governor's mansion. "Mr. Governor, didn't you work a program with the Crusher back in 'eighty-one?"
We all allowed Brian this one peculiarity, because he was a genuinely great human being. So it was with great sadness that I learned that Brian had been diagnosed with stomach and bowel cancer in 1997. He wasn't supposed to survive the year, but by mid-1998, it seemed as if he had the disease beat. In September 1998,1 received terrible news. Brian's cancer was back and had spread to the point that he was given between one week and three months to live. I broke down in the dressing room when I told the news to D'Lo, Kane, and Al, who had been among his closest friends, and together, the four of us held something of a vigil for our friend. I flew to see Brian in the hospital the next day thinking it was my last good-bye, but the tough SOB proved me wrong, and I was privileged to see him many more times. During my short visit, Brian's phone was ringing constantly with best wishes from concerned friends.
WCW had a special surprise for him on November 28, 1998, when they turned a house show in Knoxville into a tribute to him. Even in his weakened state, Brian found the strength to referee the main event, and was presented with a replica of the WCW heavyweight championship by an unannounced Ric Flair, who was one of Brian's heroes. I made many comments in Have a Nice Day! about Flair that I felt were tough but fair, but the fact that he took a day out of his life to give Brian a wonderful memory is something that I appreciate a great deal.
By the spring of 1999, Brian was still hanging in. He was not only seemingly beating the odds again, but doing so with a grace and positive spirit that made him an inspiration within the wrestling world. Even within the World Wrestling Federation, where he had never worked, his spirit was admired. Top stars asked about him frequently, and Earl Hebner, our top referee, who had overcome his own brush with death in early '98, checked with me on his progress almost daily.
His friends stayed in constant touch. I was always scared when I dialed that number, fearing that I wouldn't know the right things to say, but I always seemed to have a sense of wonder about me by the time I hung up the phone. He was never down. Never. Everyone who had contact with him was amazed by his attitude. Brian Hildebrand was a dying man; it was just a matter of time. His cancer had been too devastating to even attempt surgery. The doctors merely sewed him up and passed a death sentence on him—but Brian refused to accept it.
In June, I received a call from Brian while I was eating lunch at a Raw taping. As always, I was glad to hear from him. "How are you?" I asked, and his answer gave me goose bumps. "I'm up to a hundred and twenty-one pounds!" I didn't know what to do, so I just yelled out "Brian Hildebrand is up to a hundred and twenty-one pounds!" Only a few people in that room had ever met Brian, but everyone had heard of him, and a loud cheer went up. I distinctly remember thinking, He's beat it, he's really beat it.
Marc Keenan was a big reason why. Marc was a fellow DeNucci student, who had worked full-time in Memphis and Dallas in 1990 before a serious neck injury ended his career. Marc had remained a good friend of Brian's and had come up with the idea of promoting the Rostraver show as both a benefit for, and a tribute to, Brian. Brian had been involved in every aspect of the show, and on July 30, 1999, he was beaming with pride. He looked vibrant and healthy, although in truth, he had very little time left to live.
Other than the match I refereed, I don't remember a whole lot about the wrestling. I do remember that it was unbearably hot, with no air-conditioning in the building. The humidity seemed so thick it could be cut with a knife, but the love in the air was even thicker. I don't throw around the L word all that often—ask my wife, who had to practically pry it out of me back in 1990—but I sure felt a lot of it on July 30. The event served as a DeNucci graduate reunion with Dominic, Shane Douglas, Marc Keenan, Preston Steele, Dick Flanagan, and me all swapping exaggerated stories of our ring abilities. WCW had allowed future World Wrestling Federation stars Eddie Guerrero, Dean Malenko, Perry Saturn, and Chris Benoit to come; and the World Wrestling Federation had sent Al Snow, D'Lo, Terry Taylor, Chris Jericho, and me to Rostraver, at their own expense. Longtime friends Lord Zolton, Jim Cornette, Sandy Scott, and Les Thatcher were there, as well as Bruno Sammartino, who was even smiling!
I could see Shane smiling a mischievous smile as Dominic, looking fit and trim at sixty-three, p
repared to enter the ring to do battle with Zolton in a "legends" match. Now, I like Zolton, but if you consult your Webster's for a definition of "legend," there is a good likelihood that Zolton's photo won't be included. "What the hell are you laughing at?" I asked Shane, who was one of my closest friends in the business. "Just wait," he managed to sneak out in between laughs. I then heard Hank Hudson (who had given me my "Truth or Consequences, New Mexico" hometown before my first match) announce Dominic and his music began.
When Dominic was a star in the sixties and seventies, entrance music was unheard of, but, my goodness, he had it on July 30. Within two beats of the music, I realized why Shane was laughing. Dominic DeNucci, the guy who had attended the school that burned down before the "old school" was built, was walking to the ring to the strains of "Tequila"—the song that Pee-wee Herman had danced on the bar to in Pee-wee's Big Adventure. I could just picture Dominic saying, "Shane, you sominabitch!" as he walked for what must have seemed like miles to the ring.
I had the pleasure of refereeing a great match between D'Lo and Al, but not before getting the mandatory verbal knockout on Mr. Snow. D'Lo held both the Intercontinental title and the coveted European title at the time of the show. Al had been the Hardcore champion (and a good one) until dropping the belt only five days earlier to the Big Boss Man. I decided to make him suffer, but not before paying tribute to Brian, who watched the whole show from a table set up next to the ring. Al and D'Lo followed suit with tributes of their own. Now it was time for fun.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, as you know, this is a very special night. Because of that, I have decided that not only are D'Lo's European and Intercontinental titles on the line here in Rostraver, but I'm putting Al Snow's Hardcore belt up for grabs as well."
I could see Al's jaw drop. He had felt he was safe on Brian's big night, but he was wrong. I looked at Brian, and he was grinning while shaking his head in disbelief. Al was coming around now and was yelling "you two set me up" repeatedly. Actually, he was wrong; D'Lo hadn't been in on it, and in truth I wasn't planning on burying Al, but was merely following my instincts. A shark swims, eats, and makes baby sharks. It's instinct. I make fun of Al—instinct.
D'Lo played along, though, and pretended to "inform" me of my mistake, while I did my best Bob Newhart imitation, using the house mike instead of a telephone. "What, what's that? You say Al doesn't have the belt anymore. You say that ho-ha, Al lost to the ho-ho, oh-ho-ho Big Boss Man?" Then I broke into a full-blown fake laugh, and the crowd laughed along. Al, for his part (and despite what he says, he does enjoy playing his part), did the slow burn while mouthing a silent "I hate you."
The two of them put on quite a show for Ros-traver, but more so for Brian. The match culminated with Al and D'Lo bullying me, at which point I somehow managed to subdue them both with a "double Socko Claw," at which point I slowly lowered them to their backs/Brian seized the opportunity and made his way into the ring to make a three-count on both fallen men. D'Lo and Al were remarkably good sports about the devastating loss, and in a moment I'll never forget, the three of us paraded Brian around on our shoulders while the 2,000 in attendance chanted his name.
When the matches were over, all of the participants returned to the ring. Speeches were made, gifts were presented, and tears were shed. Brian was as happy as I've ever seen a human being. Pam's tears fell freely as she hugged us and thanked us for our support. I looked at Pam in her beautiful white dress, overwhelmed at the emotion surrounding her. I looked at Brian and saw the smile that will always be the first thing I think of when I remember him. I thought of my career, and some of the prestigious venues I had performed in. Madison Square Garden, the Tokyo Dome, the Georgia Dome. Inside that small stifling gymnasium, in a suburb of Pittsburgh, with perspiration pouring from me, I had a revelation of sorts. I turned to Marc Keenan, who had worked so hard on a show that Pam feels extended her husband's life, and told him how I felt. "Marc, I have never felt quite this proud to be a wrestler in my life."
Brian Hildebrand passed away on September 8, 1999. He was thirty-seven years old. I was able to see him a few days before he died, and am grateful that I was able to say good-bye and tell him how much he meant to me.
I asked Pam recently if Brian had ever let his illness get him down, and told her of my amazement at his tremendous strength in the face of such suffering. She told me that he never felt sorry for himself, but sometimes felt sorry for her, because of the pain that his illness was causing. In the end, Brian left this world doing what he had been best at—teaching.
In dying, Brian taught us all a little bit about living. He taught us about courage in the face of death. He taught us hope in the face of insurmountable odds. And he taught us that in a business filled with giants, a 140-pound man could walk tallest of all.
17: Chapter Seventeen
The verbal failure at the Meadowlands was followed by an even greater setback—my first match since surgery. Even though I was part of a six-man tag in Baltimore and was therefore able to get away with doing very little, the little I did do made it painfully obvious that I was a long way from healthy. At that point the fact that I had written my life story on 760 pages of legal paper seemed somewhat insignificant, while the fact that my knees throbbed and my belly shook seemed significant as hell.
I had my first singles match back on August 5, 1999, at an amphitheater at Kings Dominion Amusement Park in Doswell, Virginia. It was there where, after riding many hours of coasters, I turned in a performance so rotten that I could practically imagine my kids in the audience denying any knowledge of their lineage. "Hello, Virginia," I began with a standard suck-up line that's only slightly behind "USA, USA" on the cheap-pop ladder. "Now, I know that a lot of you out here tonight saw me in the park earlier, didn't you?" Another cheap pop. "But while I was out there, I also saw my opponent tonight, the Big Boss Man." Cheap boo. "Yeah, I saw him all right—throwing up after riding the Scooby-Doo [kiddie] coaster." The place went nuts, and the Boss Man played it up big time before getting on the mike. When he did, he was classic. Most heels would have tried to deny it, but the Boss Man seized the opportunity. "Hey, I wasn't feeling good even before I went on that ride! Haven't any of you ever had a stomachache before?" To the tune of 8,000 people chanting "Scooby-Doo, Scooby-Doo" while the Boss Man covered his ears in anger, I tiptoed my way through a horrible affair that offered about as much physical contact as a Bobby Fischer training session. Luckily, I had Mr. Socko, and when I pulled him out, a large portion of the crowd forgave my performance. In fact, for a large percentage, forgiveness wasn't necessary; they thought they'd seen a hell of a match.
I sometimes find it ironic that some of my greatest matches have taken place in tiny gymnasiums, musty armories, dusty racetracks, parking lots, and even an odd fruit stand or birthday party. At these less than prestigious venues, with no pyro, lighting, or thousands of cheering fans, a performer's weaknesses can really stick out. I've seen many a muscle-bound stiff who looks like a million bucks in the gym suddenly look like the emperor with no clothes when he locks up in a ring.
On the flip side, fame can hide weaknesses. Don't get me wrong, with four hours of new programming every week, top guys have to work hard and earn their spots, but once there, a certain amount of coasting is acceptable. I myself was counting on doing a whole lot of coasting while my knee got stronger, but was shocked out of my comfort zone by a knee injury to Stone Cold that threatened to shine a big neon light all over my weaknesses.
On the August 9 Raw in Chicago, Stone Cold suffered a torn posterior cruciate ligament in his left knee, an injury that threatened to ruin the much-anticipated SwnmerSlam showdown between Austin and Triple H. SwnmerSlam had always been considered the World Wrestling Federation's second-biggest show of the year and this year's event, slated for August 22 in Minneapolis, with Minnesota Governor Jesse "the Body" Ventura as the special referee for the main event, was expected to be huge. Austin's injury put the whole thing in jeopardy. The World Wrestling Federation ne
eded a miracle. Instead, they called me.
In my heart, I knew I wasn't ready for a match of this magnitude. In my wallet, I knew that this one match could make up for two months of missed work. The wallet won out over the heart, with my head helping out by convincing me that I could find a way through it.
Austin, it was felt, would not be physically able to complete the classic singles matchup that the situation called for. By making the match a "three-way dance," surely we could add enough intangibles, including some surefire Ventura physicality, to make it exciting.
A few days later I was called into the World Wrestling Federation offices for an emergency meeting. Bad news. Jesse, they'd been informed, didn't want to get physically involved. He had been getting heat from every news source ever invented for even being present at the damn match, let alone actually getting involved in it. This was a major wrench in the works of sports-entertainment's second-biggest day of the year. With a top star who could barely walk, an addition whose two butt cheeks had different zip codes, and a troubleshooting referee who didn't want to shoot down any trouble, this match was going to be difficult to pull off. Actually "difficult to pull off" is a little optimistic. "Suck" was a more realistic expectation.
A special referee had to get involved. That's what he was there for. Muhammad Ali had been a wrestling referee. He got involved. Mike Tyson was a referee. He got involved. Once, I had a seventy-two-year-old referee in Italy who had been a wrestler years earlier. Even he got involved. He didn't just get involved either. He threw a dropkick and a flying headscissor and followed it up with a cartwheel into a standing ovation.
My favorite experience with a special referee was Dave "The Hammer" Schultz, the infamous goon of the Philadelphia Flyers glory years of the seventies. As the epitome of the "Broad Street Bullies," he was brought in by WCW in May of 1994 to referee a "Broad Street Bullies" match with me and Kevin Sullivan against the Nasty Boys. Schultz came up to us several hours before the match. Now in his mid-forties, he still seemed fit, but no longer looked like the bane of the NHL, as he had twenty years earlier. He also looked out of his element and quite nervous.