Ted DiBiase

by Ted DiBiase

  The Mid-South territory had a demanding schedule. I worked seven days a week. My weekly schedule started in Shreveport, Louisiana, on Saturday morning for TV tapings. I would then hop in the car and drive three hundred miles to Greenville, Mississippi, for an evening match. To save money and wear-and-tear on vehicles, most guys carpooled. I would then spend the night with the boys in the cheapest hotel we could find. Sometimes we would sneak three or four guys into one hotel room. It was called “heeling.” We would “heel” the room. Two guys would sleep on the mattress and two guys on the box spring.

  I would then get up early the next morning and drive another three hundred miles to Houma, Louisiana. I’d have to be there at least an hour before the show, so I’d grab some food and get a workout. After my match, I would drive another three hundred and fifty miles to Shreveport and spend the night. Then I would get up early in the morning and drive another three hundred and fifty miles to Tulsa, Oklahoma, and wrestle that night. The next morning, I would drive back to Shreveport. That routine would continue for months and seemed endless.

  Every Saturday, Bill would give me my bookings. At the time, I was a curtain-jerker and would wrestle the first or second match every night. I was as green as the grass, so there was no need for me to be at the TV studio for Wednesday interviews. I still went to the studios in Shreveport as much as possible to watch. I watched and learned from “Killer” Karl Kox and Dick Murdoch. I wanted to gain as much knowledge as I could. The business was a brotherhood and I savored the camaraderie.

  Since Dick Murdoch brought me into the company, I traveled and spent most of my time with him. My daily routine with Dick consisted of beer and more beer. After each show, we would stop and get a case. If there were four of us in the car, we would have two cases. It’s amazing that no one got into any major accidents or received any DUIs.

  Of all the towns we wrestled in the Mid-South territory, my favorite was New Orleans. I loved the shops, restaurants, people, and the bars. Murdoch asked me, “Have you ever been to New Orleans?”

  “No.”

  “Are you telling me you have never been to Bourbon Street? Oh, I have to take you to Bourbon Street.”

  One night in New Orleans before the matches, Dick walked up to Grizzly Smith and pointed my way. “Griz, the kid has never been to Bourbon Street. Do you mind if I borrow your car tonight to show the kid a good time? You can catch a ride back to Baton Rouge with one of the boys and we will meet up in the morning.” Without hesitation, Grizzly said, “Sure.”

  Grizzly was Bill Watts’s right-hand man. He was the company’s match-maker and road agent. He was Bill’s eyes and ears and was responsible for what happened at the event.

  Grizzly is a great guy and a former wrestler. He was part of a successful tag team with Luke Brown known as the Kentuckians. He is also the father of professional wrestlers Jake “The Snake” Roberts, Sam Houston, and Rockin’ Robin.

  After the matches, we headed out to New Orleans in Grizzly Smith’s 1974 yellow four-door LTD. Before we even got onto I-10, Dick pulled into a 7-Eleven and got a six-pack of beer. The first place Dick took me was the world-famous Felix’s Restaurant and Oyster Bar. The restaurant was located in the heart of the French Quarter. It was a very crowded and noisy place. It was also where I was introduced to raw oysters.

  Dick ordered a few dozen oysters and lots of beer. The oysters reminded me of snot and I wasn’t too interested in eating them. But Dick educated me on how to do it properly: scoop it out of its shell, place it on a cracker, top it with horseradish and cocktail sauce, eat it, then wash it down with a cold beer. The cracker gave the oyster some texture, which made it easier to eat. I must have downed about a dozen.

  After about an hour, Dick and I took a walk down Bourbon Street. We grabbed a few more beers and took in the sights. I was twenty-one years old, and I was overwhelmed by the town and excited by its energy.

  Dick then took me to Pat O’Brien’s on St. Peter Street. We walked through an old carriageway entrance and into one of the most magnificent restaurant bars I had ever seen. It was huge, with beautiful architecture, a piano bar, restaurant, and other amenities. Dick took me directly to the bar and ordered me their world-famous drink, the Hurricane. It’s a sweet drink with a little fruit syrup and lots of rum. Dick and I must have drunk three or four before heading back to Bourbon Street. Before we left, I went to use the restroom.

  I was standing at the urinal and that was when I started to feel green about the gills. I was drunk. I staggered out of the restroom and walked up to Dick. “Dick, unless you want to carry me back to the car, I suggest we leave now.”

  Laughing, Dick said, “Okay, kid, let’s go home.” I later found out that Dick had known the bartender at Pat O’Brien’s. After my first Hurricane, he had the bartender kick up the alcohol content on the next three.

  As we headed back to the car, Dick and I saw all the hot dog carts along Bourbon Street. There must have been one on every corner, and Dick insisted that we stop at every one. We would stop at one and buy one with just mustard. We would then walk another block and get another with chili. A few more blocks and we would get one with cheese and onions, along with a cold beer to wash it down. Talk about gluttony.

  We finally made it back to the car and headed to Baton Rouge. Dick was driving and country music was blaring on the stereo. I was trying to sleep but Dick kept waking me up. “Kid, don’t let me fall asleep.” I kept dozing off, and Dick kept slapping me to keep me awake.

  As you can imagine, summertime in New Orleans is very humid. That particular morning was no exception. The car didn’t have an air conditioner, so we were sweating buckets when Dick asked me to “put on the 490 system.”

  “Where and what is that?”

  “Roll all four windows down and I’ll do ninety!”

  We had an eighty-five-mile drive in front of us. Dick was doing ninety miles an hour on the interstate. It was about two-thirty in the morning. As we crossed the expansion bridge over Lake Pontchartrain, we got a flat tire. We pulled off to the side of the road. Both of us got out and opened the trunk to get the jack and spare tire. We took the jack out and attempted to hook it to the bumper. It was dark and we didn’t have a flashlight, so we couldn’t see where to hook the jack to the slit in the bumper. We did our best. Somehow we managed to get the car elevated, and though it was wobbly, I took the hubcap off and started loosening the lug nuts. Dick yelled, “Get away from the car, it’s about to fall.” I jumped back as the car fell off the jack, and as I did so, I hit the hubcap and all the lug nuts went flying onto the interstate.

  There I was on my hands and knees crawling on I-10 looking for those lug nuts. Dick kept yelling at me to get out of the road, and I’d holler back, “If we don’t find the lug nuts, we’re going to be here all night.”

  “Get up and get over here! Somebody is coming.” I paid no attention because I was determined.

  As I was crawling around, my eyes met two black shiny boots. I looked straight up and saw a badge. It was a Louisiana State Highway Patrolman. As he stood there with his arms crossed over his chest, he looked down at me and said, “What the fuck are you doing!?”

  In all sincerity I looked up and said, “Well, sir, I am looking for my nuts!”

  He cracked a smile and said, “Get your ass out of the road before you get killed.”

  The officer’s presence was a blessing, because the lights from his car allowed us to find the lug nuts and to see what was wrong with the jack. After Murdoch explained the situation, the officer shined his flashlight at the bumper. Lo and behold, Dick and I obviously had no idea how to work the jack. We thought a piece of the jack was missing, but we had failed to place the jack in the hole of the bumper. The officer properly affixed the jack and I changed the flat. The officer then told Murdoch to drive slowly and to be very careful. Fortunately, the highway patrolman let us go without issuing us a ticket.

  As we headed back down the interstate, my heart was still racing. I was nervous
because of what had just happened and I was hoping that we didn’t have any more car trouble. My hands were filthy and it was hot as blazes. Dick was now driving about a hundred miles per hour and my head was pounding. All of a sudden, my stomach started hurting. I could feel the beers, liquor, oysters, and hot dogs churning. I begged Dick to pull over. I told him I was sick and not feeling well. “Oh, kid. You aren’t sick. It’s mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter. I am not stopping. If you are that sick, just stick your head out the window.” So I stuck my head out and heaved for what seemed like an eternity.

  It was roughly four o’clock in the morning when we arrived at the hotel in Baton Rouge. We got out of the car. We could see that from the door to the back fender, the car was covered in my vomit. I was worried. Dick said, “Don’t worry about it. Get some sleep and in the morning we will clean it up before Griz comes and picks it up.” The next morning, I had a heck of a hangover, so I took a few aspirin. I looked outside and saw that Griz’s car was spotless. The mess on the car had been washed away by a hard rain that hit the area while we were asleep. I told Dick and we were both ecstatic.

  BILL WATTS:

  Because we made long road trips, drinking was a way of life in our business. My territory was so brutal to travel, and drinking was one way to pass the time. It was a way to stay awake and give one something to do. Teddy also came into the business with Dick Murdoch. Dick was a huge beer drinker. Since Teddy was traveling with Dick, I am sure he was drinking a lot of beer. I mean a lot of beer.

  After showering and getting dressed, we looked the car over to make sure everything was in proper condition. While inspecting the vehicle, Dick and I noticed that the back bumper had a huge gash in it. Our poor jacking job earlier that morning had created a huge ten-inch gash. Dick and I vowed to tell Grizzly the truth and to pay for the damages.

  Grizzly showed up and Dick and I apologized. Dick was truthful and told him the entire story from our time on Bourbon Street, to the police officer yelling at me to get out of the road, to me heaving out the window along I-10. Surprisingly, Grizzly started laughing his butt off. As Grizzly was getting ready to leave, we reaffirmed that we would pay whatever it cost to get the bumper fixed. Grizzly looked at both of us and said, “Nope, I’m not fixing it. I am going to leave it just the way it is.” Puzzled, Dick and I looked at each other and then simultaneously asked Grizzly, “Why?”

  “Because every time somebody asks me how it happened, I am going to tell them the story!” And he left it at that.

  Another time in Baton Rouge, I was so exhausted that I checked into this run-down hotel slightly off the interstate. I went into the room and hit the sack. A few minutes later, I went to the bathroom. To my chagrin, there was no toilet! I called the hotel office to ask for another room. The attendant said, “Well, sir, the only room I have available is one with a toilet but no television.” I replied, “Man, it is four a.m.; I don’t need a television but I need a toilet!”

  Because of my demanding schedule, I barely saw Jaynet. The business was starting to put a strain on our marriage. I had no business being married at the time. Often, I conducted myself like I didn’t even have a wife. We were both immature and I was married to the business. I was wrestling every night of the week and poor Jaynet would just stay at home doing nothing. She was bored out of her mind.

  About two months after arriving in Shreveport, we moved into another apartment. We had hoped that would afford us an opportunity to see more of each other. It didn’t. A month or so later, we decided to separate, and she relocated back to Amarillo. There, at least, Jaynet would be close to her family and friends.

  From the late fall of 1975 to the summer of 1976, I worked and traveled throughout the Mid-South territory. Whenever I got two days off, I would drive back to Amarillo to be with Jaynet. The travel was wearing me out. Something had to give.

  My first year as a full-time professional wrestler was a learning experience. Bill Watts, Dick Murdoch, Grizzly Smith, and others taught me a lot. I learned about respect for the business, the psychology of the sport, organization and punctuality, self-discipline, and sacrifice. Their guidance made me yearn to learn even more, and to strive to get better.

  In professional wrestling, there is a certain protocol. You respect the veterans of the business and yield to their expertise. At times, I would sit in the dressing room and not say a word. I would speak only when asked. I understood my role and knew that it was those senior wrestlers who paved the way and gave me the opportunity to be part of the greatest sport in the world. It was their business and I would pay my dues to earn their respect.

  My first angle was with “Killer” Karl Kox. He was the biggest heel in the Mid-South promotion, and in my opinion, he was one of the greatest heels ever. Karl had mastered the psychological part of professional wrestling. Murdoch

  “Killer” Karl Kox.

  had been in an angle where Kox “blinded” Murdoch, which sidelined him indefinitely. Since I was a protégé of Murdoch—who was the biggest face in the business—Bill Watts decided to parlay Murdoch’s injury into my first angle in the territory.

  In a manner that only Bill Watts could stir up, I went out to the ring to help an injured Danny Hodge, who had been pummeled by Kox prior to the start of their match. On the way back to the locker room, with Danny over my shoulder, Kox kicked me. Mad, I offered to take Danny’s place in the match. The fans thought I was crazy, because a young babyface like me stood no chance against the brutish and volatile “Killer” Karl Kox. Eager to destroy me or anyone, Kox laughed and accepted the match.

  It was a ten-minute match, and Kox destroyed me for the entire match. But, because he was overconfident, I was able to sidestep him and hook him for a quick pin. Kox couldn’t believe it. A rookie just pinned the top heel in the territory. He was furious!

  The following week, Kox told a television audience that he had underestimated me. He demanded a rematch, but there was a special caveat: he would give me ten thousand dollars if I could last ten minutes in the ring with him. The fans begged me not to accept the match. But I was determined. Once the match started, the people couldn’t believe that I was wrestling smart and simply trying to avoid a furious Kox. He chased me around the ring as I stalled for time. The object of the match was not to beat Kox, but to last ten minutes. In the end, I was beaten and exhausted, but ten thousand dollars richer.

  It seemed as if the fans knew that there was no way I could beat Kox. They were even more surprised that I had lasted the entire time. The angle was popular and the television ratings went up. Because of the angle’s success, the bookers decided to prolong it, but added a new twist.

  The next time, Kox raised the ante to fifteen thousand if I could last twenty minutes. I once again stalled and tried to outsmart him. It worked for about ten minutes. Then, Kox completely annihilated me for the remaining ten minutes. With about one minute remaining, the fans gasped as Kox placed me in his patented finishing hold, the Brain Buster. I landed on my head. The crowd was dead silent. Nobody had ever kicked out of his finisher. Kox arrogantly covered me, but I unexpectedly kicked out on the two-count and rolled out of the ring. Kox couldn’t believe it. As he complained and griped to the crowd and referee, the bell rang. Time expired. Though I was on my knees outside the ring, I was fifteen thousand dollars richer.

  Kox and I continued the angle one more week until Murdoch returned. It was during my final battle with Kox that I juiced, or cut myself, for the first time. Since I had never juiced before, I was going to let Kox do it for me. However, during the course of the match, I overzealously rammed my head into the ring post. Blood was everywhere. The following week, lo and behold, I once again hit my head on the outside ring post’s metal turnbuckle. That gash required stitches.

  BILL WATTS:

  I can never forget the first time Teddy was going to juice. He was so nervous that it was hilarious. During the course of the match, he somehow split his head open when he rammed it into the rin
g post while almost knocking himself out. I teased him that he wasn’t getting paid double for that juice. The next week, with stitches in his head, Ted had to juice again. Sure enough, the same exact thing happened.

  Throughout my career, nobody juiced me. I did it myself. Prior to a match, I would drink some bourbon and take a few aspirin. This would help increase the blood flow. I would take a disposable razor and slice off maybe a one-inch piece of it. To conceal the blade, I wrapped it in a piece of athletic tape. Most guys kept the razor blade either in their trunks or under the athletic tape on their wrists or fingers. I simply kept it in my mouth. I placed it at the bottom of my lip like a dip of snuff. I never had a problem.

  One summer night after wrestling in Lafayette, Louisiana, I was scheduled to do a run-in. I waited at the door of the dressing room for my cue. I was only wearing my corduroy jeans and cowboy boots, and I had a towel around my neck. At the time, I used to go commando—no underwear. As I ran to the ring to do my spot, I went to leap up on the ring. However, because of the humidity, I slipped on the way and ended up doing a split on the floor, sliding completely under the ring; so much for my rescue. I was embarrassed but I quickly got up and ran back into the ring to save the day. Everyone was laughing. I also noticed that it was quite breezy. When I fell down, I apparently split my pants. Everything was exposed for the crowd to see. Thank goodness I had my towel to cover up.

  In mid-1976, I left the Mid-South promotion. I had been away from Jaynet for a while and though I was still married, I was engaging in many youthful indiscretions. I knew what I was doing was wrong. So I called Jaynet and I told her everything. The next morning, Jaynet was at my front door. She had driven all night. We spent all morning and afternoon crying, trying to understand. In short, we decided to patch it up. So to save my marriage, I decided to go back to wrestling in the Amarillo territory.