“Not this time,” he said.
We walked all the way up the ramp again . . . and of course they had to redo it. So I told the crew, “I’m not moving until you give me my ten dollars.”
They gave me my ten. And then we did it again.
The funniest story that made the air came out of an art show. Tony Atlas was actually very good. We should have had him do all the paintings. But I was doing all kind of shit, too, most of which never even made it to the gallery. We had the big presentation one night. People actually came in to see and buy our paintings, with all profits going to charity. This one guy spent $300 on one of mine.
“I bought the painting for you. I’m from Rio de Janeiro and you won the first Intercontinental Championship there.”
I felt bad — and almost wanted to say something. Thank God it was for charity.
As I’m sure you figured out, I’ve never been to Rio. Even if, according to wrestling “history,” I was there. I have been just about everywhere else in the world . . . For so many years on WWE television, they made it such a big deal about me winning the title there. I think I need to plan a vacation to Brazil, just to be able to say I was there for history’s sake. If I do, I will bring the Intercontinental Championship with me and take plenty of pictures. Actually, that would be funny. Somebody from WWE should make that happen.
There’s some good stuff that happened during the filming of Legends’ House that they didn’t air. Halfway through the shoot, Mean Gene and I asked for a day off. Two elderly gentlemen like us found the schedule grueling. It was against the rules, but we didn’t care. I told the producer that we were either going in town to have a drink or we were going home. He told me that I couldn’t.
“I don’t care. Tell the others we are shooting something together downtown or we are packing our bags and leaving.”
We were serious. We knew the company had invested a lot in the show, but we needed a break. They reluctantly accepted our ultimatum. And it was worth it.
It was about 5 p.m. and we went downtown in a limo. We were free — and it was great to get away. We went to this Mexican restaurant where there were a lot of older people — a lot of older ladies, in particular — having cocktails and stuff. My God, Mean Gene started chatting with one woman, and then another, and before you knew it, there he was talking with five or six of them. They were falling in love with him. He was telling them all kinds of stories. I was ordering drinks when I realized we’d already been there for an hour. I whispered into Gene’s ear that I wanted to see if we could find a karaoke bar. I told him not to tell any of the women because, for crying out loud, they would have followed us. Anyway, I went out into the street and walked around and found a very good karaoke bar nearby. I couldn’t wait, so I went back to where Mean Gene was, had a couple of drinks, and we decided that we were going to go singing.
Now, there weren’t that many singers, but there were a lot of people watching. I couldn’t help myself and I couldn’t stop. I was in heaven. We kept drinking and just having a blast, a real great time. People were actually listening to me from the street and applauding. Eventually more people gathered to watch us and applaud. We were supposed to be back by 11 p.m, but it was already 10:30 p.m. and we were drunk. We realized we had to walk three blocks and I had to look after Mean Gene, who was staggering even more than me. We finally found a taxi stand, but there were no taxis. We waited and waited until I finally said to Gene, “Let’s go have one for the road, across the street.”
So we walked across the street, went to the bar, sat down, had our drink, and talked. It wasn’t long before Gene looked around the place and said, “Patrick, there ain’t too many girls in this bar.”
“I know. It’s a gay bar.”
It was so funny. This guy walked by and I told him it was the first time my friend had ever been in a gay bar and that he was nervous. The guy told Gene not to worry; he was a good-looking guy and that they were going to take care of him.
“How did you become gay?” Mean Gene said to him.
“Well, my father was gay.”
I couldn’t stop laughing. That should have been on TV.
We finally got that taxi, and when we got back to the house, it was close to midnight. When we went in, it was quiet. The outside lights were on, but inside it was pitch dark. I smelled a rat. Anyway, we staggered up to the front door, and I was afraid to open it, because I figured something was going to happen. But what the hell, we had to go in at some point. I turned the knob and the door opened. And that’s when I heard Hacksaw Jim Duggan yell, “Jimmy Hart, you dumb ass. You locked all the doors except the front door.”
They wanted to lock us out, but it didn’t work. And when they asked us where we’d gone, we just told them. What were we supposed to do? They were mad, but they also wished they were the ones who had escaped.
And thank you, Jimmy Hart. Leaving the front door open almost made up for the fact that you got me soaked with cold water in that car wash in Episode Three. (Stop denying it Jimmy, I know you did it.)
Sharing Legends’ House with Mean Gene almost made the whole experience fun.
That ultimatum thing only worked that one time, so we also tried to escape without telling anyone. Ray Stevens would have been so proud. Shawn Michaels had a big car to drive him to the house when he visited. Gene and I tried to get Shawn to help us by hiding us in the back. Not only doesn’t he help, he stooges us off. Shawn Michaels, of all people! After all I did for him, Mr. Anti-Authority sold us out, and the production didn’t even bother to film it. I think it would have made good television.
The Legends’ House producer told me after the final show that it was “fucking good television.”
If you watched the show, you know that at the end, we all shared something personal, something we never told any of the other wrestlers. I’m the one who actually started that shit. It gave us a great ending, a look at the real people behind the characters we’ve played. If I didn’t bring that up, I don’t know what would have been the show’s ending.
The problem was that the legends were always playing wrestler for the cameras. They were in character, true to their gimmick, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I kept telling them that the production wanted to know us, the real people that we are, and not just our characters. Jim Duggan doesn’t go to the grocery store with his two-by-four. The late Roddy Piper didn’t wear a kilt everywhere. You understand me, right? I didn’t tell anyone what to do, but I opened up the door for us.
As I said earlier, I spent my life protecting the business on one hand, while attempting to keep my personal life out of the spotlight on the other. I’d been hiding something for most of my life.
The thought of coming out did cross my mind when I said yes to Legends’ House. I thought it might be the place for me to let everyone know the truth. What I mean is this: while many people knew I was gay, I had never expressed it in front of a crowd. We had so much time to kill between what you saw on television and what was really happening that the thought kept coming back to me on a regular basis. By the time we reached the end, it finally felt right.
I realized the other guys also had things to say that they had never discussed, and that’s why I proposed the idea of sharing something personal. It was like we all had something we needed to let go. So I opened up in front of everyone like that, knowing I had the right to let go, to be myself, without playing a character for anyone. For the first time in my life, I said it openly in front of everybody. And the most important thing is that I did it on my own terms.
I can’t find words powerful enough to explain how important it was for me to tell the world I am gay. When it was done, I felt good about it — and I realize that’s how you get to really know someone, with the truth.
Even though the show wouldn’t air for a while, I didn’t mind the wait. I was at peace with it all. But I also don’t regret not coming out earl
ier — I just hadn’t wanted to come out and I didn’t see the benefit. I could only see it turning into something bad for me and the company. Even though Vince often said to me that I should do it, I didn’t think the time was right. But in the back of my head, the idea was always there. Who doesn’t want to be free? I kept telling myself that one day, I would do it, but until very recently, I never really had the time to focus on it. I shielded myself as I went on with my career, never letting anything or anyone get close enough to share who I really am with the world. A few years ago, I would have said that I never let it affect me, but today I realize it did. I needed to express the truth, and on Legends’ House, I was ready to let go of the burden of secrecy. I was ready to live my life just like everyone else, no more hiding.
I had spent a large part of my life always playing a character. It was a good life, but I could never really be myself, never really let down my guard. Everyone knew Louie, sure, but I would always defend myself if someone asked the question. I would tell them they were crazy, that I wasn’t gay. I knew many people knew something was going on, but as the years went by, people stopped asking about it. And I liked it that way. I never introduced Louie as my boyfriend. It was always “my friend Louie.” I still can’t call him my boyfriend. Somehow that feels wrong. He will always be “my friend Louie.” And to me that’s so much more than a boyfriend.
Everyone has something to hide. And no one really wants to be vulnerable on television. For us wrestlers, it’s all about protecting our image and our character. The other legends probably didn’t want to show that on camera; they wanted to project the image of always being strong. A few weeks later, after the final episode, Roddy Piper took me aside and said, “Pat, you came out. On the show. Thank you, from all of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“We had an idea you were going to say that.”
“So?”
“We support you.”
Listen, I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but I didn’t want anyone’s support.
Now think about it this way. I’ve always respected guys like Piper, Shawn Michaels, and Chris Jericho. They are small guys. I wasn’t a big guy either, but I was different. For a long time, those guys questioned whether what we were going to do with their character was going to help them. It took them all time to realize they’d reached a level where it didn’t matter what happened to their character. When I was producing them, I never made a big deal out of it: if we reached a dead end, I’d tell them to think about something else, that I would do the same, and that we’d meet again in an hour. Then they would come back with something new, or they saw the good in what we wanted to do in the first place.
That being said, still, it’s good for every wrestler to think about what they are going to do. It’s what the great movie actors do, too. They repeat their lines in their head until they can feel and become their character and give us a great performance. But later, when they go up onstage to receive an award, are they still that character? No, they’re not. No matter how famous Sylvester Stallone became, he never talked to you as if he was Rambo or Rocky, you know what I mean?
When Stone Cold first got to WWE, he was cast as The Ringmaster. He hated the gimmick and eventually said, “Screw this.” He went in a completely different direction. Out of that, a superstar was born. This is how you learn, by trying things. I tried many different things: Lord Patrick Patterson, Killer Pat Patterson, and Pretty Boy Pat Patterson. Various promoters loved those gimmicks, but that wasn’t me. Even still, I made the best of them and made them work. But even if I was in the main event, wrestling for the championship, it didn’t feel real.
I learned many valuable lessons doing this, however. Sometimes, people don’t want to listen, don’t want to change, because they’ve enjoyed some success. But if a promoter or someone in power sees something else in you, and if you want to learn, you should be open to trying new things. You can always try something else if it doesn’t work.
Today, obviously, I’m more open about my personal life, even if I’m still a bit uncomfortable. But the great thing is, I’m definitely more comfortable with old friends. Angelo Mosca, the Canadian Football League Hall of Famer and former wrestling star, called me after seeing Legends’ House and told me he loved me and that he had been moved to tears by the series.
I always loved Angelo when we were tag-team partners. I couldn’t resist making fun of him, even if he could have killed me with his bare hands. He was so nervous one night in California when we were wrestling Peter Maivia and Rocky Johnson. We were in a little town in the middle of nowhere, and when I would tag him, I would trip him as he was climbing into the ring without him knowing it was me. He thought he was tripping on the bottom rope. He kept telling me he was sorry.
I called him recently when I learned he was dealing with the early stages of Alzheimer’s disease. He told me he loved me and that he always would. He’s a big man, a big monster in our business, and it never mattered to him that I was gay. It’s been like that for so long in wrestling, maybe that’s why people felt that my big revelation wasn’t that big.
But it was for me, and it was for a lot of other people.
I’ve stopped counting how many guys have come up to tell me how proud they are of me and what an inspiration I am to them. I’m not used to that, since I was always making stuff up to hide the fact I was gay. It’s amazing to me, but it makes me happy that it’s helped. My favorite encounter happened in 2014 at SummerSlam in L.A. A FedEx truck slammed on the brakes in the middle of the street as I was walking on the sidewalk. The driver, who was a big guy, jumped out of his truck and came toward me to tell me he was gay, too. He gave me a big hug, thanked me again, took a picture, jumped right back in his truck, and drove off.
1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . .
“The record shows I took the blows — And did it my way! Yes, it was my way.”
Writing a book about my life should have been easy. But that hasn’t been the case. It’s so very different from telling a story at the bar with friends after a WWE show. You need to say more than what you are comfortable with. If you don’t, what’s the point?
So, what have I been telling you? I’m a creative person and that’s helped me to work with Vince all these years. Also, I’m totally different from the rumors and bullshit stories made up about me over the course of my career.
But my life has been a goddamn story all right — and recollecting it brings out a bunch of different emotions in me as we finish this journey through time. Still I don’t want to say “I did it on my own,” and I’d never want anyone to think I feel sorry for myself because I am getting old. Simply put, those things aren’t true. Even if I live alone today, I’ve never been a lonely man.
I wrestled in all ten Canadian provinces and all fifty states of the Union and there is a story I could tell about almost every town and every major arena. Maybe I’ll write a second book . . .
No way, never again.
It’s hard to explain, but in wrestling, one of the nicest compliments you can get happens right after a good match when you walk back through the curtain and the guys come up to you and say, “That was fucking amazing. You were great. You are such a great wrestler.”
It feels so good. And then it’s over.
When the same people tell you to write a book, well, that’s a different story. A book lasts forever. I believe that after more than fifty-eight years in the business, I was finally ready to write this story. Only now do I feel like I can begin to answer my own questions: Holy shit, how did I get here? I guess I was just busy doing what I love? Shouldn’t that be the story of all of our lives?
I didn’t speak more than a few words of English when I left Montréal and now look where I am. I didn’t become a millionaire in Boston; I had a tough time. But I was wrestling every night and I was happy.
Roy Shire told me he didn’t like gay people, but I changed his mind. Verne Gagne di
dn’t like gay people either, and I changed his mind, too. By the time I made it to New York, Vince Sr. never even asked if I was gay. In fact, by the time I made it there, I didn’t need to tell him. He couldn’t have cared less.
In the end, being gay didn’t really matter as far as my career was concerned. But I did, I think, change some people’s perception about what being gay meant. I believe Louie and I changed people’s minds because we showed them that being gay didn’t make us any different than other folks. We were good at our jobs and we were dependable — just like any other good person. In fact, we worked harder to make sure that the fact that we were gay would not be used against us. Every day I was at the office working to change the promoter’s mind. When I succeeded, those promoters would change the minds of their friends, family, so on and so forth. That’s what my story is really all about.
There was no problem with a gay man working either in the wrestling office or in the main event of a wrestling show. If I did anything for other gay people it was to help change the way people see us. No wrestler ever refused to work with me because I was gay — I was a young gay man in the 1960s and I was successful. Kids today can make it, too; I’m sure of that.
But without Louie, I don’t think I would still be here today. I would have gotten myself in trouble for sure. We were together for over forty years, and I want to make sure you understand one thing: he wasn’t a professional wrestler, but he was much stronger than Pat Patterson ever was. He woke me up quite a few times along the way. He would tell me to speak up when things made me unhappy or uncomfortable. He was the rock in my life and I could always count on him to be there for me. As I’ve said, even today, I can only refer to him as my friend Louie. And that stings a little. We were hiding in plain sight for so long, and old habits die hard. Even though I’m out of the closet, it’s hard to talk about it with just anyone. But I know one thing for sure, deep down inside, I love Louie — and he was indeed the love of my life.
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