Dusty: Reflections of Wrestling's American Dream

by Dusty Rhodes

  Anyway, I guess I was getting cockier with time, and about the second or third time I wrestled Nick Kozak, I was pretty stiff, very stiff. I went to my room at the Alamo Plaza Hotel in El Paso, and while Jerry Kozak and I were down in old Mexico, Nick and his dad bought a whole sack of potatoes and spread them out in my bed and didn’t realize it until I laid down. Nick and Jerry were two brothers I really liked.

  I made $17,000 in my rookie year, and it’s been a long, hard road since then. But all that would change soon enough. It wouldn’t happen for a couple of years yet, but there was going to be an explosion on the wrestling scene in the form of an American Dream.

  By the way, remember that little gas station I talked about earlier? Well, later that year I went back to that same gas station and the same guy was there, the same attendant was working; the guy who gave me $9 worth of gas. Now, he didn’t remember who the fuck I was, but that didn’t matter because I remembered what he did for me. So I gave him $50.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Dusty Rhodes … you make me want to puke! You’re an apathetic, sympathetic, diabetic, egg-sucking dog.”

  —TERRY FUNK, FLORIDA TV INTERVIEW, CIRCA 1977

  Dusty Rhodes and the Funk family have a tattered history all their own. There was the old man, Dory Funk Sr. and the great technician, Dory Funk Jr. But in my mind, none was better than the consummate athlete, Terry Funk.

  For more than 30 years it’s been “The American Dream,” Dusty Rhodes versus that Texas rattlesnake, Terry Funk; two warriors who are still going strong but grew up together in an industry that kicked lesser men to the curb.

  Some people have asked me why that feud continues to be talked about today after so many years. Why has it endured … survived the test of time when other feuds have long been forgotten?

  While others may have their opinions, their ideas, and their take on it, if you will, I have mine. Believability and respect for the business.

  Believability and respect are two of the main ingredients in professional wrestling that are sorely missing today.

  Believability and respect.

  Their whole family was tough. I was 19 years old doing one of my first tours of the Amarillo promotion and I was to meet Dory Funk Sr. for the Western States Heavyweight title on a Thursday night. Holy shit, that was big!

  I went out and cut what I thought was a hell of a promo about me kicking his ass and I called him “Old Man Funk.” As I passed him in the hallway afterward expecting to hear him say, “Great promo,” he said, “Kid, be careful who you call old man, ‘cause how are you going to look Thursday night when this old man kicks your ass?”

  Well, Thursday night rolled around and sure enough the old man beat “Dirty” Dusty Rhodes in two straight falls. That’s promotion!

  Dory Jr. was a bit different than either his old man or his brother. His dad and brother were known more as kick-ass wrestlers, brawlers if you will, but guys who could bring it. “Junior,” however, was a great NWA World Champion by working the mat. He drew a lot of money working that old-school style with those uppercut forearms and the dreaded spinning toe hold.

  Dory and I aren’t close these days, but I have all the respect in the world for him. He knows the industry, and if you have a kid who wants to learn about the business, I would make sure that in some way, shape, or form, he passes through Dory’s door, because of the knowledge he has.

  A lot of people in the business sometimes thought Dory was stupid because of the way he would carry himself or he was softspoken. That’s not the case. He is far more intelligent about the business and about life than they gave him credit for. Now if he wants to appear stupid to some people and have someone else do the talking for him, then that’s okay … that’s his business. But me knowing him, it’s not so. I think that he’s just one of those who still lives in the world of believability and respect. And when you have that, it’s the real deal, buddy … you want to be in the business? You will have to battle, claw, scream, holler, and scratch … whatever it is, it becomes the real deal.

  As far as matches between Dory and me, there are not any significant ones that I could pick out. Okay, so a match goes 60 or 90 minutes in Fort Lauderdale, or Miami, or wherever. … Terry and I got it done in 10 minutes.

  Not a knock, because those kind of matches have a place in our business every once in a while. Something like that is more suited for Dory and Jack Brisco.

  But that’s why Terry was a different story than his brother or even the old man, to me, anyway. And it’s not like I’m pulling numbers out of my ass. Dory and I really did 60 minutes in Miami, and the very next night Terry and I did 10 in West Palm Beach.

  I honestly cannot tell you what happened in the match with Dory that was different than any other time I wrestled Dory, but I do remember vividly the one with Terry being near riotous.

  Terry went and took a handful of wooden coffee stirrers from the concession stand and hid them in his trunks. Throughout the match he would use them, and eventually I was opened up to where my face was a crimson mask from the blood. The people were going crazy as he kept hiding them from the referee. Finally the ref caught him, and the wooden sticks went flying everywhere, up in the air, everywhere. While the referee was distracted picking them up and kicking them out of the ring, Terry had one left on the other side of his trunks and used it on me. It was great psychology.

  But still I think that Dory belongs on a list of those who deserve respect and honor … and while I always kidded him, I never defamed him because of who he is and what he’s done in the pre-yellow finger era.

  Yellow finger?

  Before talking more about Terry, let me explain what the yellow finger is.

  I always thought there was an invisible line drawn in our business that I refer to as the yellow finger. This line, if you will, divided the pre-merchandise era and the time when they started selling these big number-one foam fingers at the arenas. And who was the biggest yellow finger of them all? Hulk Hogan.

  We all set there?

  Getting back to Terry, I always looked up to him because he played football at West Texas State and so did I. He and his family ran the wrestling in town that I would go watch; kind of like how yellow finger looked up to me—although he may not admit it—when he would go to the Tampa Armory to see and learn from me before he got into the business. Later on when I was established as “The American Dream,” Terry would come to Florida and talk some shit about me quitting the team because I was behind him, but that was just part of the fun.

  “I always claimed Dusty quit the football team because he was behind me as a second-string guard. That wasn’t true. He was a hell of a ballplayer … a hell of an athlete … a good linebacker. People don’t know it, but he was a tough, hard-nose, damned good athlete.”

  —TERRY FUNK

  Terry was always unorthodox. He was one of those workers who really thought he was a hooker and a shooter … like yellow finger, like Hogan. They think they’re hookers and shooters, but they have a great wall of imagination. They just had that Dick Murdoch or Wahoo McDaniel mentality—except Wahoo could be mean—that wrestlers should be respected whether they deserved it or not.

  Terry has a respect for the business like nobody I have ever met besides myself and a few other people like Dick or Wahoo.

  To this day, at 63 years old or however old he really is, Terry believes it’s real. Walking out through that curtain when his name is called, it’s believable at that point because he does things for his love of the business that people who are younger than him shouldn’t even be doing. But that’s what he knows and that’s how we took care of business. We would feud to the point of real stitches … 12 or 14 stitches, and ribs really being broken. When he would hit you with a chair, it wasn’t like on the flat side. That son of a bitch would either throw it at you or he’d hit you with the jagged part of it. It didn’t make a fuck of a difference to him, because in the ring he was always in a barroom fight!

  I was on the stage si
nging at the Imperial Lounge in Tampa one night with my good friend Captain Lewis, and he crawled through the club on his hands and knees, going between people’s legs from the back door to the stage to come after me. Earlier that night we had a brutal, brutal match. Once he made it to the stage, he threw a drink in my face. I didn’t see it coming and I leaped up and we fought all the way to and out the back door. He just thought that was the greatest thing in the world, and it was funnier than shit because he believed that … and so that believability carried to the people. And that believability to this day is not carried longer by anybody besides me, the Devil—Kevin Sullivan—and probably Terry, because he’s been in it his entire life.

  As far as he and I are concerned, I believe it’s still a feud that people will pay to see; these two old gunfighters going at it.

  Some of the Texas Death Matches we had are still talked about, historic if you will. So you know the feud with him is still going on … the hatred between us is still strong. We’re not shooters, we’re not hookers, we’re just two sons of bitches who want to kick each other’s ass every time we see each other.

  Two old warriors beating the fuck out of each other at some independent show in front of hundreds of people going crazy— it doesn’t get any better than that. Buddy, there is no gray area here—this is fucking me and him kicking each other’s ass in front of hundreds of people and getting the crowd into it. That’s a great match!

  Longevity is Terry’s thing, and I don’t know any better way of explaining it than the time he picked up a roll of barbed wire and threw it at me. People know those big rolls weigh about 15 to 20 pounds, and he just threw it at me and hit me in the arm with it—just threw it at me. I was looking the other way and turned around and I was thinking, “This stupid motherfucker!” Well, when shit like that happens, you get so mad you start hitting him fucking hard with whatever you can grab. You’re so mad your eyes are shut as you’re hitting him and the brutality about it threw us together with great respect for each other.

  We have a tremendous amount of respect for each other because we still—and I won’t even say the word—we still believe it’s real while others don’t … that’s what makes it great! What you would call an angle or a great feud or whatever, but we can’t talk about our ending because it’s still going on.

  But let me tell you how crazy Terry Funk really is.

  He would go down to the airport while I would be there and he would walk behind me without me knowing it. As he was following me, he would scream “Fatso!” then he’d hide behind somebody or in a corner so when I would turn around, I didn’t see anybody. I’d walk about five more feet and he would yell as loud as he could, “Fatso!” So I would turn around again and look back and I still didn’t see him. But then I would hear him so I would ask him later on, “What were you doing at the fucking airport calling me, ‘Fatso?’”

  He’d say, “No, I was saying to somebody walking with me, ‘Is that so?!’”

  “What do you mean, ‘Is that so?’”

  He’d look right at me and say, “You just took it wrong … that’s why we don’t like each other.” And then he’d walk away.

  That was his mentality.

  We had a lot of fun together, buddy.

  Dr. Jerry Graham was a huge star going all the way back to the 1950s with his tag-team partner Eddie Graham. Their team was legendary and they wrestled as brothers, although they weren’t related. But by the time I came in contact with him, he had become a full-fledged out-of-his-mind motherfucker.

  What I am about to recount is the God’s honest truth. This is the story of one legendary week in the Amarillo territory.

  On Sunday, we left Amarillo and headed to Albuquerque early because we had a long haul to show up before the night matches. At that time Terry and I traveled together—running with the boss’s son couldn’t hurt! As we finished television and went to the show at the Civic Center, Dr. Jerry was already working his magic.

  I don’t remember who Doc rode with, but he was to manage me as I would be facing the greatest Latin babyface and pro wrestler in the world, Jose Lothario. It was a good house, paid attendance-wise. I think Terry was wrestling some star like Bull Ramos.

  Anyway, I got my ass handed to me by Jose, and he got the win, lucky bastard! After the match, as I laid spread out on the mat like a fucking bear rug, Doc jumped in the ring and had me open my mouth. He put three pills down my throat before I could say no. It had happened. He looked at me and said. …

  I didn’t know what he said or what the pills were. Shit, those pills could have been LSD or even poison. Well, as I got back to the dressing room I was scared, but I was also pissed at him. To this day I respect the men and women in our industry who kept me from saying anything about it.

  Then the real fun began with the drive from Albuquerque to El Paso; a long trip. Terry told Dory Sr. that no one wanted to take him, so the old man said we had to take him. I said, “Let Harley [Race] take him. He was the booker. Shit!”

  Harley said it would be fun. Fun?!

  We loaded up the green Pontiac Grand Prix and hit the road.

  You have to understand that back then there were some back roads we took to get from Albuquerque to El Paso that were right out of the movies: dirt roads, little cantinas, rattlesnakes, bad-ass hombres and federales along the way.

  At our first beer stop, Dr. Jerry, who had gotten a $100 draw for the week, said that he would go in and get the beer. He said he needed the money, so we gave him money for a dozen beers. This first cantina we all stopped at had everything but a hose and horse trough standing out front! After about 10 minutes he finally came out and said they didn’t serve anything but hard liquor! What the fuck was that about?

  Anyway, Jerry jumped back in the backseat and we drove off. We were getting thirsty. We found another cantina about 10 miles down the road. As we pulled in, Dr. Jerry said, “I got it,” and without thinking, us dumb fucks gave him money again.

  This time I think we waited about 15 minutes before he came out. His arms had no vitality to them. He got in the car and said, “Hard drinks only.” Well, as we left, something was adrift because he could barely talk and he was just wobbling as he walked!

  We came to a third place and we still weren’t even really on the road yet. The lot we pulled into where the cantina was had a big flashing sign saying “Cold Beer!” All right! As I was about to go in, Dr. Jerry had climbed his big fat ass out of the backseat and was on his way in. Terry and I just looked at each other. Okay, something’s going on here.

  Well, after about five minutes and no sign of him, we both headed in. As we opened the door—I loved it so much, I am thinking about going back to Mexico right now—the scene was right out of a movie. There was the good doctor, a Sidney Greenstreet lookalike, holding court in the corner of the bar.

  As he saw us, he quickly came over and said he owed for the beer, and it was getting expensive as me and Funk hit our pockets again. Apparently the son of a bitch was drinking as much of the hard stuff as he could at every stop, spending all our money and coming out with no beer. After about four beers it was time to hit the road. Terry and I laughed a long time about it as our green steed headed through the night. It was on to El Paso and old Mexico … oh, shit!

  It was early Monday morning as we got into town. The Alamo Plaza Hotel was our headquarters for this stay. As we pulled in we could see Harley’s big silver Lincoln Continental was already there. Dr. Jerry was out of money so Terry woke Dog—Harley—up and got money to check the big man in. Sleep finally came.

  Dog had given him $100. With his $100 from the night before gone, he had hit Terry and me for about $40 and now he had another $100; $240 total by my calculation. Here I only made about $200 for the whole week.

  After Dog had got up, he saw Jerry and told him to clean up. Jerry came on the trip with one suit. Yes, one suit; one of those old-time suits with the big shoulder pads in it. He looked like he weighed about 100 pounds in it to the boys.

>   It was match time, and once again it was “Dirty” Dusty Rhodes versus Jose Lothario, and buddy, this was Jose’s town! If it even looked as if you were hurting him, you would have a full-fledged riot on your hands!

  Dr. Jerry was to go to the ring with me. The federales hated me. Jerry was nuts, and I was young. But, fuck it, he was my manager. Much like Jim Cornette years later, who carried a tennis raquet, Dr. Jerry Graham carried an umbrella. Unbeknownst to anyone, however, during the day he had gone out and bought an electric cattle prod that fit in his umbrella.

  For those of you who don’t know, these things take four big “D” cell batteries and are used to move along 2,000-pound bulls and cows. During the match, as I was working over Jose, I saw a fan go flying through the air. The next thing I knew, the ring began to fill up with fans and police as Jerry used his umbrella like Errol Flynn would use a sword as a fight movie unfolded in front of me. As I fought off the fans, the dressing room emptied and all of the wrestlers jumped in to help. A riot with about 60 people was in full swing! No one would get in front of Jerry because he had the weapon, of course, loaded in the umbrella.

  The police got us back to the dressing room, and the police captain was out of his mind. He pulled out his gun and started to shake. Man, I thought, “Shit, he is going to shoot me!”

  All of a sudden a calming voice filled the room. Of all people, it was Dr. Jerry.

  “Sir,” he said so calm and straight, “we are sorry. …” Doc told the captain that I was young and he would sit me down and talk to me about respect for the El Paso Police Department. The captain bought it.

  He put his gun away and left.

  I asked myself, “What the fuck is going on?” As I went for Jerry—I wanted to beat his ass—Terry and Harley jumped in and cut me off.