Travicity
01-25-2011, 09:43 PM
Fightin’ Words
By Mike Greenblatt
So there I was: at the wheel in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere driving Ric Flair to the St. Louis Ring of Honor show. We were late and I had missed an exit.
“Where the hell did Cary get you from to drive me around,” asks Ric.
At this point, I had had it. So I shushed him up and tried to listen to the soothing tones of the GPS girl who kept saying “recalculating,” the one word you do not want to hear when relying on a disembodied voice to get you where you’re going.
I got him going conversationally just to pass the time, having figured out his favorite topic would be himself and I was right. He spoke of his son Reid and his hopes for Reid’s wrestling career. I asked him if he’d appear for Ring Of Honor with Reid as a tag-team and he said he’d consider donning the tights for ROH if his son could get a shot.
Somehow the talk turned to politics. He mentioned presidential aspirant Mike Huckabee. Knowing that Huckabee is a total whacko far-rightwing religious fanatic about as fit for the White House as Sarah Palin, I deferred comment, opting instead to talk about Iraq. “We should just blow that country off the face of the map, every man, woman and child,” said Flair.
Conversation ended.
That’s when I made my mistake. “So I hear you’re going to be a special guest referee tonight.”
“What are you talking about,” Flair shouts in my ear. “I made no agreement for that. People try to take advantage of me all the time and I just won’t have it. I JUST WON’T HAVE IT! DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND! STOP THIS CAR! STOP THIS CAR RIGHT NOW! PULL OVER! TAKE ME BACK TO THE AIRPORT! I’M NOT DOING THIS!”
My hands white-knuckled the wheel, tense with the thought he might hit me, but I kept driving. ‘DID YOU FUCKING HEAR ME? TURN AROUND YOU MORON!”
I had to think fast. I kept driving. “Ric,” I pleaded, “I made a mistake. I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re reffing tonight. There’s hundreds of your fans who have been patiently waiting for you to show up. The line is long and they really want to get a chance to see their hero. They really love you, Ric. In their eyes, you’re still the Champ. Please don’t disappoint them.”
“Is the line around the block,” he asked?
“Oh yea,” I answered, “in fact, it’s around two blocks.”
He settled back in his seat. “It better be.”
“Recalculating,” said the female voice.
That little tirade seemed to break the ice between us. It’s almost as if he had to test me before he’d open up and be a decent guy. I admitted to him, I’m hardly a pro driver, just Cary’s cousin who has enjoyed wrestling with him since we were kids. He seemed to like that. He told me of how he used to watch wrestling on TV as a kid in wide-eyed wonder and knew from an early age what he wanted to do with his life. (For the rest of the weekend, though, he kept referring to Cary as my brother. He did it so often, it was too late to correct him. I didn’t mind.)
I recounted my early experiences watching wrestling and loving Johnny Valentine and Buddy Rogers and he told me that’s where he came up with “Nature Boy.” He also dug the great Buddy Rogers, the original “Nature Boy,” the first WWWF Champion. From there we talked of feuds and controversies within the squared circle, rock’n’roll and adventures on the beautiful island of Puerto Rico.
We pull up to the venue. Flair gets out and I hustle him downstairs amidst a flurry of well-wishers. Then I disappear into the locker room and slump against a wall remembering that awful moment when Ric Flair started yelling at me in the middle of nowhere to turn around and go back to the airport.
I’ll never forget it.
ROH
By Mike Greenblatt
So there I was: at the wheel in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere driving Ric Flair to the St. Louis Ring of Honor show. We were late and I had missed an exit.
“Where the hell did Cary get you from to drive me around,” asks Ric.
At this point, I had had it. So I shushed him up and tried to listen to the soothing tones of the GPS girl who kept saying “recalculating,” the one word you do not want to hear when relying on a disembodied voice to get you where you’re going.
I got him going conversationally just to pass the time, having figured out his favorite topic would be himself and I was right. He spoke of his son Reid and his hopes for Reid’s wrestling career. I asked him if he’d appear for Ring Of Honor with Reid as a tag-team and he said he’d consider donning the tights for ROH if his son could get a shot.
Somehow the talk turned to politics. He mentioned presidential aspirant Mike Huckabee. Knowing that Huckabee is a total whacko far-rightwing religious fanatic about as fit for the White House as Sarah Palin, I deferred comment, opting instead to talk about Iraq. “We should just blow that country off the face of the map, every man, woman and child,” said Flair.
Conversation ended.
That’s when I made my mistake. “So I hear you’re going to be a special guest referee tonight.”
“What are you talking about,” Flair shouts in my ear. “I made no agreement for that. People try to take advantage of me all the time and I just won’t have it. I JUST WON’T HAVE IT! DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND! STOP THIS CAR! STOP THIS CAR RIGHT NOW! PULL OVER! TAKE ME BACK TO THE AIRPORT! I’M NOT DOING THIS!”
My hands white-knuckled the wheel, tense with the thought he might hit me, but I kept driving. ‘DID YOU FUCKING HEAR ME? TURN AROUND YOU MORON!”
I had to think fast. I kept driving. “Ric,” I pleaded, “I made a mistake. I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re reffing tonight. There’s hundreds of your fans who have been patiently waiting for you to show up. The line is long and they really want to get a chance to see their hero. They really love you, Ric. In their eyes, you’re still the Champ. Please don’t disappoint them.”
“Is the line around the block,” he asked?
“Oh yea,” I answered, “in fact, it’s around two blocks.”
He settled back in his seat. “It better be.”
“Recalculating,” said the female voice.
That little tirade seemed to break the ice between us. It’s almost as if he had to test me before he’d open up and be a decent guy. I admitted to him, I’m hardly a pro driver, just Cary’s cousin who has enjoyed wrestling with him since we were kids. He seemed to like that. He told me of how he used to watch wrestling on TV as a kid in wide-eyed wonder and knew from an early age what he wanted to do with his life. (For the rest of the weekend, though, he kept referring to Cary as my brother. He did it so often, it was too late to correct him. I didn’t mind.)
I recounted my early experiences watching wrestling and loving Johnny Valentine and Buddy Rogers and he told me that’s where he came up with “Nature Boy.” He also dug the great Buddy Rogers, the original “Nature Boy,” the first WWWF Champion. From there we talked of feuds and controversies within the squared circle, rock’n’roll and adventures on the beautiful island of Puerto Rico.
We pull up to the venue. Flair gets out and I hustle him downstairs amidst a flurry of well-wishers. Then I disappear into the locker room and slump against a wall remembering that awful moment when Ric Flair started yelling at me in the middle of nowhere to turn around and go back to the airport.
I’ll never forget it.
ROH