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

by Joe Laurinaitis

  As it turned out, Crockett was an even bigger proponent of ours than I realized. He may have been the president of the NWA, but for our meeting he came off more like the president of a Road Warriors fan club. Jimmy was nothing but smiles and compliments and even asked us for our autographs for some friends and family members.

  I found it all especially funny because Paul had prepared a whole spiel extolling the virtues of the Road Warriors and how much Crockett Promotions would benefit from an exclusive deal with us. It would’ve been preaching to the choir.

  After dispensing of all the pleasantries, Jimmy jumped straight to the money issue with a gleaming smile and wide eyes. “Boys, just to let you know, it won’t be any problem at all to immediately start making more than you are with Verne. Hell, with the piece of the gate I’ll be giving you, there’s no reason you shouldn’t be pulling in half a million a year each.”

  I almost fell out of my chair. Half a million dollars!

  As soon as I heard Crockett say it, I flashed back to my first run in Georgia as the Road Warrior. Night after night, I had sat in some fleabag hotel, broke and starving, with a baby boy sitting in Minnesota counting on my every move. I knew I needed the security of a full-time job and came to terms with sucking it up and giving the drudgery of Honeywell another try. When that didn’t work out for the second time, I swore I’d never go back to a tie and a desk.

  But now things had worked out. After struggling and busting my ass night in and night out along with Hawk and Paul, we’d finally carved ourselves a prime spot in this granite business. And now it was time to find the rock-solid security in a contract to match it. I’d earned it. My son needed it. I was going to get it.

  “Jimmy,” I began, “we want to come in here and do great things with you, but we need a commitment that we can trust in. We want to make Crockett Promotions our home.” Crockett didn’t blink as I continued. “You know you need to lock us in like the other top guys if you want to build this company right.”

  I could see Jimmy’s face start to drop and realized right then and there we weren’t getting guarantees.

  “Joe,” he said, “I’d love to be able to offer you contracts like you want. If it was within the realm of possibility, I’d be signing them with you right now.” Then he went into various explanations of why guaranteed contracts were a scourge to the wrestling business and could ruin a company, sending it careening into bankruptcy.

  Crockett said he’d keep an open mind in the future about giving us guarantees but that for now we should keep working any and all dates for him that we could and keep our star rising in the NWA. We could start pulling double duty as main eventers in both companies and even triple duty for that matter with our trips to Giant Baba and All Japan. For the time being, I agreed, but under protest.

  When we all stood up and shook hands, I pulled Jimmy in close and said, “You realize you’ll be changing your mind before you know it, right?”

  He winked and replied, “We’ll see, Joe. We’ll see.”

  As soon as we were out of the building and hitting the streets, I told Paul to call Vince McMahon and schedule a sit-down. We needed to see what was going on with the one place we didn’t know anything about, the World Wrestling Federation. One way or another, one company or the other, I was getting my guaranteed contract.

  8

  FACE-TO-FACE WITH VINCE

  In 1985 virtually nobody in professional wrestling had guaranteed money. Everybody’s paydays were based on percentages of viewers. With the advent of annual and then quarterly PPV events, top performers could count on big paydays based on the live gate as well as home viewing subscriptions. The basic adage was “If you put asses in the seats, you’re putting money in your pocket.”

  It wasn’t outrageous at all to hear about guys like Hogan or Flair getting million-dollar payoffs from WrestleMania and Starrcade even back then. We had nothing but respect for those guys. I’d see guys approach Flair (and later Hogan) all the time to shake his hand as if he was a made man in the Mafia, thanking him for helping put food on their tables at home. It was well-deserved respect.

  But what performers like Flair and Hogan had that I admired most was their business experience. They knew they were prized commodities and had the negotiating experience to play the game accordingly, bringing promoters like Crockett and McMahon to terms they couldn’t refuse for fear that the talent would jump over to the other guy.

  And that’s why I knew we had to go see Vince McMahon for ourselves. A few days after our meeting with Jimmy Crockett in early September, the three of us boarded a flight from Minneapolis to New York City.

  I remember we flew first class and had some cocktails on the way. As we approached JFK Airport in the distance, as corny as it might sound, I stared out of my window at the Manhattan skyline with the awe and wonder of a kid. It was the first time I’d ever flown directly into New York City and seen the Statue of Liberty from above. They were doing heavy renovations at the time for the Statue’s upcoming hundredth anniversary, even replacing the original torch, so there was heavy scaffolding surrounding every inch. Still, I had a weird, humbling moment when she first came into view up close. Like so many thousands of hopeful travelers before me, I took pause and thought of the great opportunity at hand.

  It was time to see what might be in store for us when we landed. After we picked up our luggage, our limo driver held up a sign with the words “Hawk, Animal, and Paul” on it. I elbowed Hawk, who walked over to the driver, pointed at the sign, and said, “That’s Mr. Hawk and Mr. Animal to you. Got it?” Then he started cracking up and put his arm around the guy. We even autographed the sign for him so he could have a good story for later.

  During the thirty-mile drive up to Stamford, the three of us didn’t really say much, choosing instead to watch the landscape pass by. Without a word, I knew we were all wondering what to expect from the man behind the magic curtain at the World Wrestling Federation.

  Finally we were off the main highway and going down a long private driveway in the woods, which opened up to a sprawling estate. When we pulled up to the main house, I saw two Great Danes lying beside each other like the royal dogs of Castle McMahon. As I was stretching my legs and looking out at the front yard, the main door swung open and out came Vince himself.

  Smiling, he welcomed us to his house and shook our hands. When I said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. McMahon,” he immediately corrected me. “No, no, none of that ‘Mr. McMahon’ stuff while you’re at my house. Call me Vince.”

  I was surprised how big he was. Not that he was huge or anything, but I’d say he was my height and around 230 pounds, an obvious gym rat.

  “Been following the Hulkster’s advice, huh, Vince?” Hawk asked.

  Vince looked at him and smiled. “What’s that, Mike?”

  Hawk leaned over. “It looks to me like you’ve been saying your prayers and taking vitamins.”

  Vince’s smile grew as he put his arm around Hawk and looked over at Paul and me. “Well, Mike, aren’t we all?”

  As we walked to the front door, I noticed Vince’s clothes. He looked as if he’d popped right out of an L.L.Bean catalog. Not only was he wearing penny loafers and khakis, but he actually had a sweater tied around his neck like a model in a Doublemint gum commercial or something.

  He took us on a quick tour of the house, a very traditional colonial type. In the main sitting room, a large, hokey painting of Vince himself in a green suit hung above a grand stone fireplace. What struck me about the portrait was that the Vince on the canvas looked way too thin to be the guy standing next to me.

  I couldn’t resist commenting. “That was pre-Deca, right, Vince?”

  Vince just looked at me with a smile and again we all burst into laughter.

  After walking through the rest of the house, we all sat down and had an incredible lunch prepared by Vince’s personal chef.

  When it was time to get down to business, Vince took us all into his office. “I can’t begin to
tell you how surprised I was when I got the message that Paul Ellering called. And I couldn’t be more delighted that you’re in my home right now.”

  Then he leaned forward in his chair and folded his hands on the desktop. “So what can Vince McMahon do for the Road Warriors?” All of a sudden, he’d turned into a Mafia don or something.

  Paul took center stage and spoke on our behalf, getting straight to the point. “Vince, I wanted to let you know that Mike and Joe here have been offered guaranteed contracts with Crockett for close to a million dollars a year.” Paul knew that in the art of salary negotiations, it’s important to start off big. After all, if you aim for the stars and come up a little short, you’re still high in the sky. “Before we committed to a deal that’s going to give Crockett the advantage of being the home of the Road Warriors, we thought we should give you a gentleman’s chance to weigh in. Maybe there’s another opportunity we might be able to explore in the WWF.”

  Vince looked amused. I’d like to say that the rest of our talk with Vince was a keystone moment in my life and I learned amazing things about the inner workings of professional wrestling contract negotiations, but none of that’s the case.

  Paul had only begun his pitch for guaranteed contracts when Vince interjected his own theory of how we’d fare in the WWF. “Boys, I can’t give you guarantees. That’s not the way I conduct business. In the WWF, we do things with a verbal agreement and a handshake. What I can offer you is the opportunity to make every bit of the amount you can make with Crockett.” He went on to explain that unlike any other company, the WWF stressed the earning potential of merchandising. He said guys like Hogan and Roddy Piper were going to be multimillionaires from royalty checks alone.

  As he spoke, he walked around the room with spreadsheets in his hand. Before excusing himself for a trip to the bathroom, he strategically placed the papers on his desk right in front of us.

  We took the bait and looked at the sheets. We could see they were for Piper, but none of it made any sense. Personally I think Vince screwed up and left the wrong pages out. All of the numbers and percentages were out of context, making it impossible to decipher. I’ve wondered if Vince put those papers there just to have some fun with us. It’s not hard to picture him on the other side of the door standing in the hall laughing to himself and looking at his watch.

  None of it really mattered anyway. My ulterior motive was clear from the get-go, and that was to put pressure on Crockett and get our contracts. If by some shot in the dark Vince would’ve wanted to scoop us up for a similar deal, all the merrier. Any way you sliced it, being at Vince’s for our little powwow was something I wouldn’t have missed for the world.

  When Vince finally came back in, we knew things wouldn’t work out for us in the WWF for the time being.

  “I figured as much, Joe. No worries. After all, you’ve got guaranteed deals waiting for you down in Charlotte, right?”

  Right. Well, not really. But we all shook hands, and I told Vince we’d be back someday to take over his tag team division.

  He let out one last laugh as we walked out the door.

  When we got back from Vince’s, word got out quickly about our meeting, which was the perfect way to let Crockett know we weren’t fooling around. Now that Hawk and I were pulling our load for both him and Verne, Jimmy would have to “shit or get off the pot” in regards to signing us to contracts. Meanwhile, Hawk and I knew our run as champions in the AWA was over and we needed to drop the titles before taking off.

  At thirteen months, our reign as the AWA World Tag Team champions was the longest in company history. We could have kept on going for as long as we wanted to, really, but it was time. Aside from the fact that we weren’t going to be focusing on the AWA anymore, our recent breakthrough as babyfaces helped force the issue. When we’d been monster heels, people had always wanted to see if anybody would be able to step up and dethrone us. It never happened. Like us, everybody from the fans to the other guys in the AWA got used to us always being the champs.

  As in Georgia, the reason we were given the tag belts in the first place was to get us over with the new AWA audience. Now, a year later, we were one of the hottest tickets in the United States, Canada, and Japan. Not only did we not need the titles, but having them was anticlimactic. Verne asked us to suggest who should have the belts, and we knew right away it should be “Gorgeous” Jimmy Garvin and “Mr. Electricity” Steve Regal (not to be confused with Steven William Regal from the WWE).

  We’d wrestled those guys countless times, and they would fly all over the ring selling our moves. Besides that, Hawk and I really liked them personally. To set up Garvin and Regal’s title win, we came up with a two-part plan involving the Fabulous Freebirds. Now that Hawk and I were faces, the Freebirds rotated directly into our old position as the top heel team in the AWA. Our confrontation had been coming for a long time.

  The Fabulous Freebirds consisted of Michael “P.S.” Hayes, Terry Gordy, and Buddy Roberts, one of the most successful heel teams of all time. They were like a cool gang of Dixie rebels from Atlanta. Hayes was their long-haired, moonwalking front man who did all the talking—and singing. Hayes recorded the Freebirds’ entrance song, “Badstreet USA.”

  While Hayes brought all the flamboyance to the Freebirds, six feet four, 290-pound Terry Gordy supplied the brawn, and Buddy Roberts, a bushy-haired Harpo Marx lookalike, was a scrappy little presence you always had to watch for. In regular tag matches with the Freebirds, Roberts usually was odd man out because he was older and smaller. While Hawk and I would be focusing on the action in the ring, Paul had to keep a sharp eye out for Buddy.

  The first match we ever had with the Freebirds in the AWA was during a super card show at the Meadowlands on August 16 in Jersey. Because the Meadowlands complex was across the Hudson River from New York City, it was considered WWF country, and that’s why Verne always pulled out all the stops when he rolled into town. He’d call Jim Crockett, and the two of them would pool their rosters and stack the event with the best stars each company had to offer. They figured if you’re going to be in Vince McMahon’s backyard, you might as well have a party at his expense for a change.

  With Paul as our partner, we took on all three of the Freebirds in a chaotic whirlwind of a match. The whole thing was mostly out of control with all six of us constantly in the ring brawling. I’d always go right for Gordy because he was the biggest and I wanted to get my hands on him for a press slam.

  That slippery son of a gun kept avoiding it until I finally had my chance. Near the end of the match, Hawk and Paul were on the floor with Hayes and Roberts on various sides of the ring while I was all alone with Gordy in the middle of the ring. I had Gordy in a headlock and whispered, “You’re going up, big boy.” Then I grabbed him by his crotch with one hand and his neck with the other and sent him up on his way. He went up quickly. It was probably the only time he’d ever been picked up like that. I could tell by the look on his face when he hit the mat how surprised he was at my ease in pressing his big ass. After all, he was 300 pounds.

  The thing about the press slam as a move is its usual reliance on the person being pressed. He has to know how to properly go with the move, keeping his body as stiff as possible to help distribute the weight evenly. But once I’d get someone rested on my collarbone, even if he was 400 pounds, he was going up.

  During my powerlifting days, pressing movements had always been my suit. Who’d have ever thought I could translate my lifting into a practical profession? I was made for press slamming. And I don’t care who came before or after me; nobody press slammed or powerslammed with as much strength and finesse as I did. If there’s nothing else I’m remembered for in pro wrestling, that would be perfectly fine with me.

  I’ve got a strong man’s pride and can honestly say that throughout my entire career I never failed on a press slam attempt, and that includes lifting the likes of wrestlers over 300 pounds including Jumbo Tsuruta, Killer Khan, Hulk Hogan, and Terry Gordy.


  That night at the Meadowlands, Gordy came down so hard on his back that he yelled for Buddy Roberts to help him. Roberts climbed into the ring and brought a chair with him. He started whacking me across the back. Bam, bam, bam! The DQ was called.

  The Freebirds’ loss by disqualification that night in Jersey gave buildup for a co-main event AWA World Tag Team Championship rematch at SuperClash on September 28 at Comiskey Park in Chicago, our kayfabe hometown. Twenty-one thousand wild fans filed into that old baseball stadium for Verne’s super card extravaganza, an answer of sorts to the success of recent shows like WrestleMania and the Great American Bash.

  Collaborating with Crockett, Verne was able to feature both Ric Flair versus Magnum T.A. for the NWA World title and Rick Martel versus Stan Hansen for the AWA World title. Even Giant Baba himself as well as Jumbo and Tenryu flew over from Japan to compete together in a six-man tag match.

  When it was time for our match, the Freebirds came out first to the field through the visitors’ dugout, and would you believe it? Hayes, Gordy, and Roberts all had their faces painted like the Dixie flag to mock us. They did their faces up completely red, with two white diagonal stripes with stars intersecting right at the bridge of the nose.

  I had to give it to them; it was pretty funny. We didn’t even know they were doing it until right before they were set to go out and passed by our dressing room. Hayes poked his head in and waved, saying, “See you out there, motherfuckers.”

  I looked at Hawk and about died laughing. It was a first-class rib.