The Road Warriors: Danger, Death, and the Rush of Wrestling

by Joe Laurinaitis

  Right before they locked up, Hawk leaned over to Keirn and said, “We’re not going for the finish tonight. Do things our way and nobody gets hurt.” And with that, Hawk started relentlessly beating Keirn all over the ring with really stiff punches and forearms.

  Photo courtesy of the Laurinaitis family.

  “Here’s looking at you, kid!” An Animal taking form! Fall ‘83.

  Photo courtesy of the Laurinaitis family.

  Hawk in an early shot just after our transformation with the haircuts and paint.

  Photo courtesy of the Laurinaitis family.

  Headline News! Hawk and Animal can read! Paul just looked at the pictures. 1988.

  Photo courtesy of the Laurinaitis family.

  Top left: I couldn’t believe I was an NWA National Tag Team champion. Top right: With my good friend Nikita Koloff and our IWGP tag titles. Spring ‘87. Bottom: Resting before a match in Japan with “Tiger” Hatori. Spring ‘85.

  Keirn’s face was beet red, and it didn’t take a genius to see how pissed and confused he was. All of a sudden, Keirn snapped and jumped out to the floor and got a chair, as Paul had predicted. He climbed back in and, while the referee called for the bell, he started wailing on Hawk with nasty shots like you wouldn’t believe.

  When I came running in to help, Keirn turned his attention to me. All I remember was covering my head and turning away as quickly as possible. He was swinging as hard as he could and yelling like a man possessed. It was about as real as things ever got inside a wrestling ring.

  After a few more hits each, Hawk and I powdered14 and started making our way to the back. The match was deemed a DQ, and we kept the belts.

  When we got to the locker room, though, Verne and Greg Gagne were waiting for us—and, boy, were they piping hot.

  Verne tore into us with his raspy voice: “Not in fifty years has somebody changed a finish to one of my matches. I can’t believe this fucking shit. Who do you guys think you are?”

  I answered, “Well, we did.”

  Then Paul, Hawk, and I turned and walked away.

  Was it bold? Hell, yeah, it was, but at that time we really didn’t care. We weren’t interested in lying down and looking like idiots. Paul had always made it clear that we could go wherever we wanted, especially Japan, where he said our gimmick would be huge. We even told Verne if he wanted the belts back, he could have them. And you know what? He let us keep them.

  Although we’d made up his mind for him by changing the finish, deep down Verne knew it was the best decision. He needed us, and we knew it. Greg Gagne knew it, too, but he didn’t know when to stop running his mouth.

  Two days later we were up at the Winnipeg Arena in Manitoba, Canada, in the TV room, where everyone was standing around waiting for interview time. Greg was holding court in front of all kinds of guys, including our old bouncing friend John Nord, Blackjack Lanza, Larry and Curt Hennig, Steve-O, and a new guy named Rick Steiner.

  While Greg was busy flapping his yap about what had happened in St. Paul, I came walking in and looked at Greg. Normally, I got along great with Greg, but he was harping on the wrong subject. “Hey, if you’ve got something to say, tell me to my face or I’ll knock you out in front of everybody.” It was time for him to let it go, so I motivated him. That was the end of it.

  Something else that happened around the same time we began feuding with the Fabulous Ones involved my old friend Scott Simpson from my Golden Valley Lutheran football days. I got a phone call from Jim Crockett, who was looking for some hot new talent for Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling.

  MCW was now in the prime-time slot of 6:05 p.m. on TBS with World Championship Wrestling. Crockett, now at the helm, wanted to push harder than ever to make it the next big national wrestling show alongside the WWF. I told Crockett I’d see what I could do and get back to him.

  I remembered Scott’s impressive build and athletic talent. He was the first and only call I made. Scott, much like me, was never able to break through in football the way he’d wanted. Plagued by injuries since college, Scott had bailed out of the sports scene and was exploring career options. When I called and told him about Crockett’s inquiry, he jumped at the chance and wanted to know when and where he’d begin.

  After Crockett saw pictures of Scott, who was now 285 pounds, he was convinced. He told him to shave his head and report to Atlanta immediately. From there, Scott was given the Russian gimmick and name Nikita Koloff, the young nephew of Ivan Koloff. Scott took the role so seriously that not only did he legally change his name to Nikita Koloff, but he also learned the Russian language. Nikita never broke kayfabe in public and had everyone convinced of his Communist heritage.

  Playing off of the Cold War sentiments, Nikita quickly gained prominence in the Crockett organization. His intimidating look, power, and delivery in the ring also brought Nikita another nickname, the Russian Road Warrior. Soon enough he’d become one of our great adversaries.

  As 1985 rolled in, Hawk and I were in a rhythm we didn’t even know was possible in the professional wrestling business. Wherever we went, we got huge reactions. We were having the time of our lives being the Road Warriors. We loved trying to create true mayhem in our matches, which wasn’t hard to do in those days. In fact, inciting a total riot was easy if you played the audience right.

  Take the people in Hammond, Indiana, for example. It was February and we were ready for a showdown with Baron von Raschke and Curt Hennig in Hammond. We always had great heat with Midwestern towns. They were blue collar and rowdy and, more importantly, believed every minute of the action. Baron and Curt valiantly tried to fend off our power, but we wore them down with a savage and unrelenting attack.

  During the close of the match, we split Curt open and hung him by his neck from the top and second ropes while they were twisted over one another. As Curt’s legs were dangling and he was struggling to free himself, Larry Hennig got involved and tried to help. We clubbed him off the side of the ring and kept punching Curt’s bloody head. Finally, Baron and the refs ran us off to get to Curt.

  As Hawk and I started to make our way to the dressing room, all hell broke loose around us. People were throwing garbage and drinks at us while we walked past. We didn’t take it too seriously until someone got really carried away and threw a full-sized wooden folding chair and hit Hawk right on the head. That was it. We started throwing wild punches and shoving people as hard as we could before the police could help clear the way. For a few seconds, everything was legitimately out of control.

  After we’d reached the back and caught our breath, we couldn’t believe what had happened. It was one of the most amazing things we’d ever been involved in.

  On the creative side of things in the AWA, when we weren’t fighting off an entire arena of angry fans, Hawk and I also started perfecting our trademark Road Warriors interview style. For the first time, we found ourselves in a situation where we had to give interviews all the time—and now we were expected to actually speak. In Georgia, Ole had asked Paul to do all the talking and let us say only a word or two, literally, before cutting away. Now, we were given real mic time and wanted to deliver the goods.

  We always had a basic structure to our promos. I would come in first and discuss our opponents; next, Hawk would come in and say something off the wall while flexing his dog collar off his neck with a shrug; then Paul would wrap it all up. While Paul summarized, Hawk and I usually walked off set, as if we were disgusted with everything around us.

  Hawk always provided amazing comic relief when it was his turn. For example, I might start off an interview yelling about how the Fabulous Freebirds (Michael Hayes, Terry Gordy, and Buddy Roberts) tried to cheat us out of a win, and then I’d turn it over to Hawk. Then he’d go nuts. “Freebirds! You know what you are? You’re a bunch of rats. And you know what that makes us? D-CON! Tell them, Paul.” It was hilarious.

  Many times I would start laughing on camera. I couldn’t help it. Hawk definitely got into such a groove that peo
ple couldn’t wait to see what he’d say next. I remember the camera guys telling us it was all they could do to not crack up and ruin the shot while taping us.

  We got our style down to a real science, too, usually taking no more than the first try to nail it. The director and the crew even started referring to us as the One-Take Kids. It was about getting down to business and letting our opponents know how serious we were, while making the audience laugh, too.

  From the fans to the other talent, everyone loved our promos. In essence, our Road Warriors gimmick was now totally complete. Now we could communicate perfectly, in true Hawk and Animal fashion, what we’d do in the ring. We were absolutely on fire, and Road Warrior fever was spreading everywhere, including faraway lands.

  As I mentioned earlier, Paul told us all the time that we’d be perfect in Japan. He explained that our physical appearance and combination of power and athleticism were attributes the Japanese would clamor for. Everyone saw the potential of an impressive Road Warriors tour of AJPW.

  It was a no-brainer and a win-win-win situation for the three parties involved. Verne would draw huge exposure for the AWA, as would Baba for AJPW. Baba would also be known as the first promoter to bring the Road Warriors to Japan. Of course, we won out in multiple ways. Aside from making great money and gaining a new place to work, we would get to test and fine-tune everything about our gimmick within a whole new world of professional wrestling.

  To promote our arrival, we filmed a crazy video to freak out the Japanese audience even further. We ate raw chickens and drank Tabasco sauce while walking around the woods yelling nonsense. I even remember Hawk eating a dozen eggs complete with the shells. He was a total mess. At one point, we even scaled a twelve-foot wall with a running start. We were barely able to reach the top, but when we did we were strong enough to pull ourselves up and over. There’s no question we didn’t know what the hell we were doing, but we kept on doing it. We came off like a cross between aliens and Godzilla. It did the trick.

  When we first touched down in Tokyo at the Narita Airport, we had to do a quick press conference right then and there. Hawk and I got off the plane, and media and fans swarmed around us. We were told that more people came to greet us than they did to greet Michael Jackson when he visited. No shit.

  We went through customs and straight to the bathroom and put on our face paint. The bathroom smelled like an outhouse and had this big communal trough that everybody went in. It was horrendous, and we wanted to puke.

  As we came back out, members of the press handed us 32-ounce beers and shouted, “Ike, ike.”15 I asked Paul what they were saying.

  “It means chug the beers, Animal.”

  We were already a little hammered to begin with due to the drinking we’d done on the plane, but we were good sports and downed the beer. After some posing and hand shaking, Hawk and I were ready to leave when the same reporters started handing us bottles of Tabasco sauce.

  “Ike, ike,” they yelled again.

  Ugh. I don’t think we had a solid bowel movement the whole time we were there.

  When we got to our hotel, we had the pleasure of finding out the All Japan office had booked us in the shittiest dump of a hotel you could imagine. I don’t think we quite expected the Ritz-Carlton or anything, but we also didn’t expect the Japanese version of a lousy roadside motel.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Hawk said. Within a couple of days, he started complaining about being itchy all over and was scratching like crazy. It turned out he got crabs from the bed. That was it. Hawk marched right up to Joe Higuchi, an AJPW referee who happened to be our American liaison, before one of our matches and said, “I’m not staying another night in that fucking place.”

  That night Baba moved us to The Pacific, a much more suitable hotel where dignitaries always stayed. Now we could focus on the work we were there for.

  In Japan, wrestling is like a fine art. For the most part, the crowd is subdued and stays seated. The action they were used to wasn’t as swift and powerful as what we came in with. We were like giant cannons being secretly brought into a gunfight with an explosive display the Japanese had never seen in professional wrestling.

  As soon as we kicked the door open with “Iron Man” blasting, the crowd parted like the Red Sea and collectively let out a huge gasp. They weren’t prepared for our sprint to the ring either. We came out like bulldogs, and a sea of hands reached to touch us and grab our collars. Bulldozers couldn’t have plowed through those people any better than we did. It was clear that Japan pretty much fell in love with the Road Warriors the very first moment we stormed the AJPW ring.

  Wrestling in Japan was a real learning curve for us. There was a formality and respect to everything here, including wrestling. Hawk and I were used to running down the aisle, storming the ring, and starting the action upon immediate impact. In Japan, you’d get through the ropes and there’d be the announcer, maybe two or three company officials, and usually three or four girls dressed in gowns and holding bouquets of flowers.

  The Japanese were used to these opening ceremonies and lengthy introductions for each match. We weren’t. Sometimes we’d be respectful and subdue ourselves a little, but other times we went about our business and blitzed our opponents as usual. It was hilarious to see those girls run for their lives.

  The audience was equally interesting. Most of the time when Hawk and I would jump into the ring, the fans would throw huge loads of confetti into the air from the upper seats and it went everywhere like the white flakes in a snow globe. It was a spectacle we’d never seen before.

  During that first tour of Japan, we wrestled six matches in six nights and barely had time to catch our breath—and we loved every second of it. Here we were, just a couple of bumpkins from Minnesota with no worldly experience, and we were about to perform in front of a foreign audience. It was an epic platform of East versus West, and we were the big, badass Americans filled with piss and vinegar. At least that’s the way I imagined it. We were sick to our stomachs for every show, but miraculously Hawk and I kept things down.

  Our very first match for AJPW was on March 8, 1985, in a city called Funabashi in Chiba, Japan, against the team of Killer Khan and Hiro “Animal” Hamaguchi.

  I remember thinking, Two Animals? Looks like I’m going to have to show these guys who the real Animal is.

  Khan and Hamaguchi were two strong and experienced wrestlers who were considered a monster tag team. Khan had some high profile matches against Andre the Giant in the WWF, and Hamaguchi was renowned for his great physical strength. Japanese fans couldn’t wait to see how we stacked up against two of their most powerful performers.

  Before the match, Hamaguchi, along with a translator who spoke broken English, approached me. “Um, Animal-san, Hamaguchi-san please request big honor in front of hometown.” As it went, we were in Hamaguchi’s home city, and he wanted to know if I’d take some bumps and help put him over.

  “Sure, no problem,” I said. “But when I get up, tell him to get ready for a big return.”

  They both bowed, shook my hand, and then left.

  When it was time to storm the ring for the first time, we knew that all the flower girls and the announcer would be standing there for their usual presentation, but we didn’t slow up for one second. We came barreling down at lightning speed and tore through the ropes, charging Khan and Hamaguchi with our usual blitzkrieg. The girls and the announcer went diving out to the floor to avoid being flattened like pancakes while Hawk and I hammered away at our opponents. Within seconds, we dumped them out to the floor as well.

  I quickly jumped out, grabbed Hamaguchi, threw him into the steel ring post, and hopped back in. Hawk and I stomped around the ring looking at 4,500 people cheering and throwing long streamers into the air toward us. I flashed a big double biceps pose to one side of the ring. The audience erupted like thunder, and flashbulbs ignited.

  The match itself was a four-minute squash, which basically served as a demonstration of
our list of Road Warrior power moves. Hawk started off with Hamaguchi and slammed him, elbowed him off the ropes, gave him a shoulder-breaker, dropped about another four or five elbows, and then tagged me in.

  I went right to the center of the ring and pressed Hamaguchi straight up over my head and threw him like a missile into the ropes. Without even thinking about it, I snatched him by the back of the head, whipped him into the ropes, and caught him for a huge powerslam that really popped the audience. Hamaguchi’s pained expression indicated I’d knocked the wind out of him, but I didn’t stop there. I hit the ropes and came back for a big splash, but Hamaguchi put his knees up and nailed me right across the rib cage. While I was doubled over in pain, Hamaguchi tucked and rolled over to the waiting Killer Khan and gave him the hot tag. Whap!

  Khan, a six feet five, 300-pound Mongolian monster, was all over me in a heartbeat. He started giving me double judo chops to the sides of my neck and then backed me up against the ropes before sending me across the ring into the ropes. Khan bent down and tried for a sunset flip, but I kicked him in the chest and sent him flying. Then I tried to drop an elbow, and he rolled out of the way and jumped up to tag in Hamaguchi, who climbed to the top turnbuckle.

  Khan grabbed me and flipped me on my back with a snapmare, setting up a big splash from Hamaguchi from the top rope. Remember earlier in the night when Hamaguchi asked for the honor of getting in some offense against me during the match? Well, this was his big moment. Hamaguchi dove through the air with his arms and legs spread way out. Bam! He hit me hard, and I felt every bit of it. The crowd cheered as he went for the cover, but I kicked him off me at the count of two. Then Hamaguchi launched at me with two fast dropkicks.

  That was enough for his moment. Now it was my turn. When Hamaguchi went for a third dropkick, I pushed him out of the way and then tagged Hawk for our big finish. For months now, Hawk and I had been working on developing a cool finishing move that involved both of us at the same time. What we planned in Japan for Hamaguchi was what I called the Guillotine.