I listened to Vince. When he finished, I said, “Thank you very much, sir. I won’t be doing any of that stuff from the past. Thank you for the opportunity.”
For the first few months I just followed the script. Whatever the writers gave me, I executed. It took some time before my creative juices started to flow again and I could provide the writers with ideas. That’s what you have to be willing and able to do these days. It’s not enough to show up for the match and perform. You have to be figuring out ways you can contribute. It’s paid off for me to a degree I couldn’t have imagined a couple years ago. I’m clicking on all cylinders now. I’m at the top of my game and I’m having fun.
I’m enjoying helping some of the young guys. I have always been able to recognize potential. Whether it is a short conversation with a guy, or watching him work for a minute in the ring, I can tell. Some guys have it. Some guys don’t. Let me lock up with a kid in the ring one time and I can tell you whether or not he has what it takes. I’m not the only one helping out the kids, though. Everyone is pretty much on the same page. We’re all on the same team. Every-one seems willing to help, and that’s a lot different compared to the past.
Every one of those matches hurt. I’d come home beat up and Ta-rel would be furious at Sheamus. I had the same experience with Ezekiel Jackson, the last guy I worked with at that time. I was like, “Man, take it easy. I don’t know whether or not you are clear on this, but you don’t actually have to hurt me. All you have to do is make it look like you’re hurting me. That’s actually fine.” But it wasn’t their fault. These guys are young and hungry. They want to learn and I was there to teach them the ins and outs. They were stiff, that’s all. I was there to help smooth them out, which can be a physically demanding process.
Sheamus took it to the next level when he was with me. He has it and I’m not the only one who noticed. He was given an opportunity and he grabbed hold and didn’t let go. People always ask what separates the guys who get to the top from the guys who don’t get anywhere. It’s not necessarily a lack of physical ability. The character issues are more important than pure athletic skill. It’s heart, soul, and attitude. It takes all three. The guy has to be willing to work. He has to be willing to take direction. And he has to be willing to do what’s necessary once he gets inside the ring. Everything has to become second nature and very, very smooth. It has to look like a ballet. That’s how I learned to work, smooth and consistent. I’ve always been smooth in the ring because I had guys like Arn Anderson, Barry Windham, and others who taught me. I learned from true professional.
Arn, Ricky Steamboat, Bobby Eaton, Larry, and Barry—those guys did everything for me. Not only did they tell me what to do, but they told me how to do it and why it was necessary. I shut up and listened because I knew two things. First, they were great at what they did. They approached it like artisans approach their craft. They never took a night off, never mailed it in to collect a paycheck. Even when they were hurting, or were tired from an all-night car ride from the previous match, they always found a way to put on a great show. Second, they had my best interests at heart. I knew that because of how patient they were and how much time they took teaching me. They understood the importance of showing a young guy how to perform. They made me.
That’s why I try to do as much as I can with the young guys. I try to give to them what those veterans gave me early in my career.
In the end, Vince gave me another chance. I’m grateful for that opportunity. I’ll pass on every bit of knowledge I have to the next generation of guys. It’s the right thing to do. If I can do anything to help these guys get to the next level, then I’m happy to do so. I was one of those guys once.
THIRTEEN
THE BACKSIDE
These days no one ever talks about whether wrestling is real or fake. They’ll say it’s all scripted, and that’s true up to a point. But the physical abuse wrestlers take in and out of the ring is real.
A fan can be sitting in the front row a few feet away from the ring. Being slammed onto the floor might not look that bad even up close, but that’s only because we make it look easy. When we do that same move twenty or thirty times a match night after night, it’s a whole other deal. Our bodies do get used to the physical toll. We know how to land and we know how to protect ourselves. Still, there are those moments when landing the wrong way can mess up your entire world. We might jump up like nothing just happened, but the pain is real.
The average person can’t fall onto his back and pop right back up the way we do. One time? Maybe. Do that over and over again one night, then get into a car and drive six hours to another town and do it again. It takes a toll. When fans ask me what it feels like to fall onto the mat, I tell them to fall straight back onto the grass. That’s about what it feels like. The impact is enough to knock the wind out of the average person. Then, if you don’t land right you can mess up your back pretty good. Our rings have four steel poles. The outer framing is all steel. There are steel crossbeams on the floor with two-by-six wood slats all the way across. There is quarter-inch plywood on top of that. Then there is a thin canvas that is pulled down and strapped tight. Basically, that’s the ring. The give is not as much as you’d think, especially when you take a bump toward the outside edges. If I get slammed by Ezekiel or Vladimir Kozlov, I have lightning bolts shooting down my body. It’s a big joke once we get behind the curtain, but sometimes my fingers go numb when I hit the floor.
Some of these young guys come in going one hundred miles an hour because they think it’s going to be so easy. They’re big and strong. They’re in good shape. But if they do get pushed, you can see them start to slow down because they begin to realize that speed isn’t the point. A great show is about what we give to the people. It’s about entertaining each and every person in the audience. If I punch a guy in a real fight, then he’s going to be hurt. If I’m being punched in the ring, then the reaction on my face better sell that pain. That’s why I love to watch Randy Orton. His theatrics—all the movements and facials—are probably the best around right now. A lot of guys can learn from watching Randy work.
Even hitting the ropes requires knowledge and finesse. Anybody who gets into the ring has to learn how to hit the ropes. You have to know how to plant your foot to give a move or take a move so that you don’t blow out your knee. You have to know how to land on the mat with the theatrics of a stunt man. Big guys don’t come off the top very often, but to this day I am amazed when I see it. Kane comes off the top rope with clotheslines and even I think, “How the hell does he do that without hurting himself?” Of course, the answer is that sometimes he does hurt himself. Kane knows how to roll, how to come off with that flying cow and still bounce back up. When he executes that move it’s like I see it in slow motion, which is why I call it a flying cow. But don’t think it doesn’t hurt.
In 1998 I broke all the metacarpal bones across the top of my left hand giving Road Dog a bulldog near the end of the match in Utica, New York. It’s a move I’ve done a million times, but on that night I landed with my hand backward. All it takes is a wrong move, or missing a fall by a couple inches. I had gloves on and I could feel my hand start to blow up inside the glove. I still had a few shots to give him, and he still had a few for me. I grabbed my hand after every one of them. Everything he gave me hurt my hand. It didn’t matter where he hit me—the pain came straight out of my hand.
All of us deal with day-to-day pain of one degree or another. It’s not necessarily any one shot, though it’s certainly possible to tear up a knee or shred a muscle on any given night. Rather it’s the day-to-day beating your body takes in the ring. Then there’s the travel, which can be exhausting and most of the time is far from luxurious or exciting. It’s hard for the average fan to appreciate the grueling preparation and logistics that go into a typical three- or four-day stretch on the road.
Here’s a typical trip out west, one that I actually did in early 2010. I woke up Friday morning at four thirty, threw on m
y clothes, and drove fifteen to twenty minutes to the Gainesville airport. I always get to the airport early. There is no room for people who can’t be counted on to arrive when they are supposed to. I don’t check any bags unless I’m going on a long loop of at least a week or more. I checked in, got through security, and the plane took off at six fifty-five. By the time I got on the plane, I had been up for about two and half hours. Flying anywhere from Gainesville means a connection either through Atlanta or Charlotte, depending on the airline. I usually fly Delta, which takes me through Atlanta, which by itself can make for a long day. Sometimes I have to walk or run nearly a mile to reach my connection.
Then it was five hours on the plane to San Francisco. I didn’t have enough mileage for an upgrade to first class, so I dragged my six-foot-four, 235-pound body back into coach. I arrived in San Francisco about one p.m. local time. On this trip, I was traveling with Kane. His flight was an hour late, so I spent that time hanging around the airport. Once he arrived, we went down to the rental car counter, arranged for a car, then drove 150 miles to the show. All the travel left no time to work out, so we drove directly to the arena. If it’s a seven thirty show, we have to be in the arena no later than six thirty. I have to get dressed and paint up, which takes fifteen to twenty minutes. There isn’t a makeup artist waiting for me. I have painted my own face from day one. I work on different designs all the time, so it takes time to get it just right.
By the time the show started, I’d been in three airports, driven 150 miles, and been awake for eighteen hours. Then I went to work. A show lasts two to three hours, depending upon the venue. When it was over, Kane and I packed up and headed back to the rental car. We had another 280-mile drive to the next city because we had a Saturday afternoon show. For the most part we are responsible for our expenses, which means we don’t rent the best car and we certainly don’t stay in the nicest hotel. I try to stay in Red Roof Inns or a La Quinta because they are cheap and the quality is pretty consistent. We pay for everything outside of airfare. Food, gas, hotel rooms, rental cars—it all comes out of our pockets.
By the time I got into bed that first night in California, I had been traveling and working for more than twenty-five hours. We checked in around three a.m., which was six a.m. East Coast time. I slept until around nine, then got up and found a gym so I could train before that day’s show. Then it was a quick bite to eat and off to the arena for a three p.m. show. Around five or six we were back in the rental car for another 250-mile drive to the next city for a Sunday afternoon show.
For the first time since Thursday night, I got a pretty good night’s sleep. The drive was only four or five hours, so we were in the hotel by ten. Sunday’s schedule was the same as Saturday’s, so it was up at nine, find a gym, grab some food, and head to the arena. The schedule was the same once the show ended, too, only this time we had a 450-mile drive. Since we were off on Monday, we split the trip in half. We drove for roughly four hours, found a hotel, and got a pretty good night’s sleep. We finished off the second half of the drive on Monday, which is the first time since the trip started that we had time to relax a little bit. We still had four hours in the car, but we were in our hotel by the middle of the afternoon. We had time to get a nice meal. We didn’t have to rush through a workout.
Tuesday was a television show, so the call time was early. We had to be at the arena by noon. The show didn’t start for seven hours, but our day was filled up with pretaping for the show, photo shoots for the magazine, interviews, rehearsal, and all kinds of stuff. By the time the show ended, we’d been in the arena for at least ten hours. In California, particularly if we are near Los Angeles or San Francisco, there’s still a chance to make the red-eye back east. It’s a good news–bad news situation, though. If we do make the red-eye, then it’s a race to the airport. I still have to connect through Atlanta, then drive home once I get to Gainesville. Just like the front end of the trip, the back end can result in at least a twenty-hour day. If I don’t make the red-eye, then one of my two days off is spent traveling. The Delta flight to Gainesville leaves at six twenty a.m. and doesn’t put me into Gainesville until after four p.m. To catch that flight I have to find a hotel Tuesday night. Depending on where we are, I probably don’t get into bed until at least midnight. Then I’m back up at four a.m. so I can get to the airport with enough time to drop off the rental car, get through security, and make the flight.
By the time the four-day swing is over, I’ve been in at least four different airports, flown for twelve hours or more, and driven close to one thousand miles. I crash at home Wednesday night, spend Thursday trying to recover and pack up so I can do it all over again at the break of dawn on Friday or Saturday. And that’s a pretty easy schedule. I’ve had days where there are three hundred miles between shows, followed by a 450-mile ride to the next one. I’ll do that 280 to 300 days a year at this point in my career. There were some years when I was younger that I spent far more than three hundred days on the road.
Vince gives everybody the opportunity to work more and as a result make more money. It’s up to us. If you don’t take advantage of the opportunities that are presented to you, then you run the risk of getting stuck in one place and not advancing as fast or as far as you might like. It’s all about personal responsibility. If you want the action, you have the chance to find it. But you have to make that move. No one else can do it for you. Back when I was younger, I complained about everything and I was making good money. It’s no wonder they fired me for the stupid stuff I pulled. I wasn’t being a reliable employee. In those days, I didn’t recognize that I had the world in my hands. More than once, Vince gave me a great opportunity and I wasn’t seeing clearly enough to recognize it. Now I do. I step up to the plate in every way I can. The result? A lot is happening and it’s all good. I am getting my body into great shape. I’m doing really good work on television and everyone is taking notice. Vince knows. I come up with ideas. I give ideas. I’m patient in a way I never was when I was younger. I’m a living example that if you do those things, then good things will happen. And good things are happening to me. I’m happy with my job. I love this form of entertainment and it shows in my work.
I’ll be honest, my body hurts. My lower back, left shoulder, and knees are sore all the time. It might look like we’re walking just fine, but most people have no idea of the actual pain most guys live with. I’m living off Advil, which is a huge change for me compared to what I had been doing. But I’m living and working clean. Yes, I’m injured in more ways than anyone realizes, but I can’t lie around and whine about it. I have to keep moving. I have to keep going to the gym every day because the work I do there keeps my joints loose and helps me avoid injury. Kane and I might get out of the car like a couple of grumpy old men, like Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon. But we know how to turn it on when it’s time to walk through that curtain. I get in that zone. I don’t feel anything when it’s time to perform.
Thankfully I never had any interest in steroids or anything like that. I always felt like I was big enough. The look that’s in now is healthy and fit. Guys aren’t jacked up and bulky anymore. Now they’re in good, solid physical condition.
I’m not taking anything away from the old-school wrestlers who came up with my father, but those guys took a different kind of abuse than we do today. Everything is so fast paced and the falls are more dangerous today. Even after nearly fifty years in the ring, my dad doesn’t have the kind of back problems Cody and I do. Those guys understood how to take a crowd and hold on to it sometimes for an hour. They were truly performing artists. These days you have to be a bionic man. Keep in mind, back then not all of those worked out. There were a few who trained and took it seriously, but most of the old-school wrestlers weren’t going into the gym every day. Dad didn’t work out. He knew how to work and he had charisma. It wasn’t like he went to the gym and did body building every day. He was one of the few who had that giant body.
Today everybody is in shape. If you ne
ed to lose a few pounds, no one is afraid to tell you. You either do it or you’re gone. We’re all on television every week. You have to look good, but the way we wrestle today is so physically demanding that you can’t afford not to be in shape. It’s go, go, go all the time. It’s still great, though, and that’s what matters.
FOURTEEN
THE NEXT GENERATION
All in the family: My brother, Cody Rhodes.
I don’t remember a whole lot about the day my brother, Cody, was born. I was seventeen years old and doing all the things a kid that age does—mostly chasing girls and playing sports. In other words, I wasn’t changing diapers and babysitting a newborn even if he was my little brother. It’s one of those things in life where your memory of it all comes in flashes of individual moments. I wasn’t around much during Cody’s younger years. I was out on the road trying to find my place in the family business and to one degree or another following our father around.
As Cody grew older, though, I remember him being adamant about staying away from wrestling. He wanted no part of it. He enjoyed seeing his brother perform and I know he was proud of what our dad accomplished, but Cody had seen the whole show from a different vantage point. When I was growing up, all I wanted to do was be near my dad. I wanted nothing more than to be a part of his life. If it meant leaving my mother and sister, moving across the country in the middle of high school, no problem. All I saw was the glamour of it all, bigger-than-life wrestlers like my dad and those hot bright lights shining down on the ring while fans screamed and cheered. I knew it was tough on my dad. Hell, it had been tough on me with him traveling all the time. Still, I never wanted to do anything else.
Cross Rhodes: Goldust, Out of the Darkness (WWE) Page 10