by Dan Severn
If I told you about a wrestler who came to the ring silently and manhandled his opponents while his manager got on the microphone, referred to him as ‘The Beast’, and informed the audience about the wrestler’s dominance in the UFC, you would probably assume I was talking about the pairing of Brock Lesnar and Paul Heyman, but this exact same scenario occurred in the late-’90s when I debuted in the WWE with Jim Cornette as my manager.
The key differences are, my UFC record at the time I debuted in the WWE was 9-3-0, and my overall MMA record was 21-3-2. By the time I was done appearing for the WWE, my career MMA record stood at 28-3-3. As I’ve already mentioned, I went undefeated in the eight professional fights I had while a member of WWE’s roster.
By comparison, Brock is 5-3 in his eight MMA fights, and 4-3 as a UFC competitor.
Brock Lesnar and Ken Shamrock are alike in the sense that they both received a push partially because of their physical appearances, but Brock is a far more legitimate fighter than Ken will ever be, and he also did phenomenally well as an amateur wrestler.
I don’t know if Brock used chemical enhancements, and I certainly hope not. When asked if he was using steroids, he responded that he’d been tested a lot and had never tested positive, which isn’t quite the same thing as saying no.
Brock was granted a UFC championship match after compiling a one-win and one-loss record in the UFC, and in my opinion, he probably should’ve gone through a few other people first to establish his credibility.
Brock is great, and what he has done is tremendous. It’s nice to see a real, MMA-inspired ‘Beast’ in the WWE ring once again. It just goes to show you what can happen when a company gets behind you.
BROCK LESNAR notwithstanding, in recent years, wrestling fans have been revolting against WWE’s plans.
Several of the giant, musclebound types the company has tried to push have been rejected by fans who prefer, smaller, more athletic, more natural-looking guys who demonstrate real combat skills and talent in the ring. These stars have included guys like C.M. Punk, Daniel Bryan, A.J. Styles, and Finn Balor. I like this trend, and I think the UFC’s success has had something to do with it.
Years ago, when people didn’t know anything about fighting, you would assume that the bigger, more muscular of two guys would automatically win a fight between them. Thanks in large part to the UFC and the launching of MMA, fans understand winning a fight has much more to do with what you know about fighting combined with your athleticism.
The musclebound type of guys are now generally assumed to be too stiff and rigid, so it doesn’t make sense to force feed the fans with guys who all look like bodybuilders. Most guys who look like bodybuilders wouldn’t last very long in a UFC cage unless they had serious skills to back it up.
At the same time, wrestling needs to have people of all different sizes, shapes and abilities; you can’t just have a bunch of people who all look the same. In wrestling, you can have women, midgets, and tag teams to go with the giants on the roster. With all of these wacky characters, you also need to weave something together that makes cohesive sense.
Think about how Paul Heyman believably made the undersized Taz into a monster in ECW. Taz demonstrated real fighting techniques, and the audience quickly accepted that Taz was both tough and skilled. Even though they knew wrestling was scripted, ECW’s fans still bought into Taz, and none of them thought any of the WWE’s larger wrestlers could hang with Taz in a real fight.
Fans are more willing now to accept substance over size. I hope the major professional wrestling companies recognize this as they continue to develop.
I HAVE worked for all three ownerships of the UFC, from Art Davie, to the Semaphore Entertainment Group, to Zuffa, LLC.
The work I’ve done with Zuffa has been minimal from the standpoint that I’ve been limited to merely doing a few UFC Fan Expo events for them. One of the perks to being a UFC Hall of Famer is they always have tickets available for me if I want to attend a show in Las Vegas and bring my better half with me.
To see the humble beginnings the UFC came from, including the sparse crowds they once had, and to now see the packed arenas and mainstream attention the company now receives, it’s incredible.
I happened to attend the show where Conor McGregor defeated Chad Mendes, and the entrances that were put together for both guys, you would have thought you were watching a high-level pro wrestling entrance, but twisted in such a way that it stayed true to the MMA product.
It’s a show within a show.
By the way, if Chad had just given me three or four days to work with him before his fight with Conor, I guarantee you he would have won the fight, but that’s beside the point.
The first time I met Dana White, I didn’t really know who he was until he came over to say “Hi” and shake my hand. He has always been very respectful to me.
I even had a meeting with Dana, along with Lorenzo Fertita, where I called their office and asked to sit down with them so they could get to know me a bit better. I was long gone from the UFC before they ever acquired the company, and I wanted them to know that I was open to doing something with them.
They’d kept on some other people in different roles, and I thought I’d make a solid goodwill ambassador for the sport of mixed martial arts. Not only had I worked through the first two UFC ownerships, but I emerged as an athlete representative during the era where John McCain was doing everything he could politically to get the UFC shut down.
At that point, there was no better person to present to the public than a family man with a college degree who had represented the country in international competitions, and who also didn’t have a single tattoo or body piercing.
Hopefully, the Zuffa ownership will get to know me more over time, because my approach to handling things is more like that of a diplomat, and less like that of many former mixed martial artists, who have all the tact of the proverbial bull in a China closet.
THIRTY-SIX
MY FIRST APPEARANCE AT AN Insane Clown Posse wrestling show was a major eye opener for me. The ICP is a Detroit-area rap group that dresses as demented clowns and has a cult-like following. By cult-like following, I mean their fans self-identify as “Juggalos,” and they’re officially classified as a gang by the FBI.
At some point during wrestling’s Attitude Era, the ICP worked for the WWF’s stable of Oddities, and I guess they liked wrestling so much that they founded their own company, Juggalo Championship Wrestling.
Scott D’Amore got me booked for the show, suitably labeled Bloodymania 2, and I started out by handling everything in the professional manner in which I normally would’ve done it.
On August 10, 2008, I was driving out to the show, which was taking place in Cave-in-Rock, Illinois, by the state’s southern border with Kentucky. As I got close to the venue, I noticed the police had pulled everyone over. They were having people get out of their vehicles, and they were inspecting the trunks of their cars.
I just sat there, inching up and waiting for my turn.
When I got to the front of the line, I rolled my window down and looked at the officer. Without either one of us saying a word, he just waved me along.
That was bizarre, because everyone was being checked by the cops.
A mile or so down the road, I pulled into the gated entrance of what was generously described as a “park,” but it looked more like someone’s personal property. It looked like someone had just mowed a couple acres of grassy property with a bush hog.
As I approached, this guy walked out with huge dreads looking like one scary individual.
“You don’t belong here,” he said after assessing my appearance.
“You may want to look on your little clipboard there,” I admonished him. “I’m wrestling on the show this evening, but this afternoon I’ll be doing a Q&A session in the big tent.”
“Holy shit!” he said, looking at his clipboard. “You’re right!”
He let me pass, and the scene I entered was remini
scent of something out of the Twilight Zone.
Actually, it was probably more like Dawn of the Dead, because the place was full of crazy people who were crawling out of tents, and most of them looked so screwed up. Everyone either had huge dreadlocked hairstyles, or they were wearing bizarre shirts.
It wasn’t exactly a campground full of Sunday school students.
The Q&A session actually went far better than I thought it would based on the appearances of the people there. I received a lot of surprisingly good questions out of the assembled fans.
After the afternoon session concluded, there was a lot of waiting around involved, because the wrestling portion of the event didn’t start until one in the morning!
There were several stages set up for different events, including musical acts. It appeared to be arranged like the sort of show you’d see at a fair, but even those shows are more organized than this production was.
When Scott booked me for this show, I thought he’d negotiated a fantastic wage for me.
Then the wrestling portion of the show started.
I watched the first match through the curtain, and I realized the wrestlers were nothing more than glorified targets for the fans.
All of the people in the audience were throwing shit at the wrestlers. Not literal shit, as far as I know, but actual shit might have been safer than some of what they were actually throwing.
Two-liter bottles of Faygo pop were streaming out of the crowd and exploding inside the ring. The fans were shaking the bottles up, opening them, and then launching them like hand grenades straight at the wrestlers.
I watched this spectacle unfold while thinking, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
They explained to me what the window of time for my match would be, but I’d already adopted a “fuck-this” attitude toward the whole event. I was way more concerned about my safety than I was in filling a window of time.
My opponent, Kris Chambers, walked out to the ring first, and I watched him being bombarded with bottles of Faygo. In my mind, I’d already made the decision to change the match, and make our time window a whole lot smaller.
When my music hit, I was going to run toward the ring while trying not to trip over any debris, grab Kris Chambers, and turn this thing into a glorified squash match.
Of course, Kris wouldn’t have any idea what was going on, but he’d figure it out soon enough.
When my music started, I waited about fifteen seconds before I kicked the door in and took off toward the ring while trying to watch where I was stepping.
Once I got in there, I grabbed Kris and just squashed him. I launched him through the air with about four suplexes and then made him tap out to a dragon sleeper.
I got in, I got out, and I never got hit once.
Even without any of the fans connecting with their pop bottles, I was still sticky and covered with soda, because the Insane Clown Posse’s fans, the Juggalos, had completely drenched the ring.
I don’t think Kris was upset about getting squashed, because I’m pretty sure he wasn’t wild about being in that ring any longer than he had to be either. If anyone was upset with him, he could just blame Dan Severn for changing the match around.
When Scott came up to me after the show, he assumed I’d had enough of the ICP and their crazy shows.
“I guess you don’t want to be booked for any more of these, huh?” he assumed.
“Scott, the one thing I’ve learned in the wacky world of wrestling is to never say never,” I said. “Instead, ask when and how much.”
One year later, that exact scenario happened. Scott called me and asked if I would appear at Bloodymania 3, which was scheduled to take place almost exactly one year after my first Bloodymania appearance.
In response, I asked him when and how much.
I remembered what I’d been paid last year, but I asked Scott to request hazard pay for me over and above what I’d made the year before. I’ll be damned if the heads of the Juggalos didn’t agree to it.
On this night, flights and transportation were delayed getting into town. I was riding in the limousine with a few other wrestlers, and we were changing into our gear in the back of the limo while staying in contact with the ICP via our cell phones.
I wasn’t going to be wrestling in a match this time. Instead, I’d be working under a mask as the special guest referee for a match between Jimmy Jacobs and Ken Shamrock. The idea was for me to keep heeling on Ken the entire time the match was in progress.
We were rushed to the talent area at two in the morning, and I put on the mask. Ken and Jimmy stood next to me telling me all of these spots they planned to do. Honestly, I was zoning out, and I wasn’t paying one iota of attention to what Ken was saying.
“Dan, are you even listening to me?” that arrogant ass asked me.
“Ken, I’ve got it, brother!” I replied. “I’ve got it!”
I knew full well they don’t have a clue what was about to happen to them. Whatever match they thought they were putting together was about to go down the toilet.
As the referee, I had to walk out to the ring first, and I was thinking, “Shit, I’m going to be out there getting stuff thrown at me longer than anyone else.”
When I made it to the ring, I started doing figure eights in there just to make myself a tougher target to zero in on. I commenced with my boring referee-type duties by checking the ring ropes, but what I was really doing was kicking shit out of the ring, including Faygo bottles, garbage, and even sticks.
Jimmy Jacobs came out first with his jacket on, and he starts doing his normal posing routine on the top turnbuckle. While he was up there, he got blasted with a Faygo bottle, and when he got down, his eyes were wide, as he finally realized what he’d gotten himself into.
Next, Ken came out, and I know he and Jimmy had a long match in mind, but it just went all to hell. I had my mask on and just stood there smiling underneath it while I watched the match fall apart.
Would I ever work for the ICP again? Sure. Like I said, never say never; say how much.
THIRTY-SEVEN
DURING A 2008 MEETING WITH my attorney and my CPA, I abruptly asked a question. “Matt, what does it cost to file for divorce?”
“I think it’s $1,500, or something like that,” Matt said.
“I think I’d like to file for divorce,” I deadpanned.
They started laughing as if I’d just cracked a hilarious joke.
“No… I’m serious,” I said.
Their jaws nearly hit the floor.
“How long have you been thinking about this?” Matt asked.
“Since 1992,” I replied.
Things had been really rocky in my marriage to Terry for several years by that point.
Once upon a time, Terry had some real grit to her. She gave birth to our fourth child, Dominique, and one week later, she was up and catering a gig for three-hundred people. Granted, she wasn’t moving as quickly as she’d been before the birthing process, but that’s true toughness.
If men were responsible for giving birth, this would be a sparsely populated world.
It saddened me to see what Terry turned into, and I tried not to dwell on it. Instead, I buried myself in my work so that I don’t have time to think about those things.
Shortly after we moved to Coldwater, Terry seemed to enter into a perpetual depression, and slowly but surely, things gradually unravelled. I kept telling her that we could go see a doctor, a psychiatrist or a counselor, but it never happened. She just wasn’t interested.
I don’t know if the problems started before we moved to Coldwater, or if they started in Coldwater because she was missing Owosso. I tried so hard to analyze any and all potential causes.
I also had to be on the road working and keeping food on the table. I couldn’t just sit around holding Terry’s hand. I would have taken her anywhere she needed to go to get her some help, and I would have gone with her, too, but I couldn’t just stay home and do nothing without compromi
sing our only steady income stream.
Ultimately, I had one thought that kept going through my mind: Was Terry’s face the face I wanted to see when I was lying on my death bed? The answer was “No.”
All I wanted to do was help Terry. I’d been successful in everything I’d ever done, but marriage had become the one area in life in which I’d most clearly failed. The great Canadian goose mates for life, and that’s exactly what I’d wanted.
I filed for a divorce from Terry in 2008. It was my fiftieth birthday gift to myself.
My original intent in filing for the divorce was to wake Terry up. The plan did not go as I intended.
Too many harsh words were said afterward for us to ever come back from. I thought maybe I could hang in there, but I couldn’t do it. I knew the marriage was beyond saving, and I didn’t want things to fall apart when I was too old.
At present, all of my family members know I’m divorced, but to this day, some of my closest friends don’t even know.
I’m a tight book, and I don’t let most people in.
For years now, I’ve been living in my Coldwater training facility when I’m in Michigan, and Terry lives less than fifty yards away from me in the house with her mother and my youngest son, Joseph.
I’m now locked out of my own house. It’s the house that I paid for. Everything was paid for. I was a good investor, and a good saver. I never wanted to owe anything to anyone.
My goal was to be totally debt free and able to retire when I was fifty. I’d accomplished that goal.
Terry walked away with half of the empire I’d built through stepping into a cage or stepping into a ring. I achieved success in every area of life except for marriage.
I’LL NEVER forget the first time I attended a Cauliflower Alley Club banquet. It’s a great event to attend, and one that every wrestler, former wrestler, aspiring wrestler, or wrestling fan should make an effort to participate in at least once in their lifetime.
The banquet presents an opportunity to see the legends who entertained you in the past. It comprises three days of mixed emotions, and aside from the banquet itself, you might even have an opportunity to play cards with the stars of yesteryear.