Ted DiBiase

by Ted DiBiase

  4

  LEARNING FROM MY DAD

  As I was just finishing up kindergarten, my mother fell in love with the person whom I consider my “true dad,” Mike DiBiase. “Iron” Mike was also a professional wrestler and they had met on the road.

  Born on Christmas Eve, 1923, Mike was a first-generation Italian American. He was the last of three children born to his father’s second wife, Christina. He grew up in Omaha in a traditional Italian, Roman Catholic family. Mike was a champion athlete, lettering in football, track, and wrestling. He was tough as nails.

  “Iron” Mike DiBiase, my dad.

  In 1942, he was Omaha Tech High School’s King of Sports and was named Omaha’s Outstanding High School Athlete. Dad’s excellence on the football field earned him all-city and all-state honors, and he won the Nebraska state heavyweight championship twice.

  After graduating high school, in the midst of World War II, Dad joined the navy. At the time he was the youngest chief petty officer. For part of his tour, he was stationed in Norman, Oklahoma. During that time, he won the Oklahoma AAU heavyweight wrestling title two years in a row. Dad was later transferred to northern California, where he won the Far Western heavyweight title. Then in April of 1946, he won the AAU national heavyweight wrestling title in New York City.

  When his enlistment ended, Dad enrolled at the University of Nebraska. It was there that he lettered four times in wrestling and three times in football. Upon graduation in 1950, he was courted by several professional football teams, including the Chicago Bears. The Bears were in dire need of a tough offense and a defensive lineman like my dad. Unfortunately for football, my dad pursued a career in professional wrestling.

  TERRY FUNK:

  Mike was one of the greatest athletes ever to come out of the state of Nebraska. He received more letters in track, football, and wrestling at the University of Nebraska than anyone else. He had a real understanding of the business and was a legitimate tough guy.

  BOB GEIGEL:

  Mike was a roughly 230-pound wrestling machine from Omaha. He played football and wrestled at the University of Nebraska. I was around Mike a lot. He was an excellent worker and always conducted himself as a professional. He never complained about anything.

  After Mom and Dad married in October of 1959, we left Willcox for Amarillo. I had just started first grade. Although I missed my grandparents, I was really happy to be with my mother. And Mike loved me as his own, which made the move even better.

  It’s quite ironic—since my mom was born in Grand Island and Mike in Omaha, which are right next to each other—that they never met until they

  were wrestling on the road. Even funnier is that as a kid, my dad delivered papers to her house—they even went to the same grade school.

  My dad made sure that nobody ever took advantage of me. I remember my cousin Ray and I would always watch TV together, but if I had a better view he would hit me and push me off the couch to claim the spot. I would then run and tell my mother.

  Once, when I was six, Ray pushed me off the couch as usual. This time, I ran to tell my new dad. “Teddy, don’t let anybody take advantage of you like that. Now you go back over there and smack him to make sure he never does that to you again.” Surprised by his comment, I just looked at him.

  Then I marched right back into the living room and smacked Ray right across the face. My cousin started crying. After that, he never pushed me off the couch or hit me again. Dad had just given me my first lesson in defending myself.

  Dad always told me not to be a bully and don’t start trouble, but when somebody starts trouble with you, finish it. Make sure you win the fight so it doesn’t happen again. He also told me his three basic rules that I still live by today and have passed on to my children: (1) Don’t ever lie; (2) Don’t ever cheat; and (3) Don’t ever steal.

  One hot Amarillo afternoon, I was playing catch with a couple of girls in the neighborhood. We were playing with a rubber ball. One of us missed the throw and the ball went bouncing into the yard next to us.

  In the yard was this ferocious bulldog. Before any of us thought of the danger, one of the girls yelled, “I’ll go get it.” She scaled the fence and proceeded to pick up the ball. The dog started barking up a storm, causing the little girl to freeze in her tracks. I guess sensing fear, the dog attacked the girl.

  I quickly jumped over the fence and grabbed the dog by his two hind legs. With all my strength, I grabbed him and threw him straight over my head. The dog hit the ground and ran away whimpering.

  I helped the little girl out of the fence and back to my yard. By then, some parents and other grown-ups had gathered around to help us. Unfortunately, the dog bit a pretty big piece of skin out of her right inner arm. Other than that, she was okay.

  The incident became the highlight of my first-grade year in Amarillo. I was considered a hero for saving the little girl. It seemed like wherever I went, people would applaud me for being so heroic. My dad was very proud.

  I grew up wanting to be a professional wrestler—just like my dad. Many of the wrestlers would come over to the house. I was in awe of them, especially Danny Plechas. He was my dad’s tag-team partner and he would often come to visit and eat dinner with us.

  Danny was one tough guy. During one of his matches, a big cowboy-looking fan wearing a brand-new pair of Levi’s jeans jumped in the ring. Maybe he had one too many beers, because the fan landed a blow to the back of Danny’s neck. As the fan turned around to leave, Danny grabbed him by the seat of his pants, ripping the end right out of them!

  Dad used to host card parties: poker, gin rummy, you name it. The boys would sit around drinking beer and telling stories, sometimes until the wee hours of the morning—guys like the Avenger (Art Nelson), Nick Roberts, Dory Funk Sr., and Bob Orton. One night, I recall my parents consoling a crying Nick. I had never seen a grown man cry so much. I later found out that Nick’s wife had committed suicide.

  JOHN DIBIASE:

  I really liked it when the Avenger (Art Nelson) came to the house. He would often be a guest for dinner. He would wear a mask. I was taught by my dad at an early age to protect the business. And thus I was to never, ever tell anyone the true alias of the Avenger. One day, I slipped up and told some of my friends the initials of the name of the Avenger. I got in lots of trouble by my dad for that mishap.

  I have been friends with the Funk family my entire life. I knew them very well. In Amarillo, my dad was always a heel, and Dory and his kids were huge babyfaces. The Funks are well known in Amarillo. Dory worked at a boys’ ranch with at-risk kids. He was a steward to the community and rightfully received many accolades for his service.

  Almost my entire life, I protected the business. Although we were friends with the Funks, we could never be seen interacting together in public. The business was taken very seriously back then. My dad always told me it was real and I believed it. What happened in the ring was nothing personal, it was just business. Friendships went out the window during a match. Afterward, everything was fine. Dad never smartened me up about the business.

  In the fall of 1960, while the rest of the country watched the Nixon-Kennedy debates, I had something far more important going on. I was becoming a big brother. I remember how excited I was when I first saw John, he was so small. Mom let me hold him and I felt so proud.

  Back then, wrestling was territorial. You could never stay too long in one region. With my dad being a heel, it seemed like we were living in a different apartment every three months. We moved from Amarillo to Portland, Oregon. I didn’t like Portland. Not only was it heavily populated, it seemed like it rained every day. It was also the first time I got in major trouble because of the “dirt-clod incident.”

  When we moved to Portland, my parents rented a decent two-bedroom apartment. With my older brother Mike now staying with my grandparents in Willcox, a thousand-or-so-square-foot apartment was sufficient for my parents and us two kids. As in most traditional Italian families in the early 1960s, my mot
her stayed home and took care of the children. Dad wouldn’t have it any other way.

  One early afternoon, I was out behind the apartment complex playing with a neighbor’s girl and throwing dirt clods. I loved throwing dirt clods. I would hurl them in the air or use all my might to toss them a long distance. But what I really liked to do was throw them against the wall. When the clod hit the wall, it would make a boom sound. To me it sounded like a bomb exploding. It was so cool.

  My parents knew I would throw dirt clods. They would tell me over and over not to throw rocks. I could break a window, hurt somebody, or even hurt myself. But like any other kid, I couldn’t resist.

  I was slinging dirt clods right and left, at a wall near our apartment. I was also throwing them up as high as I could. All of a sudden, one dirt clod got away, and I accidentally hit the girl I was playing with square in the face. She started crying and screaming. Blood started gushing down her face from a cut on the side of her nose.

  The little girl’s mother rushed to her side. As she tended to the wound, I apologized in a worried tone. “I’m really sorry, ma’am. Honestly, it was an accident. I didn’t mean to hit her.”

  After calming down her daughter and applying an ice bag as well as a large dose of hugs and kisses, the little girl’s mother said, “Its okay, young man. My daughter is going to be just fine.” I was relieved and smiled at them. “However, I think you should go back home and tell your parents what happened. Go ahead and tell them and that will be the end of it.”

  I started heading home, remembering that my dad and mom had told me not to throw rocks. Granted, I didn’t throw any rocks, but I wasn’t sure if they would see the difference between a rock and a dirt clod.

  I got to the front door of my apartment and decided not to go in. I was very nervous and scared. I also simply didn’t know what to say or do. I was sure, though, that I didn’t want to go home with my father still there.

  I knew that my dad would leave every day after four to go wrestle. So I walked across the street and just waited until after four. I would take my chances with Mom and cry and plead that she wouldn’t tell my father.

  While I was organizing this plan, the girl’s mother decided to make a visit to our residence. The lady asked my mom, “Is Teddy here?”

  Mom said, “No. He’s not back from playing yet. Why are you looking for him?”

  “Because I sent him home to tell you what happened. He promised me that he would tell you.” My mom invited the lady in and she told them everything.

  Finally, it was after four, so I decided to return home. I walked through the front door and there was my dad. He hadn’t left for work. Knowing that I had better act fast, I tried to act as normal as possible. I nonchalantly said, “I’m going down to the park to play.”

  Dad replied, “Hold on, Teddy. Before you go, is there anything you want to tell us?”

  “No.”

  Knowing that I had just lied, my dad lowered the boom. “Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to tell us? Are you sure?”

  They gave me every opportunity to tell them. Once again, I said, “No.”

  Well, that was it. My dad called me over to him. “What did I tell you about lying? How about you tell us how you threw the dirt clod at the girl and hit her in the nose?”

  I thought to myself, “Oh my gosh, they found out!”

  In an empathetic yet stern manner, Dad asked, “Why didn’t you come and tell us?”

  I sat down and swallowed hard. “I was scared to come and tell you. You told me not to throw rocks. It was a dirt clod and it was an accident.”

  “Teddy, I know it was an accident. What have I told you? Don’t lie, don’t cheat, and don’t steal. You lied to the girl’s mother and you lied to us. We are not raising you to be a liar.”

  I felt so bad by disappointing my mom and especially my dad. I was expecting a whipping on the butt with his belt, but it didn’t happen. “You need to be punished for your disobedience. I am going to give you a choice. You can either wash the dishes for a week, or be grounded for a week.”

  I thought about it for a few minutes. I knew that being grounded was the harsher punishment. Since I knew that I disappointed Dad, I felt like I deserved the harder of the two. “I’ll be grounded for a week.”

  He nodded in approval and said, “Okay, that is it.”

  About halfway through the week, Dad called me over. “Here is what I am going to do. I am very proud of you. I hope you learned a lesson. Don’t ever be afraid to tell me anything. Always be honest and truthful. I am going to end your grounding early. I gave you a choice of your punishment and you chose the harder one. And because you did, I am going to let you off early.”

  My dad may have been tough, but he was also fair.

  5

  ON THE ROAD

  Almost immediately after I completed first grade, we left Portland and headed back to Texas. On the way back to the Lone Star State, we stopped to stay with my grandparents in Willcox. It was so nice to see everyone; I’d really missed them a lot. We also got a pleasant surprise. My brother Mike, who was living with our grandparents, decided that he wanted to come and live with our family. After a week we headed to Houston.

  Once in Houston, we settled in another apartment. My parents enrolled me in second grade at a Catholic school. Catholic school was stricter than the public schools of Willcox and Portland. I didn’t conform at first, but after making some adjustments, I excelled in my studies and was on track to complete second grade.

  I wasn’t too fond of Houston, especially with its insect problem. It was there that I was introduced to wasps. One afternoon, I was playing hide-and-seek outside with some of the other kids at the apartment complex. Not wanting to get caught, I ran behind this decent-size bush. I knew that there would be no way they would find me. All of a sudden, I hear this buzzing. Sure enough, it was a wasp nest. Before I could hightail it out of there, I was stung by two wasps. One nailed me on the right side of my face and the other on the left. Another time, I was climbing out of a window and accidentally stepped on a wasp nest. They stung me all over my legs.

  I was relieved when Dad got tired of the wrestling business and the Houston territory. He quit the region and moved the family back to Willcox to live with my grandparents.

  With Phoenix and Tucson a short driving distance from Willcox, Dad decided that he was going to start his own wrestling promotion in the state of Arizona. The promotion got off to a good start, but for whatever reason it just didn’t work out.

  While we were in Willcox, Dad convinced my grandma to sell pizza at the café. He knew there was profit in pizza. He taught my grandma how to make Italian pizza—the sauce, the dough, everything. I think my dad’s dream was to have his own pizza restaurant after his wrestling career was over.

  Grandma liked the idea and I even remember them installing this giant pizza oven. The Truck Stop Café was now selling pizza and it was a big hit.

  Now in high school, Mike started playing football. He wanted to get better and stronger, and I remember Dad buying a weight set and helping Mike get in shape. He would set up the weights in the backyard, and that’s where they would work out.

  MIKE DIBIASE (brother):

  Dad married Mom when I was about fourteen years old. I have always considered Mike DiBiase to be my father. He taught me a lot about life and especially sports. Since he was very athletic and sportsminded, we would spend hours and days together to help me become a great football player.

  Word spread throughout town that my dad was training Mike. As a former football star, my dad was in excellent shape. The next thing we knew, there were kids coming from all over town wanting to work out and train.

  I loved football. I really liked going to Mike’s high school games to watch him play. I also used to accompany him to his practices and I would run up and down the sidelines, cheering him on. Although I was eight years old, I wanted to spend all my time with my older brother. He was the star tight end on the football
team and I wanted to be just like him.

  That Christmas, I was so happy when my parents got me a complete football uniform. It didn’t take me long to decide that I wanted to be a professional football player. My brother Mike was a great influence on me.

  MIKE DIBIASE:

  I am eight years older than Ted. As the middle brother, he was always trying to hang around with me and my friends. I used to tease him and do other things older brothers are supposed to do. One time, I almost scared him to death.

  Teddy and I always used to watch scary movies at Grandma’s house on Saturday night on a program called Saturday Night Chiller. It was hosted by this sexy, female vampire-type character called Ghoulia. One night, I decided to scare Teddy. After the double feature, I told him to head home and that I would meet him there shortly. Our house was only two down. You couldn’t turn the lights on because you didn’t want to wake anyone. I gave him some time to get in bed. I was sure Teddy was waiting to hear the sound of the back door, but I made sure he didn’t. I sneaked into the house and heard a frightened voice asking, “Mike, is that you?” I purposely didn’t answer. As I walked throughout the house, the boards were creaking and I was making subtle noises. Ted asked again, “Come on, Mike, I know it’s you!” I didn’t respond. I sneaked closer and closer to Ted’s bed. Just as he started to fade into the night, I leapt from the darkness and landed on top of Ted in his bed. I scared the you-know-what out of him. In fact, Teddy was so petrified, he not only started screaming at the top of his lungs, he also wet his pants!

  With the failure of Dad’s promotion, but with professional wrestling still in his blood, we once again packed up our bags and headed to another wrestling territory. This time we moved to Dad’s hometown of Omaha. We settled in the same house that Dad had lived in with his first wife on South Twenty-second Street.