by Lex Luger
Matsuda made an unexpected but generous offer: he would be my ringside manager for the night. Actually, it was more than generous—Matsuda never went to matches. The fact that he was going to be there, in my corner, was astounding. It was a huge confidence booster for me. Besides, I thought, if I get lost out there, he could help me, either outside or inside the ring.
I won’t lie; I had butterflies. But I also had an enormous amount of confidence and was focused on making Matsuda proud. As I walked out of the locker room and made my way to the ring, the crowd noise was starting to rise. Everything was a new experience for me. I had no idea what to expect. And from the looks on the fans’ faces when they saw me, neither did they.
They gawked and pointed, they whispered to each other, and they screamed at me. I saw a lot of mouths dropping open. When I got in the ring and tore my precut tank top off, the roar reverberated off the walls.
As I slowly turned and looked at the crowd, I noticed two young women sitting in the front row. “Oh my gosh!” one screamed. “Now that’s a man!” Her eyes bulged out like a cartoon character’s, so much so I was almost afraid they’d fall out. When her girlfriend let out a piercing scream, the guy between them held his ears and laughed uproariously.
There was a lot on the line for me. I didn’t want to mess anything up in front of Matsuda or embarrass myself or disappoint the fans. Interestingly enough, the locker room had emptied out when I left to make my entrance. The other wrestlers on the card were backstage, lining the curtain, eager to watch the match. None of them had ever seen me work before. They wanted to see what I had and how the crowd reacted to me. I could only imagine what they were thinking. Can this guy even put one foot in front of the other? Does he have any ring skills? Will his performance be halfway decent?
The ten-minute match flew by and was pretty much a blur to me, although I thought things went reasonably well. I certainly was glad for Cocoa Samoa leading me through the match.
After my debut, Matsuda and I stayed a little longer at the Ocean Center to watch a few more matches before heading home. I would collect my paycheck for a hundred bucks later. My immediate gratification had come when my match ended: Matsuda was smiling.
Before we got on the highway to drive back to Tampa, Matsuda asked me to stop at a convenience store. He was gone for a few minutes, then returned with two six-packs for him and a Gatorade for me. Beer? I’m sure the expression on my face was priceless. I didn’t know that Matsuda even drank! Besides, he’s Japanese. Don’t they drink saki? Matsuda was in a festive mood. For the rest of the journey, he went over the good things I’d done, pointed out what I needed to work on, and discussed other matches on the card. He talked about what life as a wrestler was like from his own experience and cautioned me about maintaining a fire wall between my family and my profession. He had done extremely well in achieving that, a rarity in the wrestling world. Essentially, he was explaining how to succeed in the business and was preparing me for a career. “Your talent will prevail,” he told me. He had never talked as much as he did on that trip. I was grateful for the advice.
I was getting more television exposure after my debut in Daytona. The great thing about pro wrestling is that it is so fan driven; they might not be writing the scripts, but they definitely determine who the stars are going to be. And it seemed that I was one of their favorites.
On November 19, 1985, just weeks after my debut, a decision was made that would ignite my career: I would face Wahoo McDaniel for the prestigious NWA Southern Heavyweight Championship. I’m sure that Matsuda emphasized to the promoters that they needed to roll with me fast. He knew that fans craved seeing something out of the ordinary in the ring, someone that they didn’t see every day on the streets. My cut physique fit that description. But it was still highly unusual to have a relatively unknown wrestler prepped for a championship so quickly.
McDaniel was a former NFL star who had become a legend on the professional wrestling circuit. Wearing his authentic Native American headdress (he was Choctaw-Chickasaw), Wahoo had already been wrestling for over twenty years. In addition to his storied career in the ring, he also served as the booker for Championship Wrestling from Florida—he developed and approved all the story lines we wrestlers were asked to play out. Wahoo was always friendly to me, but because he was busy with administrative duties, he didn’t have time to offer me any technical advice.
Wrestlers usually had little if any say in the story line, although we sometimes talked in advance in the locker room about how things were supposed to play out in the ring. Sometimes we’d rehearse the moves in advance, but usually it was just a matter of communicating to one another in the ring, working together to make the match as realistic as possible.
I’m not sure that Wahoo was particularly keen on the idea of wrestling me at first, especially since I was so green.
“What am I supposed to do?” he asked Matsuda.
“C’mon, you can have a good match,” Matsuda challenged the veteran. “You don’t think you can lead him through it convincingly?”
I guess no wrestler can walk away from a challenge. Everything went as planned. When I took the Southern Heavyweight Championship belt from Wahoo McDaniel, things began to change rapidly. But that wasn’t the only change in my life.
In the spring of 1985, Peggy had announced she was pregnant, so we were eagerly anticipating our first baby at the end of January. As we watched the televised New Year’s Eve celebration and countdown from Times Square, we toasted each other and our coming baby with sparkling apple juice and snacks of shrimp cocktails and pizza.
At 12:30 a.m., Peggy disappeared into the bathroom. When she had been in there for a while, I called out, “You okay?”
At first, there was no answer. Then she said, “I think my water just broke.”
“What does that mean?”
“I think we need to go to the hospital.”
Our firstborn wasn’t due until January 24. We weren’t ready. We hadn’t packed a bag for Peggy yet. It was on our to-do list for New Year’s Day morning. The doctor had told us all along that there was no hurry; we could wait until three weeks before the baby’s due date.
So much for that plan.
I took a deep breath, calmed myself down, checked on Peggy, and tossed a few things into a bag for her. I was more excitable than she was, but if I appeared nervous, Peggy would be nervous. It was raining and dreary; we arrived at Tampa General Hospital around 2 a.m. It wasn’t an easy delivery, but Peggy insisted on doing it without an epidural. I stayed by her side and tried to remember everything we had learned in the childbirth classes.
The first time the doctor left the room, I said to the nurse, “Isn’t he supposed to be here?” He’d come back, and then he’d leave again. I wasn’t too happy with his comings and goings; I wanted him to stay put. But then I’d focus on Peggy, who was incredibly brave and strong through the whole process. Finally, at one o’clock in the afternoon, Brian announced his arrival with a healthy cry.
It was the greatest sound I had ever heard in my life. Brian was long and gangly with big hands and big feet, obviously taking after me. When the nurse placed my son in my arms, I was relieved and excited. For the next three days, I was on such a joyful high that I didn’t sleep a wink and spent as much time as I could with Peggy and Brian. Family and friends stayed with her when I left to go to a match, but I hurried back as quickly as possible. Like my dad had done for my mom and us kids, I wanted to provide well for my family.
When Peggy and Brian came home from the hospital, we established a routine: I’d take care of Brian when I got back from a late-night match so Peggy could grab some sleep. After a few weeks, it was second nature for me to come home, warm a bottle of milk in the microwave, test a drop on the back of my wrist to make sure it wasn’t too hot, then get comfortable in the rocking chair with Brian. As he lay quietly in my arms, his eyes never left mine. For a half hour or so, we’d rock, and I would describe the night’s match to him until he fe
ll asleep. Those precious moments with my son are some of my most treasured memories.
Over the next year I would see a lot of Florida—at least the inside of wrestling venues—since I was working pretty much every night. Wednesday was always the longest day because we’d do our TV taping for Saturday’s show, film all of our interviews for the specific individual markets, then hop in the car to drive to Miami or another city for a match, and finally return to Tampa. I usually didn’t arrive home until about 4 a.m., but at least I was home every night. I’d spend time with Brian, catch a few hours of sleep, then head to Rick Poston’s gym for an early workout.
Rick was an accomplished professional bodybuilder and former Mr. America who had been helping me transition my workouts from being football-focused to wrestling-oriented. He knew how to build muscle mass. Not surprisingly, when I approached him about steroids, he told me how bodybuilders used them, as did elite athletes in other sports. Most of his gym’s clientele were serious athletes, so Rick was a knowledgeable resource. In the couple of years that I had been using steroids, I had approached them scientifically, researching what was available and monitoring my body’s reaction carefully. I had heeded the advice regarding the importance of clearance: eight weeks on, eight weeks off; twelve weeks on, twelve weeks off. It was critical to give my body time to rebound. Matsuda probably knew I was taking something; but I never discussed my usage with him, and he never asked.
As my popularity began to rise, my salary increased to a main-event level, about $1,000 to $1,500 per week. I was beginning to be noticed outside of Florida, too, by various NWA territory rivals, including Jim Crockett Promotions of Charlotte, North Carolina. When one of Crockett’s stars, NWA world champion “Nature Boy” Ric Flair, came to Tampa for a series of regional matches, I was one of several wrestlers over several nights scheduled in the ring. It was a boost to any region when a world champion came to town because a star billing filled the house. Flair was flamboyant, smooth-talkin’, and the star of NWA pro wrestling—and I was facing him for the first time.
We were slated for a “broadway,” a time-limit draw; in this case, an hour-long match. I learned what the plan was just minutes before I left the locker room. An hour-long match? The longest I had been in the ring prior to this had been ten or eleven minutes—max. I was nervous and a little worried.
In the midst of the match, Flair told me to use a sunset flip on him. A sunset flip? Even though it was one of the most basic moves in the sport, I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. There was a momentary look of disbelief on his face, then he got to work. For the next hour, Flair carried me. But here’s the thing about Ric Flair: no matter what an opponent’s skill level, he can make the guy look like a million bucks—he was that proficient. I was relieved when it was over and extremely appreciative to Ric for what he had done.
Afterward, when I was in the locker room, I overheard him talking to my promoters. “You’ve got an incredible talent here, and the crowd’s really reacting to him. You need to bring him along and start teaching him more moves. This guy is going to be big!”
Obviously, my popularity with the fans wasn’t based on an endless repertoire of skills. They were eating up “the look.” I had relied on what Matsuda kept emphasizing as my “gift.” “Always show your body, and don’t try to do what the other wrestlers do. Stick to the basics and show your body. That’s what people are going to pay to see.”
But I had to ask him about what I had overheard Flair say. Was it important for me to learn a lot of new moves in the ring?
Matsuda wasn’t worried about me. “Some of these things you need to know, some you don’t. You’ll learn over time.”
In 1986 I was named Rookie of the Year by Pro Wrestling Illustrated, gracing the cover of its Inside Wrestling magazine—one of countless covers I would be featured on with various wrestling publications over the years.
My education in wrestling had only begun. For instance, I didn’t even know the difference between the WWF (World Wrestling Federation) and the NWA (National Wrestling Alliance), other than the first one was headed up by Vince McMahon and the other by Jim Crockett and other promoters throughout the country, including the one I worked for. I certainly didn’t realize how deep the rivalry was between those top two organizations. I didn’t have time to get into the history or the business of things. Wrestling kept me busy enough. I knew who Ric Flair was and that he was the marquee member of the NWA’s Four Horsemen, but I had no idea who the other Horsemen were or what they looked like.
I wrestled Flair a few more times after that memorable broadway. Flair continued to be high on my potential and obviously was talking me up to Crockett. Toward the end of the year, Crockett called.
“We’d like to bring you up to Atlanta and put you on our Saturday night TV show.”
That Saturday night show, World Championship Wrestling (later known as WCW Saturday Night), was filmed at the old Techwood Studios on 14th Street and was aired on Ted Turner’s superstation WTBS. It would be my first time wrestling outside of Florida and would mean national TV exposure to wrestling fans. Crockett wasn’t making me any offers or promises. He just wanted to see me in person.
I was certainly excited, and even more so when some of my fellow wrestlers said what a big deal it was to be given the opportunity.
Matsuda seemed guardedly happy for me. He never actually said so, but I knew he was probably concerned about Crockett’s intentions—and the real possibility that if I went, I’d be gone for good.
For the next few weeks, I’d fly up to Atlanta on Saturday mornings for the show, then return to Florida for an evening card and wrestle throughout the rest of the week. I was still employed by Championship Wrestling from Florida. But after my premiere in Atlanta, the story line of the Four Horsemen was about to undergo a plot twist.
As soon as Jim Crockett and the bookers saw me in person for the first time, they began creating a new Four Horsemen story line that would include me.
The Horsemen were Ric Flair, Arn and Ole Anderson, and Tully Blanchard, with manager J. J. Dillon. The group had formed in June 1986, pulling together a team of heels with incredible individual talent. Flair was reigning world heavyweight champion, the Andersons (not related in real life) from the Minnesota Wrecking Crew had been world tag-team champions, and Blanchard had the NWA world television champion title.
The new story line centered around Ole Anderson taking time off to watch his son compete in high school wrestling. His devotion to his real family rather than his Horsemen family infuriated the others. Ric, Arn, and Tully didn’t like Ole’s “snot-nosed kid” who was interfering with business, and Ole’s loyalty to the group came into question.
Against this developing story, I was just wrestling whoever Crockett threw into the ring with me. The goal was to give me the most TV exposure and build up my fan base. Ric already knew what I could do, but J. J., Arn, and Tully had to see for themselves. They began scouting my matches with keen interest.
It wasn’t long before I became part of the story, brought into the fold as an “associate,” with Ric making my on-screen introduction: “He can wrestle. He’s got style and profile. He’s got class.” Weeks later, Ole’s days as a Horseman came to an end with a group beat-down, before we threw him into a broom closet.
I was no longer an associate: I was one of the Four Horsemen. Everything about me was about to get a makeover.
When you become a part of wrestling royalty, you need to look and act the part. Jim Crockett Promotions’s main booker and wrestler in his own right, “The American Dream” Dusty Rhodes, began thinking of exactly what my “something extra” would be.
I was backstage with Dusty, the other Horsemen, and J. J. before the Saturday taping.
“What can Lex do to get the crowd on their feet?”
“How about adding a signature move?” someone suggested.
“I’m not convinced that he needs one,” Dusty said. “He should simply stick with power moves, lots
of body slams and clotheslines, things that will showcase his body.”
Suddenly, a technician threw out an idea. “How about the backbreaker? It would be a great way to show off his body, especially his abs and legs, as well as his overall strength.”
I was open to anything, so the technician gave me a quick run-through on how the move was supposed to be done. We practiced backstage, minutes before heading out to the ring. When the time was right during a match, I would power slam my opponent, then flex my upper body to signal to the crowd what would become my signature move—“the Torture Rack.” While my opponent was still dazed, I’d come up behind him, grab him, and lift him onto my shoulders until he submitted.
“That’s it!” Dusty slapped me on the back as I headed to the locker room after the match. “We all loved it! That’s your finish!” And it had all come together five minutes before showtime.
That’s wrestling in a nutshell—you ad-lib as you go, and go with spontaneity when you can. In my wrestling career, some of the best things happened on the spur of the moment.
I had a signature move. Now I needed a descriptor. Before one of my first interviews as an official member of the Horsemen, Dusty was giving me a pep talk. “You need to show a little more swag in front of the cameras, the kind of bravado that makes the Horsemen the most loved and hated group of all,” he said. “Exude confidence. Let everybody know that you have the brains, the brawn, and the professional football pedigree. You’re the total package.”
The Total Package. Everyone loved the way it sounded, and we quickly passed it on to the announcers to include in the introduction. (I later took an attorney’s advice and trademarked both “Lex Luger” and “The Total Package” to retain creative control.)
Things were falling into place almost overnight. Two men had gotten me here: Hiro Matsuda, who gave me the opportunity, and Ric Flair, who was in the process of making me a star. Ric taught me how to read what the crowd wanted and what to do in response. He was a master technician and tactician, explaining the finer points of specific moves, such as the pile driver, which was a fan favorite.