The Three Count

by Jimmy Korderas

  A few months passed and Elio finally decided it was time for him to introduce me to none other than WWF president Jack Tunney. I felt somewhat intimidated meeting him. Jack was a large man who had this aura surrounding him. He appeared stern and serious, but in actuality, he was a kind-hearted man with a good sense of humour. I guess he took a liking to me as he told Elio that they would “find something for me to do.” Jack told me that he had only a few simple rules for me to follow. First, he said that I needed to be on time and never be late. Second, he said he expected an honest day’s work of me. The third and final request he made of me was that as long as the boys showed up on time and in condition to work, he did not want to know about any of the goings-on away from the ring. He said that I was going to see a lot of things that would go on in this business, whether in the locker room, on the bus, in the hotel, or anywhere else. In a nutshell, he basically told me not to be a stooge. I had no problem with that.

  To say that I was ecstatic about landing a job with the World Wrestling Federation would be a gross understatement. But not everyone shared my excitement. When I informed my parents that evening about my big job score, the look of disappointment on their faces caught me completely off guard. I asked them what the problem was. My mother said to me, in Greek mind you, “What kind of future could you possibly have working with all those crazy guys from the TV?” My dad did not say a word, but you could tell he was not happy at all. Again, I could not understand for the life of me what the problem was. It was several weeks later when I realized that both my parents, particularly my father, had expected me to follow in his footsteps and take over the family business one day. I consider myself a car guy and don’t mind working on them. But it was not the career I envisioned for me. I must say, they did eventually come around.

  As it turned out, my very first job for Jack Tunney and the WWF was to transport talent from Toronto to Brantford, southwest of the city, for television tapings. It was November 1985 and at that time the WWF ran shows at Maple Leaf Gardens every three weeks on Sunday nights. On the following Monday, they would tape three weeks’ worth of their syndicated TV show Wrestling Challenge, which aired all over the world. Jack Tunney rented two minibuses for Elio and me to drive. One of us would drive the babyfaces while the other was assigned to take the heels. We alternated each week between faces and heels. We got to hang out all day at the Brantford Civic Centre watching pre-taped interviews, talking to the boys, watching the matches; basically I was having the time of my life and I was getting paid for it. My life in wrestling was just beginning.

  Chapter 2

  Not Quite a Ref Yet

  So there I was, working for then–WWF president Jack Tunney. I say president but that was only his onscreen persona. Jack was in charge of the Canadian office for the WWF; he was only the figurehead president on television. As I stated earlier, my duties were for the most part transporting the wrestlers. Usually he would rent those two minibuses for Elio and me to drive. Sometimes, Jack would hand me the keys to his Cadillac Fleetwood, a cruise ship on wheels if ever there was one, and have me pick up main event talent from their hotels and bring them to Maple Leaf Gardens for the shows. I was given the great honour of chauffeuring everyone from Andre the Giant, Rowdy Roddy Piper, and Hulk Hogan, among other greats. I was even given the responsibility on occasion to drive none other than the boss himself, Vincent Kennedy McMahon. The one good thing about having huge superstars in the car with you is that it can help get you out of trouble.

  I remember one instance when Jack asked me to take his car and go to the Carlton Place Hotel by the airport in Toronto to pick up “Macho Man” Randy Savage and Miss Elizabeth. On my way there, the traffic was horrible. I was running a little late. I absolutely hate being late for anything, so I began driving aggressively — a little too aggressively as it turns out. Eventually, I got pulled over by one of Metro Toronto’s finest, who was about to issue me several tickets. At first I thought, Great, this guy’s going to make me even later than I already am to pick up Savage and Liz. Among the tickets he was threatening me with were speeding, unsafe lane changing, and reckless driving. This officer was ready to throw the book at me. I was now in complete panic mode. All I kept thinking was that Jack was going to kill me, then fire my ass, and in that order. At one point, the officer began questioning me on the ownership of the car. Uh-oh, here we go, now he thinks I’ve stolen the car. Sure, here’s a guy in his early 20s driving a Cadillac with YENNUT (Tunney spelled backwards) on the plates, not suspicious at all. Almost shaking, I told him it belonged to my boss Jack Tunney and that I was late to pick up “Macho Man” Randy Savage and Miss Elizabeth. All of a sudden, the policeman changed his tune. Now he was Mr. Nice Guy. He started telling me that his son was a huge fan of the WWF and how the kid had all the action figures, the toy ring, and so on. He was talking to me as if this traffic stop was really cool, stopping Jack Tunney’s car on the way to pick up a pair of WWF superstars.

  We were only stopped about a mile from the hotel when I had a brainstorm. I looked this cop in the eyes and said, “Would you like me to ask the Macho Man and Miss Elizabeth if they would give your son an autograph?” His eyes lit up and he said, “I’ll follow you to the hotel. If you can get me the autographs, I will let you off on all the tickets.” That’s all I needed to hear. I told him to follow me to the hotel and I would see what I can do. On the way there, I thought, What if Randy doesn’t want to help me out? What if he’s in a crappy mood and won’t sign? Still, I had to try it or risk losing my job.

  When we got to the hotel I called up to Randy’s room and Liz answered the phone. After exchanging pleasantries, I explained my situation to her. She said it would not be a problem at all and that she would make sure Randy and she would autograph an eight-by-ten for the officer’s son. She was truly a wonderful lady, a real sweetheart. Five minutes later, the first couple of the WWF came into the lobby. In his gruff voice, Randy said hello to the policeman. He then pulled out an eight-by-ten of himself and Liz and they proceeded to autograph it for the cop’s kid. The policeman thanked us all and left without even mentioning the plethora of fines he had wanted to bestow upon me. I was off the hook thanks to Macho Madness. I thanked Randy and Liz for doing this for me. They were so cool about the whole thing. We all had a good laugh about it. When I think back on that incident, boy did I get away with one. Thanks again, Randy and Liz. You both saved my job!

  Having superstars in the vehicle did not always get me out of trouble with the law, though. After a set of television tapings for Wrestling Challenge in Brantford, I loaded up the minibus and prepared for the trip back to Toronto. The drive generally took about an hour and 20 minutes to an hour and a half. It was now 11:30 p.m. In the bus were the likes of Terry Funk and Hercules Hernandez, among many others. One passenger was the great Harley Race, who asked me what time last call was at the hotel bar. I told him that in Toronto, they stop serving at one a.m. He as well as the others told me to put the pedal to the metal to make it to the hotel for last call. One brief look at all those wrestlers and I knew what I was going to do: everyone buckle up, because here we go. I was never afraid to drive fast; as a matter of fact, back in the day I did it quite often. We were making great time when — you guessed it — I got pulled over by the Ontario Provincial Police, the equivalent of a State Trooper. The strange thing about this was that I was more concerned about getting back to the hotel before last call than I was about the ticket. That wrestling business mentality had already infiltrated my mind. Despite the valiant attempts of Harley Race and Terry Funk to talk the officer out of writing the ticket, I ended up getting one anyway.

  Once we got back on the road, Harley and Terry took up a collection from everyone to pay for the ticket. We arrived at the Howard Johnson’s hotel by the Toronto airport about 12:40 a.m., a good 20 minutes before last call. Everyone got out quickly and went straight to the bar. Harley handed me some money. He said, “Here kid, this is to pay for your speedi
ng ticket.” I counted it and told him it was $110 too much. He replied, “Keep it, kid, you earned it. By the way, you’re one hell of a driver. Thanks.” Wow! What a compliment coming from the legendary Harley Race. I must’ve been grinning from ear to ear. I thanked him, parked the bus, and joined the boys for a drink.

  Not everyone had words of encouragement on those trips to the TV tapings in Brantford. One day, I had a veritable who’s who of wrestling on a particular trip to the TV station. Sitting shotgun was “Classy” Freddie Blassie, an old-school wrestler who was now a manager. Sitting behind us was the Manager of Champions, Captain Lou Albano; Mr. Fuji, a former wrestler also turned manager; and former world heavyweight champion, now colour commentator, Bruno Sammartino. I didn’t really say much to them other than hello. I guess I was just a little intimidated. All the managers knew who I was but this was the first time I had had the honour of meeting Bruno. About half an hour into the drive, Bruno decided to strike up a conversation with yours truly. He asked me where I was from, how old I was, how long I had been working in the business, and so forth. It almost felt like an interrogation at times but I understood that he was old school and very protective of his profession. After I had told him that I was only six months into my wrestling career, he did have one more question for me. He asked if I wanted a bit of advice. I thought, Are you kidding me? Bruno Sammartino wants to offer me advice — damn right I do. He said, “My advice is to get out of the business before it gets into your blood. Once it is in your blood, you will never get it out.”

  What did I just hear? The former champ just told me to get out of the business before I get hooked? Not knowing how to answer, I just thanked him for the advice. That’s when Blassie, Albano, and Fuji piped in and told Bruno to “leave the kid alone.” “If this is what he wants to do, no need to scare the shit out of him.” Hearing those guys stick up for me was awesome, but it was too late anyway; it was already in my blood, I’d been bit by the bug and there was no turning back. I was not going to let Sammartino’s words of wisdom get me down. I felt the WWF was where I wanted to be and I was prepared to do whatever it took to live my dream.

  I could go on and on with stories about being the chauffer to some of the biggest superstars of the WWF, but I’ll save those for another time or maybe even another book.

  As much as I really enjoyed transporting some of the most famous and recognizable people in the world around the Canadian countryside, Jack Tunney had other plans for me. My next assignment was to become a member of the ring crew. The person in charge of hauling around and setting up the ring was former wrestler and now referee John Bonello. That name may sound familiar to some of you for less than pleasant reasons but Bonello did treat me very well and I considered him a friend. He took me under his wing and showed me how to set up the ring that he had actually built himself. This particular ring was 18 feet by 18 feet. The WWF rings were generally 20 feet by 20 feet. This may not sound like a huge problem to most people; however, there are very noticeable adjustments one must make when you are working in a different-sized ring. Running the ropes, ring positioning, and timing all have to be taken into consideration when working in rings of various sizes.

  Speaking of working inside the ring, after having the ring setup routine pretty much down pat, I began learning something new. After John and I had the ring set up, well before any fans would enter the arena, we would have our own little wrestling match. That’s right; he was teaching me how to wrestle and take bumps. It was nothing too spectacular, just basic fundamentals. We actually had a pretty good little match worked out. The only people who ever got to see this match were a handful of arena workers and on one occasion the late, great Billy Red Lyons. One day, he showed up to the arena much earlier than usual and, unbeknownst to Bonello and me, watched our little match. He didn’t bother interrupting us but rather sat back and watched as we went through our simple match. When we were finished, of course Bonello goes over, we heard a single person applaud. Red came over and told us we had a good little match worked out and that if the WWF needed a filler match one night, maybe fans would be interested in a ring-crew-member-versus-ring-crew-member match. We got a good chuckle out of his statement but deep down inside, I couldn’t help wishing that one day it would happen for real. It never did, but that didn’t stop me from dreaming about it.

  Those were not the only duties I had. Sometimes, something unexpected came up and I might be asked to help out in other ways. One such time happened in December 1986 after a WWF card in Hamilton, Ontario, at the Victor Copps Coliseum. On this evening, my job was helping Elio manage the merchandise stands on the concourse level. Not a bad gig at all. We got a percentage of the sales as our pay. Commission paydays definitely make you hustle your butt off and this night was a very good night for us. Little did I know that I would be called into action shortly for a completely different assignment.

  One of the matches that night featured the British Bulldogs, Dynamite Kid and Davey Boy Smith, versus the team of Don Muraco and Cowboy Bob Orton — four veterans of the ring who could put on a great performance. I wanted to watch this match but I couldn’t see from my vantage point at the merch stand. Suddenly there was a strange sound coming from the crowd in attendance. It’s hard to describe, but it sounded like a mixture of disbelief and confusion. After several minutes of wondering what was going on, I managed to get someone to watch the stand and went to take a peek to see what all the commotion was about. Paramedics were placing the Dynamite Kid, a.k.a. Tommy Billington, on a stretcher and wheeling him away. I never really found out what exactly had happened; all I knew was that he had been injured in the match and could not walk, let alone wrestle.

  After spending the night in a Hamilton hospital on a gurney in an emergency room hallway, Dynamite was going to be transported via ambulance to Toronto International Airport and put on a flight back to a hospital in Calgary, Alberta, where he lived. One little problem though: because he was flying while on a stretcher, he was not permitted to fly alone. Someone had to accompany him on the flight. Tunney had asked me to accompany him on the plane ride. I would fly with him to Calgary, make sure he was put in an ambulance to take him to the hospital, and wait five hours for my return flight. Yes, for me it was a quick trip. When I found out I was going to be in Calgary for only a few hours, a slight measure of disappointment set in. This was my first trip to Alberta and there would be no time to see anything. I guess I should not complain. The trip was work related, plus I was being paid to do it. What the heck was I thinking? This poor guy was in severe pain, on medication with his career possibly in danger, and here I was thinking about sightseeing. I felt like an ass.

  Despite the fact that I was a novice air traveller, when I got to the airport to check in, I wanted to look like a pro. It didn’t quite work out that way. As I was checking in, the lady behind the counter asked how many bags I would be checking. I told her, “No bags to check.”

  She looked up at me and said in a smarmy manner, “Do you have any bags?”

  As I began to explain the reason I had no bags at all, her smarmy expression slowly turned into a look of resentment. She then said, “Oh, you’re travelling with the wrestling guy. All right, here is your boarding pass. Try to be at the gate at least 30 minutes before departure. Thank you and have a good flight.” It was not what she said but rather how she said it. Her tone was aggravating.

  She was the most condescending bitch I had ever encountered. I thanked her anyway and went to meet the ambulance. When Dynamite arrived at the airport, the paramedics wheeled him straight to the gate. Since Dynamite was unable to walk, he was being boarded first and because I was his travelling partner, I was allowed to priority board with him. The aircraft we were flying on was a Boeing 767. On those planes, there are only two seats next to the window as opposed to three like on many other planes. In order to accommodate the stretcher, they folded forward the seat backs of two window seats immediately next to the emergency exit, m
aking enough room for Dynamite to lay flat. I, on the other hand, had it pretty good. I was in the aisle seat next to him but the airline could not place a passenger in the seat directly in front of me. If they did, they would be sitting next to Dynamite’s legs and feet. Picture someone sitting in the back seat of a car on the passenger side. Then imagine that this person was able to fold forward the passenger seat in front of them and stretch their legs straight out. The driver would have this person’s feet beside them while driving. Not the most appealing proposition. That meant more room for me as I was able to lay the seat in front of me flat, put my feet up, and really get comfortable. The flight from Toronto to Calgary is usually between four and four and a half hours long. Not a problem for someone who can get up and move about the cabin, but for Dynamite it was a struggle. He just could not get comfortable and was in excruciating pain throughout the flight.

  We arrived in Calgary at about seven p.m. local time. We were met at the airport by Dynamite’s wife, Michelle, and Julie, Bret Hart’s wife — they just happened to be sisters. I introduced myself to both of them. They both thanked me very much for accompanying him to Calgary. They then asked me what time my flight back to Toronto was. My flight was the red-eye, not leaving until 12:25 a.m. When they heard that, they asked if I would go with them to the hospital and said that they would make sure someone got me back to the airport for my flight home. I figured, Why not, so I hopped in the car with Julie. Michelle rode in the ambulance with her husband.