Backlund: From All-American Boy to Professional Wrestling's World Champion

by Bob Backlund

  November 21, 1983, was the date of my much-anticipated rematch with the Masked Superstar at the Garden. As he always had, Vince Sr. brought Bill Eadie and me together in the bathroom and told us what he wanted at the end of the match. He told us that Superstar was to try and put the Neckbreaker on me again, but that this time, I was going to block it and catch him in an inside cradle for the three count.

  Vince Sr.’s words didn’t seem to affect Eadie one way or another, and he didn’t show any kind of disappointment to learn that he would be doing the honors for me in our second match. I’ll be honest though, I think I was more surprised than he was because of what we had just done in Boston, and what we had done on television. I thought for sure that they were setting us up for a three-match series at the Garden that would culminate in some kind of final match that would resolve the feud, and permit me to get some kind of punctuated revenge against Superstar for what he had done to me and to Eddie Gilbert.

  What I didn’t yet know, however, was that the sands running through my hourglass as the WWF World Heavyweight Champion were rapidly running out, and that there wasn’t going to be time for a third match at the Garden between me and Superstar.

  The winds of change were blowing. I just didn’t feel them yet.

  That match against the Superstar would prove to be my final successful title defense at the Garden.

  23

  The Night the Lights Went Out on Broadway (December 26, 1983)

  “Defeat should be accepted merely as a test…. Defeat is never the same as failure until it has been accepted as such.”

  —Napoleon Hill, “Learn from Adversity and Defeat”

  The television tapings for December 1983 were held in Allentown and Hamburg on December 6 and December 7, 1983. The bad news came on December 6, 1983, in Allentown, the same place where it had all begun for me.

  “Bobby, can I speak to you for a moment?”

  It was Vince Sr. at my side. It had been nearly seven years since I had first heard him utter those words to me, but this time, I could tell just by looking at him that something was different.

  That morning, as we began to cut the promos for the upcoming month, I had looked at Vince Sr.’s calendar book containing the upcoming cards, and collected my bookings. I hadn’t noticed anything unusual. I was going to the same places I would usually go, and was scheduled to wrestle Iron Sheik, Sergeant Slaughter, and the Masked Superstar—the expected set of challengers to the WWF title. We had just completed taping the three weeks of promotional interviews for the upcoming towns, and that too, had pretty much been business as usual. I was main-eventing all of those towns, and talking about defending the WWF title against Sheik, Slaughter, or Superstar, with an occasional match against Muraco still thrown in for good measure.

  We were standing next to the ring when Vince Sr. turned to me, looked me in the eye, and dropped the bombshell.

  “Bobby, we’re going to have a change. We’re going to put the belt on the Sheik at the Garden in December. What would you suggest for a finish?”

  My heart sank.

  I had known this day would eventually come—but to be honest, I hadn’t seen it coming. The gates all around the territory had been very strong throughout the summer and fall for the matches with Steele and Slaughter and Superstar, and I hadn’t sensed any real restlessness from the fans, the office, or the boys in the dressing room. Then again, it had been almost six years—although it felt like those years had passed in the blink of an eye.

  As I stood there with Vince Sr., this man who had chosen me to be his All-American Boy, and who had given me the wonderful opportunity to be his world champion, I was overcome by a sense of tremendous gratitude, and I wanted to make sure that I did right by him in what he was asking me to do. I started thinking about the different times in the past when titles had changed hands, and how someone would almost always have their foot on the ropes, or under the ropes, or something. There was always a little out so that the champion didn’t have to have to lay down completely.

  I didn’t like that. In my mind, when it is your time, you should put the challenger over the way you would want to be put over yourself.

  So standing there by the ring with Vince Sr., I came up with this idea of the Sheik trapping me in his Camel Clutch, and not being able to break the hold, and Arnold being forced to throw in the towel because I had no prospect of escaping the hold, but wouldn’t submit, putting myself at risk of permanent injury. It would go down as a submission finish that would put the Sheik over much more strongly than a fluky pin with a foot on the ropes. It was a finish that I knew had never been done before, and a finish that the people would never forget. So that’s what I suggested.

  Vince Sr. nodded as he listened to me lay out the proposed finish, and then patted me on the backside, almost apologetically, as he left my side.

  “I like that. Thanks, Bobby.”

  The conversation was very short—but it was one that I would replay over and over in my mind for the next many years. In the years that would follow, I often wondered if there was any question that I might have asked, or anything that I might have said that would have changed his mind. I really believe that in Vince Sr.’s heart, he wanted the good guy to win in the end because it was good for society. In his mind, though the battle might be bitter and the war long, ultimately, the guy with the white hat always had to end up standing tall in the end—because that is what gave people hope. In the end, hope was what we were selling with this story of the “All-American Boy.” For almost six years, we told that story together, and we had given people hope.

  The next night in Hamburg, Vince Sr. told me that they wanted me to do a little angle with The Iron Sheik’s Persian Club Challenge that night at the tapings. The Sheik would come out and insult all the American wrestlers, and taunt them for their inability to work out with the Persian Clubs. I was to burst out of the dressing room, taking off my suit coat and shirt as I went, ready to take up the mantle and defend America’s honor. In the ring, I would deliberately fail on my first attempt, but then eventually hoist the clubs up and start swinging the clubs just like the Sheik did, prompting him to attack me while I had the clubs up in the air. My job was to make sure that one of the clubs landed on the back of my neck, so that I could sell an injury to my neck and shoulder that would set up the match with the Sheik at the Garden on December 26, and set me up for the Sheik’s “Camel Clutch” submission hold, which, of course, targeted the neck and shoulders.

  Vince Sr. told me that he liked the finish I had suggested, and that he knew that, coupled with this injury angle they were building in, it wasn’t going to be bad for me—that his All-American Boy wasn’t going to get buried by the finish, even though I would be losing the world title to an Iranian madman on the day after Christmas in Madison Square Garden. I think Vince Sr. thought, at that time, that I was going to be in the wrestling business for a long time after my title loss, and he wanted the finish to keep me strong.

  The angle on television went off awkwardly. Although I had worked out with the Sheik’s clubs before, they legitimately weighed eighty pounds each and were difficult to swing over your head, and even more difficult to drop carefully on yourself without actually injuring yourself while doing it. When the Sheik attacked me, the club mostly missed me on the way down, and I had to almost pull it back on top of me in order to make the injury angle look more compelling. But I sold the injury on television as instructed, and the stage was set for me to pass the torch at the Garden on the twenty-sixth.

  At that point, I still didn’t have the real picture of what was about to happen—only that I would be passing the title to The Iron Sheik at the Garden then. Vince Sr. told me that I would have a main-event rematch against the Sheik at the Garden in January, and Vince Jr. even told me that I’d be getting the belt back from the Sheik at that card, but that the details of all of that hadn’t been worked out yet. In retrospect, I think Vince Jr. must have just told me that to make sure that I would coop
erate with the plan they were hatching.

  Not cooperating never even entered my mind.

  The next day, when I arrived home from the tapings, I told Corki about my conversation with Vince Sr., and that my days as the world champion were at an end. Corki reminded me of how grateful we should both be for the amazing run that we had—and I felt the same. I was lucky to have the boss I had for so long and to have had the opportunity to please the people for as long as I did.

  It was a strange feeling traveling the circuit during the first three weeks of December as a lame duck, knowing that, in each building that I appeared, it would be for the last time as the world champion. My last stop was in Pittsburgh at the Civic Arena on Christmas Day, where I pinned the Masked Superstar. I stayed over in Pittsburgh on Christmas night, alone with my thoughts, and then made the long and lonely drive from there to New York City the next day. Along the way, I thought about the past, about all the things that had happened to me in the wrestling business, about my relationships with the Funks, and Eddie Graham, and Jim Barnett and Sam Muchnick and Harley Race, and most of all with Vince McMahon Sr., and about the fact that a major chapter in my life was coming to an end.

  If I had to lose the belt to someone, I was pleased that it was going to be to Khosrow—a real athlete, and someone I had known for so long. I tried to stay positive and make the best of it—but it was definitely not an easy thing. Over the years, there have been a lot of rumors and stories that I refused to drop the belt to Bill Eadie because he did not have a legitimate amateur background, or that I handpicked Khosrow because he did.

  Both are false. Vince McMahon Sr. approached me for the first time about changing the title on December 6 at the Allentown tapings. He told me I’d be losing the belt at the Garden to the Sheik on the December 26. The only thing I had any say in was the finish.

  When I arrived at the Garden that night, I walked up the ramp and rode the elevator up to the dressing rooms where it was pretty much business as usual. Sheik, who had just been told by Vince Sr. that night that he was going over, was excited to get the rub of a world championship run, so he was ebullient. Khosrow gave me a set of his Persian clubs that I still have at the house to this day, so I knew that he had the utmost respect for me, as I did for him. We liked each other, and had known each other for a long time, going almost all the way back to the beginning of our careers. It just kind of made sense I would be passing the belt to him.

  Vince Sr. called us together in the bathroom and gave us the finish—which was the ending I had suggested. I went through the same pre-match preparations that I always did, trying to retreat into my routine. I had always known, in the back of my mind, that this day would come, and I wondered how I would react. Now that the day was upon me, I was bound and determined to do it with honor, as Billy had done for me years earlier. I imagine it was a little bit like dying will be. You know it’s going to happen to you sometime, but it still catches you a little bit by surprise when the day actually comes.

  Going to the ring, it was hard not to give anything away by the look on my face. Standing there in the ring, with my red white and blue American flag jacket on, and the big green world title belt around my waist, and Arnold Skaaland at my side, and the people still cheering wildly as Howard Finkel announced my name—I wish I could have frozen time. My mind flashed back to February 20, 1978, when I was standing on the other side of this ring, and Billy Graham was over here, thinking the thoughts that I was thinking—and suddenly and finally, I understood what that was like for Billy.

  A lot of you are probably reading this and thinking to yourselves, “If the whole thing is predetermined anyway, what’s the big deal to simply pass the world title to another guy in the group?” Think of it like playing the lead role in a play or a musical on Broadway that closes. For years, you have the lead role, basking in the cheers of the crowd, living in the spotlight, and of course, enjoying the financial rewards that come with it. Then, all of a sudden and largely without warning, the play closes, the lights go out, and the dream is over. Instead of being an instantly recognizable face all around the country and in many parts of the world, you start to fade back into anonymity. Instead of receiving a bag full of fan mail every three weeks, the volume dwindles, until eventually, the people stop writing.

  It had been a great run, and one in which I tried every day to give the very best of myself to the people, to carry the championship with the honor and dignity that it deserved, to serve as a role model for my fans and to do myself and the company proud. In those aspirations, I think I succeeded. All that remained, then, was to do my very best to execute this match, and make the transition a good and memorable one.

  The End of an Era

  Bob was a great college wrestler, a great athlete, and a good man. And he trained all the time. He was a hard-working man, and I got along very well with him. He impressed me. And we were friends going all the way back to the days in the AWA, you know?

  I found out the same night, when Vince Sr. told me that I was going to take the championship. I was very surprised, but very excited and happy that I was going to get the opportunity. Mr. McMahon told me that I was to get Bob in the Camel Clutch and that Mr. Arnold Skaaland was going to throw in the towel and I would be the champion. But I didn’t have any idea how long I was going to hold the belt. Nobody told me that.

  —The Iron Sheik

  Sheik and I sold my neck and shoulder injury throughout the match, running off a couple of false finishes where I was unable to complete a move because of the “injury” to my neck and shoulder. On the television broadcast on MSG-Cablevision, Gorilla Monsoon and Pat Patterson punctuated every point. They painted me as a courageous warrior—a champion who could have pulled out of the match entirely, or left the ring to get counted out to save my title once I understood that I was too hurt to continue, but instead, chose to compete and defend the honor of the United States against the hated Sheik.

  Then, before I wanted it to, the moment came.

  I have played the moment over repeatedly in my mind’s eye, too many times to count. I was down on the mat, with the Sheik on my back, pulling back on my chin and putting on only enough pressure to make the hold look convincing. Looking over at Arnold, and watching, almost like it was in slow motion, as he balled up the towel in his hand and threw it into the ring from his position at ringside. I watched the towel come fluttering into the ring and land at the feet of referee Dick Kroll.

  Kroll, who was not in on the finish, looked incredulously at Skaaland, who nodded at him and gestured for him to call for the bell.

  Kroll motioned to the timekeeper, the bell rang, the Sheik released the hold, I collapsed onto the canvas, and before I could draw a breath, Arnold was on me, massaging my neck and whispering in my ear.

  “Well done, Bobby. It’s okay. You did good,” he said as he leaned over me, still massaging my neck, not realizing that the only pain I felt was on the inside. The emotions rushed through me, as he put my good arm over his shoulder and helped me from the ring and down the runway back to the dressing room.

  The people were in shock—and you could see it all over their faces. On the day after Christmas in New York City, an Iranian madman had just beaten the All-American Boy for the World Heavyweight Championship. Freddie Blassie cackled at the ringsiders, as he showed the belt off again and again.

  The match had gone off pretty much as expected. After the match, back in the dressing room, Sheik shook my hand and thanked me for doing the honors. I did the obligatory post-match interview, took a shower, got in the car, and went home. Corki and Carrie were both waiting up for me when I got there.

  I was most grateful for that.

  He Drew Like Gangbusters

  You know, for a lot of years, Vince was a part of the NWA and acted as a voting member of the board. After he left, we battled him, and for a short time, Bobby was on the other end of that, because he was working for Vince. Vince Sr. wanted control of the National Wrestling Alliance. He wanted co
ntrol of the NWA World Heavyweight Championship. And when he got sick in 1983, it was a battle that wasn’t over yet. The Alliance was composed of thirty-two promoters from the territories and organizations across the country. And basically, the person who could control those members could control the belt—and that’s what it was all about. You had to have the numbers—and if you had the numbers, you could control the alliance and decide the champion, and decide his schedule. See, the belt was very important to every member. If you had the NWA World Champion defending the belt in your territory, you were going to make money. That’s why Vince ultimately pulled out of the NWA—because he could not control the Alliance and get the champion when he wanted to and where he wanted to. He had to share him, and Vince Sr. wanted a world champion for his buildings—especially the Garden.

  Vince Sr. kept Bobby on top for six years, which was a tremendously long time for someone to stay a champion, even back then. He wouldn’t have kept Backlund on top if Bobby wasn’t drawing like gangbusters and making lots of money for the company. You don’t stay with a dead horse, no matter what promises you might have made to him. On the other hand, if you’ve got a good horse then you ride him for as long as you can—and believe me, I don’t care where you are the champion—six years is a long, long time to be champion in one stint. If you look at that, there are not many champions in the whole long history of professional wrestling in this country that have been able to run with a belt for six years.

  As the champion, you’re sitting there, and there are very competitive, envious eyes all around—competitive in the ring, competitive performance-wise, and competitive behind the scenes. There are a lot of daggers being thrown, there is a lot of stabbing going on as people try to jockey for position. Even when the top guy is drawing money, people want to tear the top guy down—because that top guy gets to make a lot of money, and everyone wants to be there. But what got Bobby there is everything that Bob Backlund was. Was it luck? Well, luck is always a part of it—but it wasn’t luck. His honesty and credibility were huge assets—because the promoters knew that they could count on him to show up, in shape, ready to go every day, to put asses in the seats, and to protect the belt if he ever needed to. He was also very dependable. If he had a torn up knee, or a bad back, or the flu or whatever it might have been—and he had a championship matchup there in the Garden, I’ll guarantee you he would have found a way to crawl down that aisle and climb into the ring and not disappoint those people. That was another asset that the promoters knew they could count on.