Hulk Hogan once said: “Nobody told me this gimmick stuff was fake.”
Hogan — who arguably stood behind only Andre The Giant as the most famous professional wrestler of his era — endured 25 surgeries, including 10 on his back alone, during his illustrious 35-year career in the squared circle from 1977 to 2012. “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan once proudly told me during an interview for The Intelligencer that he was perhaps the only competitor from that Golden Age of wrestling who still had all of his own original body parts.
Professional wrestling is not fake. It’s choreographed. Big difference.
A new documentary now out on Netflix, “Hulk Hogan: Real American,” touches on the myriad injuries pro wrestlers deal with on a pretty much daily basis as they pursue riches in the ring. It’s a tough life. And only a few ever cash in on the really big money.
As a kid growing up in Belleville in the 1970s, I remember watching pro ‘wrassling’ on summer Friday nights downtown at old Memorial Arena. I didn’t know until much later that those guys — including some big names at the time like “Haystacks” Calhoun and Angelo “King Kong” Mosca — were almost constantly on the road, plying their trade in smalltown rinks just like Memorial Arena from Bathurst to Brandon and practically everywhere in between. (Mosca also played in the CFL.)
As the game grew in popularity and with the advent of over-the-top shows like the Royal Rumble and Wrestle Mania, pro wrestlers came under increasing pressure to come up with more impressive routines and even more mind-blowing bodies. That meant countless hours spent in the gym lifting weights when they weren’t throwing each other around in the ring.
In the ‘old days,’ pro wrestlers might’ve relied on raw eggs and red meat to build their muscles. Beer and booze were the painkillers of choice.
Later, muscle-enhancing steroids entered the picture along with a wide variety of pharmaceutical options for pain-killing drugs. Some legal; some not.
The game had changed. And it was even harder on the body.
The result was a litany of retired professional wrestlers who died young. Too young. Among them, “Rowdy” Roddy Piper, 61; Randy “Macho Man” Savage, 58; The Ultimate Warrior, 54.
Meanwhile, it wasn’t until my teenaged years that I began to think of pro wrestling as ‘fake.’ That was before I met veteran performers like Sweet Daddy Siki, Ted “Million Dollar Man” DiBiase, Mick Foley, Bret “Hitman” Hart and Duggan.
Foley in particular was noted for an extreme willingness to sacrifice his body on a grand scale for the sake of selling a great show. Over the course of his almost 30-year professional wrestling career he suffered eight diagnosed concussions, broke his nose and other assorted bones, lost at least four teeth, tore up a knee and his abdominal muscles, wrecked his back, suffered a bruised kidney, and was stitched up too many times to remember.
When I met Foley a few years ago during a promotion at the former Yardmen Arena, he was wearing a back brace beneath his shirt. Climbing the stairs to the press box appeared to be a chore.
Longtime serious Hart fans will recall his infamous bout against fellow Canadian Dino Bravo at old Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto in 1989. At one point in their battle, Hart broke his sternum and a couple of ribs in a violent collision with a metal barricade just off the ring apron.
He could barely breathe. He couldn’t speak.
Still, Hart hung in until the end of the match. Only later did anyone learn that he went straight to hospital after the bell.
Hart’s career, in fact, ended soon after he absorbed an errant kick to the head in a 1999 match versus Goldberg. He retired in 2000 after struggling with post-concussion syndrome. Goldberg later apologized.
“In my day, wrestling had to look pretty real,” said Hart in a Sports Illustrated interview in 2015. “There is an art to it and a need to do it right. It’s a tough job. But you never want to injure one wrestler or stop someone from feeding their family.”
Today’s professional wrestling shows bear little resemblance to the bare-bones bouts I used to watch as a kid on summer Friday nights at Memorial Arena. But in at least one regard, the game remains the same.
It’s one tough way to earn a living.
