by Bob Backlund
No words can ever really do justice to the feeling of the vibrations and the energy of the people roaring for you as you stand out there, in the middle of the greatest arena in the world, about to wrestle for the WWWF championship. It is something I will never forget.
As I climbed up the steps and into the ring, the emotion of the people showered down on me. I remember thinking that life really couldn’t get any better than that moment—it just doesn’t get any higher. I stood there jumping around and trying to stay loose and recognized that this was everybody’s dream in the business, to be in the position that I was in at that very moment.
And then, suddenly, the moment passed as the roar of the crowd turned to a chorus of boos, and I knew instinctively that Billy was making his way down to the ring. I looked over at him as he climbed the steps alongside his manager, Ernie Roth, known as “The Grand Wizard of Wrestling.” Billy’s face was blank and emotionless—quite a change from the usual. I could tell he was really struggling with it all.
The bell tolled several times to bring the noise level in the arena down as ring announcer Howard Finkel stepped to the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the main event of the evening. It is for the World Wide Wrestling Federation’s Heavyweight Championship, one fall with a one-hour time limit.”
The bell rang again as the crowd cheered, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. My heart was pounding in my throat. People I didn’t know were giving me thumbs up from the crowd, or nodding and smiling and pumping their fists. All around the ring, flashbulbs popped as the photographers angled for their pre-match shots.
“First, I would like to introduce the respective managers. In the corner to my left, here is the Grand Wizard of Wrestling!”
Ernie Roth, his identity hidden by his green turban, wraparound sunglasses, and colorful, bejeweled cape, spread his arms out and soaked in the chorus of boos. Roth had the worst set of crooked and yellow teeth you have ever seen—the product of decades of chain smoking—and he showed every one of them to the fans as he gestured defiantly to the crowd and then pointed admiringly at the gold championship belt around Graham’s waist.
“And in the opposite corner, the Golden Boy, Arnold Skaaland!”
Arnie, standing beside me in his trademarked dark jacket and tie, smelled of the cigars he had smoked earlier in the day while playing gin rummy with the front office guys. He gave a little wave and smiled at the crowd, which roared its approval. For the eleven years that Bruno held the world championship, Skaaland had served as Sammartino’s “manager.” Now he stood beside me as mine—and that commonality was not lost on the crowd.
During my buildup to this night, Bruno and I had never appeared together on television, or in an interview, and we had never wrestled together in a tag-team match. I was certainly not positioned as Bruno’s protégé, which would have been an easy way to get me over with the fans. But as I was standing here next to Arnold Skaaland, it suddenly occurred to me that such an overt gesture wasn’t necessary. I was the only other wrestler to be represented by Bruno’s manager—but I would not start my reign in Bruno’s shadow.
The torch had, in fact, been passed.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen … the challenger. From Princeton, Minnesota, weighing in at two hundred thirty four pounds, the All-American Boy, Bob Backlund!”
The bell tolled again, several times, as an even louder roar from the crowd rained down upon us from the upper decks. I thrust my arms up into the air in a gesture of greeting, and then shielded my eyes from the glare of the lights as I looked around at the crowd in the arena. They were packed in to the rafters, up to the last rows in the nosebleed seats in the corners of the building. As I jumped up and down to stay loose, I looked across the ring at Billy, who still wore a blank look on his face. I wondered what was going through his mind as he stood here in the ring at the end of his days in the spotlight. I wondered if he was regretting that brief talk we had in the YMCA in Fargo, North Dakota, and thinking about how ironic it was that I would be ending his reign as champion when he had been the man who had ushered me into the business.
“And his opponent. From Paradise Valley, Arizona, weighing two hundred seventy eight pounds, the World Wide Wrestling Federation’s heavyweight champion, “Superstar” Billy Graham!”
Graham pulled his t-shirt over his head and gave a couple of little jumps in place with the title belt around his waist before slowly unsnapping it, carefully folding the straps inside, and handing it to the referee, who held it aloft for the crowd to see. Graham was careful not to look at the belt for too long to give away what was about to happen, but I could tell that if he could have, he would have hung on to that moment forever.
Flashbulbs sparkled all around the seating bowls and upper decks. The Garden was buzzing with electricity and nervous energy, as the roar of the crowd subsided slightly and the fans, nearly all of whom had been standing for the introductions, began to take their seats.
Arnold Skaaland put his arm around me in the corner, leaned closely into my right ear, and spoke exactly four words to me.
“They’re all yours, kid …”
Graham and I stepped out of our corners and into the center of the ring for the last-minute instructions from the referee.
It was showtime.
The bell rang, and the crowd buzzed with anticipation as Billy and I circled each other in the middle of the ring. Billy immediately caught me in a reverse bearhug and squeezed until his triceps rippled. I worked into an escape by slipping my arms through, and then reversed the hold, and Billy reached for the corner and a break—the fans booing heartily. I took the cue, and instead of breaking, deadlifted Billy’s 275 pounds into the air and placed him back into the center of the ring as the crowd roared its approval.
Playing his role perfectly, referee Terry Terranova forced a clean break, admonished me, and pushed me into a neutral corner, claiming that Graham had reached the ropes and I had failed to break cleanly. I argued and gestured at the referee, and a cascade of boos descended from every corner of the Garden as Graham played to the crowd that I had pulled on his tights. In unison, the crowd began to chant an obscenity at Graham, and he jawed with the ringsiders as I jumped up and down in the ring and pumped a fist to rally the fans.
We had the crowd less than a minute into the match.
We teased a headlock into a near fall, as Billy threw me into the ropes and I leaped over his backdrop attempt and caught him in a sunset rollup. The referee counted to two, and Graham escaped into the ropes again. Again the referee pushed me back away from Graham, and again, the boos descended on Graham.
This time, Graham caught me in a full nelson, and we played off of that for a short while. I sold Graham’s strength until I eventually worked my leg into a kick-up escape and Graham complained to the referee and gestured to the fans that I had oil on my body.
Once again, a crescendo of boos rained down on Graham. Although Graham had been popular with a certain segment of the fans at the Garden, on this night, it was clear that the fans were solidly behind the underdog kid. Vince Sr.’s plan was working.
We locked up again, and Graham caught me in a headlock and cinched down on it and jawed at the fans some more. Eventually, I threw him into the ropes, he came off the ropes with a head of steam, and shoulder-blocked me down to the canvas, ran through to the other side and attempted another shoulder block. I ducked behind him, pushed him into the ropes, and brought him back into a victory roll without the bridge, and the referee again counted to two for a near fall.
The fans were screaming as they sweated the count. On the television broadcast that night on Madison Square Garden Cablevision, the announcer, Vince McMahon Jr., observed that “there is a certain electricity here tonight in Madison Square Garden.”
I applied a reverse chinlock on Graham to give him a blow and a chance to consider our next series of moves. When he indicated that he was ready, he gouged my eyes to break the hold, got to his fe
et, and bodyslammed me to the canvas. When he went for a second bodyslam, I blocked him and rolled him up into a small package. By design, the referee was out of position, and took an eternity to get into position to begin to toll the count. When Graham kicked out at the two and three-quarters count, the crowd groaned—recognizing that, had the referee been in position—that would have been a three count. The energy was building.
I spit on my hands, rubbed them together, and beckoned Graham back toward the center of the ring. He put up his hands and begged off—and the crowd booed him deafeningly.
It was time to transition the momentum.
We locked up again, and I swung Graham into the ropes and threw a dropkick. Graham held onto the ropes and I missed him and crashed down to the canvas on my left shoulder. Graham began to kick and stomp and pound on me with forearm blows and elbow smashes. I crawled around the ring selling his power, as he grabbed me by the hair, threw me into the ropes and caught me on the rebound and hoisted me up into his signature finisher—the bearhug—and cinched up his twenty-two-inch python-like arms.
On the television broadcast, Vince McMahon Jr. was selling Graham’s finisher to the tens of thousands of people watching on television.
“There it is, the Superstar bearhug—another successful title defense … as Graham begins to squeeze …”
But then, after a beat of silence with the crowd roaring their support, I used an old amateur move and put pressure on the outside of Graham’s elbows to weaken his grip. McMahon recognized the move immediately and called it.
“Backlund is hanging in there—he has the elbows hooked in an effort to take some leverage away from Superstar … in trying to find a measure of escape where so many men have not!”
We then intentionally turned to the television camera and I went to the inside, forcing my arms inside his arms as he maintained the bearhug, and Graham beautifully sold the escape, slowly separating his clasped fingers as I applied my leverage against his arms until I broke the hold and took him over with a hiptoss.
The people cheered approvingly.
I dropped to the canvas and sold a back injury to give proper credit to the impact of Billy’s finisher.
Billy rushed me, and I tried to give him a double-axehandle, but he grabbed the bearhug again, and this time, I went limp for a couple of seconds to keep the fans on the edge of their seats, and then pushed back on Billy’s head and worked back to the inside.
“Backlund knows all the pressure points …” McMahon observed on the telecast.
Having worked my arms to the inside, I reversed the hold, and hoisted Billy up into a bearhug, cinched it up, and applied the pressure. Graham yelled something. It was nearly impossible to hear anything over the din.
Maintaining the bearhug, I dropped Billy down, shoulders first, to the canvas and got a two count before he pulled my hair in a desperate attempt to break up the pin. The fans were in a frenzy, so we repeated the move again, and again he pulled my hair to escape being pinned. Acting on the adrenaline coursing through my body, I deadlifted Graham from the canvas back up into the bearhug but Graham stuck a finger in my eye to break the hold. We both staggered for a moment, and with perfect timing, Vince McMahon, on the television broadcast, anticipated the finish.
“In Madison Square Garden here tonight, he is a long way from North Dakota where he won the NCAA collegiate title …”
I threw Graham into the ropes, and applied the abdominal stretch submission hold and really sunk it in and stretched Graham. The decibel level in the building was off the charts, and Graham and I both recognized at that point, that even though the match was only about thirteen minutes old, we weren’t likely to get the crowd any higher than they were at that moment. The referee gestured at him, and Graham shook his head wildly from side to side to indicate to the referee that he was not going to concede the match. I poured on the pressure. We both listened for another moment, and then recognizing where the crowd’s energy was, Graham tapped me on the head to indicate that it was time to go home.
He grabbed my hair and hoisted me over in a hiptoss.
“Every time you think you have Graham, he comes up with something …” McMahon lamented on television.
As Graham staggered around the ring, I snuck behind him, waited just long enough for the fans to comprehend what I was about to do, and I then hoisted him up onto my shoulder for the atomic kneedrop.
“Wait a minute! Bob Backlund has “Superstar” Billy Graham up in the air!” McMahon shouted excitedly on the broadcast.
The fans had seen me pin every opponent I had wrestled at the Garden with this very move. They were now all on their feet, jumping up and down, waving their arms, as I carried Graham all the way across the ring to the opposite corner. The one thing going through my mind at the time was to be sure to drop him close enough to the ropes so he could get his foot across the bottom rope.
“There may not be an escape for Graham!” McMahon yelled.
I ran Billy out just past the middle of the ring and then smashed the base of his spine across my knee.
“He’s in the middle of the ring. Atomic kneedrop! Down to the canvas …”
Billy had landed in precisely the right spot.
“Backlund covers Graham—one, two, and three!”
As one, the Garden crowd sprang to their feet, arms in the air, and bedlam ensued. The fans jumped up and down, throwing programs and cups into the air in celebration. Down in the ring, Graham still lay prone on the canvas, his foot perfectly draped across the bottom rope. He yelled at the referee and pointed at his leg. But the referee hadn’t seen it as he delivered the fatal three count from the other side of Graham’s body.
The celebration was on!
“Bob Backlund has won the World Wrestling Federation Championship. A dream come true!” shouted Vince McMahon as the bell rang and rang, and the referee paraded me around and around the ring in circles with my arm raised in a token of victory.
Still down on the canvas, Graham was still selling the rematch, gesturing over and over to the referee, the fans, and the ringside cameramen and press people that his foot had been on the bottom rope at the time of the pinfall, and that he had gotten robbed.
I walked over to the side of the ring and yelled “WE DID IT!” to the ringside fans. They were celebrating right along with me. There was jubilation in the Garden as the microphone lowered from the Garden ceiling and announcer Howard Finkel was preparing to make it official.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the time of the fall, fourteen minutes, fifty-one seconds, the winner—and NEW World Wide Wrestling Federation Heavyweight Champion, Bob Backlund!”
I stood in the ring and celebrated with the fans until I was summoned to return to the dressing room area. There, I shook hands with a smiling Vince McMahon Sr., who met me just inside the curtain.
“Great job, Bobby! Well done. Well done!”
Vince was a man of few words, but he was smiling, and I could tell that he was pleased with how the crowd was reacting to the way the transition had played out. From there, I sought Billy out in the heels dressing room, shook his hand, and thanked him for giving me and the fans a great match. Billy clapped a big paw behind my neck and offered his congratulations. I knew we would meet again in many rematches, both at the Garden and around the horn—so this wasn’t a goodbye.
The boys in the dressing room offered their polite congratulations—but I could tell I would now have to prove myself to a dressing room full of guys who had been passed over for the role, and had grown accustomed to having Bruno in the driver’s seat. I resolved, again, to work to earn their respect.
I showered, got dressed, carefully placed the WWWF title belt into my gym bag, and headed out the side door of the Garden and off onto the street for the long trip back to Connecticut.
The Garden Was Electric
The night Bob won the belt, the energy in the Garden was just amazing. I would say that the buzz in the Garden that night was electric—it was an atmosphere
that was just off the charts compared to anything we had experienced there in the recent past. Bob had been accepted by the fans at that point—and the people were fully behind him. There was a small pocket of people that were still behind Billy—but don’t kid yourself—that building was solidly behind Bob.
I actually didn’t know the finish of the match before it happened, so I was on the edge of my seat like everyone else! But when Bob picked Billy up for the atomic kneedrop, everyone knew what was coming because that move had been built up so much both in previous matches at the Garden and on television. You could literally see the people all over the arena rising to their feet as one to see what was going to happen. And when he dropped him, and jumped on top of him, and the referee counted one, two three—that building just blew up. I mean the place was literally shaking.
—Howard Finkel
16
Getting Over (1978)
“Teamwork is a never-ending process, and even though it depends on everyone involved, the responsibility for it lies with you.”
—Napoleon Hill, “Inspire Teamwork”
The morning of Tuesday, February 21, 1978, was a morning like no other in the Backlund house. The WWWF championship belt was now safely stored in the night table drawer next to our bed, and suddenly, I had a whole lot more responsibility on my shoulders. After getting a few hours of restless sleep, I awoke with a start, thinking that I had overslept for a flight to a match. From here on, I would be in the main events every night. Showing up late or missing a date was not an option.
The whole episode seemed like a dream. I had to go back and check the drawer to make sure that the title belt was actually there. I pulled the belt out and sat there at our little kitchen table running my fingers over the gold plating, recalling the way that the Garden crowd had exploded when the referee’s hand hit the mat for the third time.