WHAT DOES A VICE PRESIDENT DO, ANYWAY?

“And more, much more than this, I did it my way”

I had great experiences almost everywhere I worked because I felt wanted. But being in New York with Vince McMahon Sr. was very special. If you can make it there you can make it anywhere, as the song says, and to this day, it does mean something in our business to become somebody in New York.

People around me kind of knew I was gay, but I never told anyone in confidence I was. Until appearing on Legends’ House on the WWE Network, I had never said those words out loud for everyone to hear — but that’s a story for later. When I started to work behind the scenes for Vince Sr., I decided to tell him everything, and he simply said, “I already know. Now get back to work.” He never asked any questions, and he clearly couldn’t care less that I was gay. We had fun and worked well together. I was loyal and I did my job.

We used to tape our television programs on back-to-back days in Allentown and Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. In between those days, we stayed at a hotel in Reading, Pennsylvania. We used to go to a restaurant that stayed open just for us after the first show. Vince Sr. would invite a small circle of people, maybe eight or ten guys each time. The point was just to have a good time telling stories, drinking, and eating gargantuan meals. The gathering kept the place open until at least until 2 a.m. I was finally invited, but, as far as I knew, Louie was not. Arnold Skaaland was in charge of these little get-togethers, and as he was leaving the taping, he told me he would see me at the restaurant. I politely said I would not be coming, since I could not just drop Louie at the hotel and go by myself.

“Hell no, you’re coming. Louie is coming with me right now to set things up.”

From that point on, Skaaland and Louie became close friends.

Television taping day was a long haul, and the word started to get around that Louie was a barber. Like everywhere else we went, Louie was friendly with everybody. One day, as I was walking by the dressing room I discovered Louie cutting hair. There was a lineup of wrestlers, waiting their turn.

“What’s going on here?” I asked.

“They’ve been bugging me for so long, I decided I should just do it,” Louie said.

After that, Louie always set up a makeshift barbershop backstage at every taping, so the wrestlers could look their best.

We became a trustworthy part of the team, and we did it without kissing anyone’s ass.

As Vince Jr. began taking over for his dad, I was already an established presence backstage, in the role of what we called an agent back then and a producer today.

A few weeks before Vince Sr. passed away, we were working like crazy getting the national expansion under way with big television tapings all over the country. The old man called me from his deathbed. He wanted to make sure I would do something for him.

“Pat, make sure they take good care of André. André is our man, you know. I know Junior wants to do too much sometimes, so please keep an eye on my son, too.”

“Don’t worry, sir, I will always be there for them.”

I get all choked up when I think about this, and it shows you how deep my relationship runs with that family. Until the day I die, I have that promise to live up to. On May 4, 2015, on Pat Patterson Appreciation Night, Vince Jr. said I was a member of his family. I feel exactly the same way, but it was very special for me to have him express it like that, in front of fans in my hometown of Montréal. He also mentioned Louie on that night and that touched me deeply. I can finally be proud of who Louie and I were.

When Vince Sr. first put me on commentary with Jr., I didn’t know him very well. He can seem kind of distant when you don’t know him, and I didn’t know how we would click. Apparently we did.

At first, when he took over, some of the talent was going nuts. The kid is going to kill the business . . . The kid doesn’t know what he’s doing . . . I heard it more than a few times.

Everyone was knocking him, but he did it his way, and he was right in the end. When we started taping television in St. Louis, many of the other promoters in the different territories across the country got nervous. They were very unhappy, but he stuck to his vision. The idea that he was making the old guard unhappy never undermined his determination. All of those guys would have done the same if they had had his vision and his dedication.

I made my home in Florida at the time, and on the road I worked as an agent with Jay Strongbow, Rene Goulet, and Jack Lanza. In 1985, George Scott was Vince’s first right-hand man in the office, but that didn’t last. The first time I went north to help Vince after Scott left, Vince was far behind, trying to do everything by himself. I had ten days off from the road and I told him that if he wanted, I would use that time off to help him in the office in Stamford. I explained that I thought I could help him with production, in the hope that he could take a breather and catch up on the rest of his workload. No one else ever offered to work on their days off and, let me tell you, I didn’t have to offer twice.

I went to work in the basement because I could smoke there. (Vince hates smoking. I always find a place to hide to get a quick smoke, even today. When we are in his limo, Vince complains about my breath, even when I chew gum trying to hide it. He must have a bionic nose or something. “I still smell the cigarette, damn it.”) I did my thing: I started to map out the next two months of shows. Vince would come down and sit with me while I worked. He never once complained about my smoking, and he watched and he learned. He was impressed by my vision. Some have said that if someone has a single idea, I might turn it into a story that will go on for the next six months. Now I don’t know about that, and I sure don’t agree with everything that was ever said about me, but in this case I will agree and say that I am a very creative person.

After those ten days in the basement, Vince told me I was not going back out on the road.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re working in the office now.”

My heart almost fell out of my chest. All my life, I tried to escape white-collar jobs, and I still end up in an office? Isn’t life something? I am a team player and this was where I was needed the most, so I agreed to the change.

I moved into a Connecticut apartment with Louie. We didn’t sell our home in Florida right away; I didn’t know if an office job was going to work out for me. But it did and we sold the house and bought a condominium close to the WWE office we used to call Titan Tower. I hated living in Stamford — I’m just a regular guy, and everyone has big money there. I never quite felt comfortable in that kind of crowd.

After three weeks working in the office, Vince and his wife, Linda, took me out for dinner. She was the one who told me.

“Pat, we have something important to tell you. As of now, you are a senior vice president for the company.”

“Vince . . . Linda . . . I have no idea what this means.”

“Linda, didn’t I tell you it wouldn’t mean anything to him?” Vince said. We all had a good laugh. And then he started to explain to me what a vice president was. “It’s a great title. It means we have confidence in you and that you are an important part of the company.”

“Vince, I just know wrestling . . . I’m not sure I can be a good senior vice president.”

Apparently, I was wrong.

In the office, I took care of everything regarding the talent side of the business since I knew what it was like for the boys out on the road. I knew a few ways we could immediately make things better and get them to the next city on the schedule more efficiently. The timing was great: my body could not keep on wrestling forever, but my mind was still as sharp as ever. As Mad Dog Vachon used to say, “Getting old is not for sissies.” I’m allowed to say that, right?

I was very fortunate to get this opportunity, and the reality is not all former wrestlers are qualified for an office job. The transition meant I could stay at the top level in a business that I love. At age fifty, there are no main-event matches anymore . . . at least not for 99.9% of us.

Working in the office was something new and interesting for me. I did a lot of my work with Vince at his house, which made it a lot more fun. There were so many meetings when we were at the office, and that got old very quickly. At least for me it did. Still, I had to meet and work with a lot of new people with many different skills, all of whom were important in the company’s growth. During that time, I really had no idea how a senior vice president was supposed to act . . .

Just to show you how clueless I was, I would often have so much clerical stuff to do that I could barely keep up. Then one day Vince checked in on me and found me filing. He said, “Why are you doing all of that? That’s why you have a secretary working for you.” I didn’t even know what I should or should not ask the secretary to do. Don’t laugh, it’s true — but at least I knew the important stuff about the show.

In those early days, I did everything in the office at one point or another, including the payroll. And essentially I was working on talent relations before there even was such a department. At that time, talent relations was me telling guys to do their job on the road, in every sense of the word, while attempting to get them to call me at home as little as possible. I was the point person for the producers who were on the road. Talent would call me for all sorts of nonsense, like helping them find the closest gym, even after I had clearly let them know that wasn’t my responsibility. Not so glamorous, is it?

I was also the de facto company travel agent. When someone missed a plane or if the plane was delayed, I was the man. The producers would call me looking for a missing talent, and the talent would call to tell me what was going on and why they were late. I had to find solutions for everyone and get them in communication with each other. Before cell phones, communication on the road was no fun at all — especially when you were everybody’s contact person. Even I have an iPhone today, and let me tell you, the kids have it easy . . .

In 1989, we were running four shows in the Northeast on New Year’s Eve. To make it even more fun for me, we also had the biggest snowstorm in years. No one could get anywhere. That’s also the year I had the brilliant idea to invite all of my brothers and sisters to Connecticut for the first time to celebrate the new year. I ended up spending my evening on the phone speaking with talent and coordinating with the office. Again and again, time after time, I said the words “There’s nothing they can do” and “We’re all stuck” and “I’ll keep you posted.” On another line, I kept telling Vince that we needed to cancel everything, but he wanted to wait a little longer.

After three hours with no improvement, we finally canceled three of the four shows because not enough talent could get to those venues. Vince’s patience saved one show. It was a goddamn nightmare. The following day, we were able to get people going again, so they could get to the next town.

Even without a snowstorm, there were road issues to deal with on a regular basis. One time, the British Bulldogs called to say they’d lost Matilda, the pet bulldog that was their mascot.

“What the fuck? How do you lose a dog on a plane?” I asked.

“We don’t know what’s going on, Pat; she didn’t come with the luggage. We have to wait until we hear back from the people at the airport. At best we’re going to be late for the show,” they said.

The airport staff eventually found the dog safe and sound, but not before my life was made miserable for a few hours. On one of the worst of these kinds of occasions — because Matilda was lost more than once — airport personnel ended up delivering the dog to the arena a few minutes before Davey Boy and Dynamite were to make their entrance for the main event. The dog almost didn’t make its booking . . . And I thought I had seen everything by then.

Almost all of the talent would call me, asking about the direction of their career or what Vince had planned and more often than not, I didn’t have an answer or wasn’t allowed to answer. I always told the guys to ask Vince the next time they saw him. And that’s part of the reason why I never wanted to have the “boss” title. At the end of the day, Vince always had the final word. When taping television, I was also dealing with all the local talent brought in as enhancement for our Superstars. They were all hoping to be discovered and that took a lot of time to manage as well.

When that wasn’t enough, I would even get jokes played on me.

One time, Vince was having a meeting with the Moondogs, Rex and Spot. They started to run tons of crazy ideas past him. Vince didn’t have the time to listen to everything they were saying and cut them off. “It’s good stuff, please run it by Pat.” After I got through with them, I tried to figure out what Vince liked about their suggestions. When I spoke to Vince later, I said, “You mean to tell me you liked their ideas?”

“Well . . . I just wanted you to listen to them.”

He had thrown me to the Moondogs . . . It was a harmless prank, and we laughed about it. At the end of the day, that’s all that mattered.

I remember another time when, thirty minutes before the show was to begin, there was no ring at the arena. The truck had gotten lost. And who do they call? Me. The show was in North Dakota, and Stu Hart was the one bringing the ring. At the office, I got word he was going to be late, but he never actually made the show. We had to put mats down on the floor. We had our Superstars do matches like it was Olympic wrestling. The fans were actually happy to see such a unique display — and that’s what’s important when the show is over. That kind of thing happened to me too when I was a wrestler — you might not have the type of match you’d planned, but you can do something to send the customer home happy. That kind of stuff happened more often than you’d think, but most of the time it wound up being nothing more than a close call.

One time, a number of Superstars were late for a show in Dayton, Ohio. We were actually missing half the crew. After two matches, we had an intermission, then there were two more matches. So then I had the ring crew “work” to “repair” the ring. But they were actually stalling to buy us time. It wasn’t broken and nothing needed to be fixed.

There was one show in Toronto when, by the opening bell, the only Superstar in the building was The Honky Tonk Man. Everyone else had been held up at the border. I finally got the call that they were on their way, but I again had to buy some time. So I sent Honky out there and he must have stalled, and sung, and sung again, for close to thirty minutes. Every time it looked like he was done, he would come back to the ring and tell the crowd they were such a beautiful audience that they deserved an encore — and then he would sing again, one “last” time. People wanted to kill him.

When Vince Jr. campaigned to end regulation, I was cool with the decision. I knew firsthand how most of the “athletic commissions” were trying to take advantage of us and our success. But I still really don’t like to publicly discuss the inner workings of our business. When I see a good magician, I don’t want him to explain everything to me; it takes away from the beauty of his performance.

Enjoying a drink after work with my friend Kevin Dunn on the company private plane.

When we first started running nationwide, it was the local promoters who controlled those athletic commissions. The commissioners would make it extra hard for us to run their friends’ territory. One time in Louisville, I was told that if the doctor wasn’t showing up, they were going to pull the plug on the show.

“That’s not my problem,” I told him. “You hired the doctor, right? You make sure he shows up. If you want to cancel the show, you asshole, you’ll be the one getting into the middle of the ring to announce it. Fans are going to jump on you, not on me.”

He became defiant. “Don’t try to be smart with me.”

“I’m not trying to be smart; I’m just running a business.”

They gave us a hard time every time we came to their city. I hated all of them because they were acting dishonestly, trying to prevent our business from growing, even when we made them money. Some of the commissioners would take advantage of their position by bringing kids and family members backstage, and I would make sure they were kicked out. That was bullshit — they didn’t belong in the dressing room. All they were supposed to do was license the wrestlers and then their job was done. They would threaten me with suspension and I would tell them to try; I wasn’t the one in the wrong. Anyway, when the office spoke out about the entertainment part of what we do and got rid of most of the commissions, I was all for it because it made my job a lot easier not having to deal with all that pain-in-the-ass bullshit.

When Vince Jr. took over, we were taping television in small buildings. We had a few cameramen, and Kevin Dunn’s father, Dennis, was in charge. That’s how Kevin got into the business. He started at the bottom and worked his way up from there. Today, Kevin is executive vice president of television production. Vince started to change the camera angles and added more cameras. The intention was to change the way the product looked on TV — make it look better than ever. Everyone thought Vince was out of his mind, but he knew exactly what he was doing. All other wrestling programs had the same look from one territory to the next, with interviews always taking place near the ring in front of the people. We would record hours of interviews backstage, with all the guys tying what they said to their upcoming appearances in the different markets and then we aired each in the appropriate city. It was an unbelievable time for the company, and I believe we achieved so much with so little. It got to where we were running four towns a night almost seven days a week. We run two shows a day today — and the company has more resources than it had back then.

My duties also included putting the matches together for each show, specifically ordering each card in just the right way. And I had to communicate how the office wanted the matches to take place to the producers on the road. By that point, producers no longer had to carry the gate receipts with them; they were transferred to the company’s bank account directly. When I was first running small towns for Vince Jr., the box office would give you the money in cash, $5,000 or $6,000 each time, and you would carry it with you on the road until you returned to Connecticut.

I was in San Jose one night with André and we went to one of my favorite restaurants. I had a briefcase filled with $60,000 in gate money with me. We had a good time and André picked up the tab as usual. I had the briefcase under my chair the whole night. At the end of the evening, we went our separate ways. I got back to my hotel, undressed, and got in bed. Of course, I would always hide the briefcase under my bed for the night . . .

That’s when I realized that — yes, you’ve probably figured it out — I had left the briefcase at the restaurant. I jumped right out of bed and drove all the way there. The place was closed, but luckily there was still a cleaning crew working. I banged on the windows to get their attention but they just made signs for me to go away. I started screaming for them to come to the goddamn door. I was finally able to explain that I’d forgotten my briefcase earlier in the evening. They let me in and it was right there under the chair where I’d left it. I was so relieved.

Even though I was primarily working from the office, I was traveling so much that people always wanted me to bring them back something. There was this one guy working in the office who loved to smoke pot and play golf. Louie and this guy were friends and would play golf on a regular basis. He said to me, “You’re going to a show in New Orleans, and I’ve got a friend who lives there. He’s going to give you a couple joints for me.”

“I don’t smoke it, sell it, or carry it — so forget about it.”

“Please, Pat, it’s only a few joints.”

When I go to the show in New Orleans, his friend came to see me and he handed me the biggest bag of pot I have ever seen in my life. Just a few joints, my ass.

I was pissed about being put in that situation, and then the guy just disappeared. After the event, the wrestlers went out to party on Bourbon Street. I was the last one to leave the building before joining the crew for a few drinks. I’ve never done drugs, but I’ve also never said no to a good drink after a hard day of work. Before I went out, I hid the pot under the spare tire in the trunk of the rental car. I was scared about getting pulled over, so I wanted to be able to say that it had been left in the rental by someone else if something happened. Brilliant? You have no idea . . .

The following day, I flew home. Upon taking off, I realized I had left the whole bag of pot in the trunk of the car. For a moment, it was as if time had stopped. When I got home, both Louie and his friend were waiting for me at the airport. They were happy to see me until I explained what had happened — in fact, they didn’t believe me and were sure I was trying to play a joke on them. Then I got nervous. What would the rental company do if they found the pot in the car? They had my address and everything they needed to trace it to me. But I never heard about it, so I’m pretty sure somebody was pleasantly surprised. It’s amazing when fiction becomes reality, but I made sure to never be in that position again.

Running that many towns each night was crazy and it put a lot of pressure on everyone. It was a pain in the ass, too, in the end. We eventually started to cut back. We were flying all those guys into each town from everywhere, and frankly we could have replaced many with local talent and saved a lot of money. So finally I asked the travel department (we had one by then) to send me a report about what we were really spending. I went to Vince with the numbers.

“Do you know how much money we spend running four towns a night?”

“Oh my God. We’re going to need to cut back.”

Not long after that, we made a list of people, fifteen or eighteen of them, that we had no choice but to give notice to. I had to tell all of them to get in a line outside of Vince’s office. Everyone was scared. And it was difficult. But it needed to be done.

I worked a crazy schedule for a few years. I ended up quitting quite a few times, but Vince always wanted me back. If I was in Vince’s shoes, I know I would have wanted a friend like me working by my side. Someone who doesn’t blow smoke up your ass to get ahead. Someone who can be around me for two days and not speak a word to me because he knows I’m busy. Someone I could laugh with or talk about anything outside business. Someone who doesn’t argue with me, but makes suggestions that have the best interest of the company at heart. Since he’s busy all the time, I think he needs someone who can be there when he needs him to be there.

I think we did all right over the years.

Just to show you how we worked, one time I got to Vince’s place at 8 a.m. to start work, and at 10 a.m. he was still on the phone in his office and hadn’t acknowledged me. I got up and left. He called me that night around six.

“I’m sorry, Pat, I just finished my calls.”

“And I got the hell out of there.”

He told me I was right and that was it.

He’s Vince, and he’s the boss, but I’m not going to wait for him forever. There was no official schedule that I had to follow, but that also meant that there was an “anything goes” understanding between us.

We were at the gate in Houston once, waiting for our plane with forty-five minutes to kill. I decided to go to the restroom and smoke a cigarette. You could do that back then. Someone took the stall right beside me. That person spoke.

“Patrick . . . open up your book. We’re going to check our numbers to see if we should run that town again after tonight.”

“Vince, you gotta be kidding . . . ?”

We were talking business while we’re both doing our business. To this day, he laughs when I tell people that story. We were close, that’s for sure. A little too close for comfort sometimes. That’s what happen when you’re working with a workaholic — at least when you get along with him.

Another time, we were on a plane when, almost as soon as we took off, Vince fell asleep. Yes, he does sleep . . . occasionally. I jumped at the chance to hang out with the rest of the crew in the back. As I made my move, Vince stirred and said, “Where are you going?”

“Vince, go back to sleep. I’m just going to the restroom.” I went to the back to order a drink. It was a rare moment to kick back and relax. I could never seem to get away to take a real break.

As you may have figured out, Vince doesn’t do anything quite like anyone else. Once a month, he went to New York to get a haircut at a classic barbershop, but it was also very expensive. We left the office in a limousine to go to New York City and worked all the way there. While he was in the barbershop, I walked around and enjoyed myself. After the haircut, it was usually 6:30 or 7 p.m.

“Vince, can we get a cocktail or something?” I once asked.

To my surprise, he said yes. One drink became two and then two became four. It turned into a big party. Then it was: where could we go next to have a good meal and an even better drink? By the time we got home, we were drunk. And we’d had fun — and as a bonus for us both, the workaholic took a little time off.

Early on, I had the office right next to Vince’s, the only one with a window. The only one with a window that opened so I could smoke in my office. But Vince still knew I was smoking, because the smoke passed right by his window. I ended up having to go outside to smoke like everyone else. I was probably one of the very few people whose smoking Vince tolerated.

It’s no joke: he truly hates it. If I was driving us around, I occasionally needed to stop to have a cigarette — but I also needed an excuse for making the stop. If Vince had fallen asleep, he would always notice when we exited the highway. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure I can call what he does “sleeping.”

“What are we doing, Patrick?”

“I’m hungry; I want to grab breakfast.”

“Patrick, I think you want to smoke.”

“Good idea, Vince. I will do both.”

Sometimes, it would be to get coffee; other times because nature was calling — but, as we’ve established, that was not the best excuse because he would join me to work anyway.

Kevin Dunn was the third man on our team. If I was Vince’s right-hand man, Kevin was the left. As a producer, he’s responsible for every last thing that goes on television. Everything. Consider the number of hours of programming we’ve done over the years: the level of responsibility he’s had on his shoulders is mind-boggling. When you’re in charge of everything, it is impossible to make everyone happy. They had to let go of a few people not too long ago — I was surprised and asked Kevin why. He simply said that he was doing his job. I would not want to be in his shoes having to make those decisions all the time. I have come to respect the fact that, on these matters, he knows more than I do.

Kevin and I never had any problems working together. I love him to death and he loves me the same way. I’ve stayed at his house, I’m close with his kids, and we all play golf together. (Now that the kids are older, they beat us because we’re both bad golfers . . . I just handle it better than Kevin does.) I’m like an uncle to his kids. Kevin still talks about Louie whenever we see each other. They were good friends. He thanks Louie for all the time they spent together and for helping him with his family.

The relationship between Vince, Kevin, and me is simple: we believe in each other and we respect each other. People in the business are sometimes so set in their ways that they have difficulty working with Kevin because he’s always growing and expanding his way of thinking. More often than not, Kevin is the voice of reason balancing out our old-school ideas.

It’s not fun to be told we can’t do business like that anymore, but that’s the way it is. When people tell me wrestling is not what it used to be, I tell them they’re right . . . It’s better.

Not that we can’t improve even more in the future.

You have no idea how many times Kevin saved Vince and me from ourselves.

We were a team: I was wrestling; Kevin was producing; and Vince had the overall vision of where he wanted the whole product to go. We found connecting points between all of it, together, as a team.

Kevin has thanked me for helping him fit in and treating him like one of the boys. It was not always easy on him, back when his dad brought him to work at television tapings in Allentown. I didn’t know we would become such good friends, but I’m glad we did. I thank him too for all he did for me as well.

In the old days, when we were having late-night working sessions at Vince’s home, his little daughter, Stephanie, would sit on my lap as we put the television tapings or the next WrestleMania together. Before going to bed, she would come in to say goodnight and give both Vince and me a hug. I felt like a part of the family, like the friend turned into the cool uncle. Strangely enough, I’ve read on the internet that I am Stephanie’s godfather. Let me get the record straight here: that’s not true. People, don’t go believing everything you hear about my life and career on the internet . . . At least not without checking with me first. Linda texted me a few nights ago because she had made my favorite cake for a family dinner and it made them think about me. It felt good to get that message.

I never really worked directly with Stephanie or Shane because as they were getting more involved, I was becoming less a part of the day-to-day operations. There was another rumor that I quit the business in 2004 as Triple H (Paul Levesque) was starting to assume more responsibilities. Now that’s complete bullshit. Believe me when I write this: I was burned out at the time. And it was probably the third or fourth time I quit. (I’ve lost count.) No, I don’t want Paul to fail. In fact, the opposite is true: I desperately want him to succeed. I want the business to continue to thrive after I’m gone, and after Vince is gone. Paul knows he’s now part of my family. He knows, because I’ve said to him, “I’m not looking for a job, but if I can ever help you with anything, just ask and I will be there. I will be there for you, just like I was with Vince and his dad. You will always get the truth out of me.”

So, yes, I let him do his thing. I can’t be in his ear all the time and expect him to learn, grow, and create his own legacy. I believe he’s doing a great job at finding his own way. We’ve texted about how highly I think of the NXT talent in Orlando. He tells me that Vince often brings up my name during meetings. It’s fun to hear, and in a way I’m not surprised. I’m flattered that Paul now considers me family as well.

Back in the day, Vince and I would sometimes sit in silence across from each other for over half an hour, neither of us able to get a story moving for the Superstars. But that’s the creative process for you: a lot of downtime. For me, that was the worst. When it happened, Vince and I would start to get on each other’s nerves. Without noticing, I would start to shake my legs. Vince would ask me to stop. After two or three times, I would say, “Yeah, but half an hour ago, you were the one shaking.” We were pushing each others’ buttons.

Very recently, we were finishing a meeting at a television taping when he started bouncing his leg up and down. I just looked at him funny. He started laughing right away, because he knew what I was thinking. We have probably spent way too much time together!

I never really fought Vince over anything. He’s the boss. Sometimes I’ve been disappointed when I’ve felt strongly about something and I could not get Vince on board — but that’s what happens in any job. It was never personal. In the end, it’s his vision, and it’s impossible for him to see things exactly like me. When it’s all said and done, he has the final word. I’m the lucky one allowed to play in his sandbox. I often explain it this way: he likes chocolate ice cream and I like vanilla. He’s my boss and I can’t force-feed him vanilla. But I can attempt to convince him to try it. If he still wants his chocolate, I will have to find some and deliver it to him. There is a way to work with your boss without getting into a fight, and we’ve been much more productive that way. I don’t remember him losing his cool even once in public. I saw him get angry only once and it had nothing to do with the business.

You see, Vince has a soft side that not a lot of people get to see, especially today. Back in the day, he threw a pool party at his home with more than forty guests from the company to celebrate Howard Finkel’s birthday. He had a band, waiters, catering — the whole nine yards. At some point, people started to push each other into the pool with their clothes on. When I saw that, I decided to beat everyone to the punch and went inside, stripped down to my underwear, and jumped in. Bruce Prichard picked up my clothes and threw them in the pool: it was on. Alfred Hayes was next in . . . and pretty soon everyone but Vince was soaked. He wasn’t happy his party had taken this turn.

You know who finally got Vince in the pool that day? Louie.

Like I said, Vince never gets mad to the point of making a scene or anything. I think it’s part of the reason for his success, that he keeps his emotions under control. I remember a time when something particularly bad made it on TV, and he said, “Goddamn it, how stupid are we? How come no one said anything before we put that on the air?”

I said, “No one wants to tell you how wrong you are.” I can’t write here what he said next — but that’s pretty much it as far as Vince getting mad.

The best part of our relationship? Even when things are bad, we have fun.

Bobby Heenan is another great wrestling mind. We’re great friends; I loved him since Minneapolis where he was my manager. We shared rooms and traveled together for years. There are a lot of stories I could tell about Bobby. When we entered a hotel room, he would carry me in his arms as if we were newlyweds. We had fun laughing about that all the time. It was our thing. My favorite Bobby Heenan memory took place in Toronto. He’d had a few too many at the bar and I had to convince him to go back to the room and go to bed. Ten minutes later, I couldn’t sleep so I started getting dressed to go out.

“Where are you going?” Bobby asked.

“I need to get out of this damn room, Bobby. I need some fresh air.”

He said OK, but in his head I guess he thought that I wanted to pick someone up at the bar. All I really wanted was a few more drinks with the guys. I knew Bobby wouldn’t sleep while waiting for me to return — he was just too curious. When I came back, it was pitch black. I made just enough noise and talked as if I had someone with me. “Shhh, he’s asleep. Don’t worry; we’ll have a good time.”

The following day when I told Bobby I was alone, we laughed again.

“Pat, I was sure you had someone with you. I didn’t know how I was supposed to position myself. I didn’t know if I could watch or not. You had me all screwed up in my mind.”

He told that story again and again in the dressing room. We’ve had quite a few laughs about that night.

One time when Hogan was just hitting his peak, the agents’ reports from the road were all about how great they were doing. I told Vince we’d made good soup . . . but the agents were the ones who were enjoying our recipe.

Around the same time, we had a show at the Meadowlands in New Jersey, not too far from the office. Vince told me we would not be working that Saturday because he had a wedding to attend. A lightbulb went off in my head.

“I’m going to the Meadowlands to have some fun.”

I had one hell of an idea for the show and Vince was excited as I told him about it.

“You’re going to have one hell of a time putting that together.”

“Oh yeah, we’ll tear the goddamn house down, Vince.”

Then he started to throw in his own two cents for me to execute at the show within my idea. At first, it was cool, but then things kept evolving to the point that it was not really my idea anymore. I told him to call the agents and explain the idea himself, because I was not going anymore. He’d taken the fun out of it.

I wanted to speak to the talent face-to-face, not just make decisions in the office with him. But Vince is very creative, too, so much so that, I swear, sometimes I thought we’d drive each other crazy. Maybe he did drive me crazy? I don’t know.

The part of my job I really loved back then, and still love today, is helping the talent directly with their matches. I learn more about them as people, and I become a better judge of who is worth sticking with by connecting with them at that level.

When Shawn Michaels and Marty Jannetty were first coming in, they were fired almost on the spot after destroying a hotel room. Vince was clear: “The Rockers are dead to me, Patrick.” They had been there for a cup of tea, and no one knew Shawn would become the star he was destined to be. They were just new talents who had screwed up and made the company look bad. In Vince’s mind, they had blown it and that was it.

I knew they had skills, and that they were just kids trying to entertain themselves. Kind of like me in a way. I never got in trouble like that, but I had wild parties on the road in my day. So periodically, I approached Vince with the idea of bringing them back. One day, he finally relented. “Call them, but it’s on you. Make sure they behave this time.”

I helped Shawn Michaels, but he was not the only one. I believed in Bret Hart as well, because I truly thought getting behind him was best for the whole company. I’ve never wanted to take credit for what they achieved, but since they have both said I was important in their career publicly, I guess I can acknowledge I helped. I would never brag about it to either of them when I was fighting for them to get a chance in the main event. The reason I fought for them was for the company and not for them personally. I thought it was good for business to have Shawn Michaels and Bret Hart as our top stars, because they were so very talented. There was no other reason. It’s the same thing today when I put my two cents in about talent I feel can do more for us. In the end, the office always makes the final decision, and I just play a small part in the process. Vince should get all the credit for putting André and Hogan together. So today I think it can be told that I deserve a lot of credit for putting Shawn and Bret together.

But they’re not the only ones I took an interest in. Vince didn’t take me seriously when I first suggested Rey Mysterio for the main event of WrestleMania 22.

“Vince, the fans will never believe the kid has a chance for the championship. We work to get that reaction. People pop a nut when something unexpected like that happens. This will be a priceless moment, one you can’t buy. Think about it, will you?”

By that time, I just knew when an idea had registered with him — and that day it did. He didn’t change his mind right away, mind you, but the seed was planted and he came to the same conclusion I did. There was no need to fight for it — just wait and let him make the call.

I never told Rey it was my idea, but he was shocked when he ­finally learned the role I played. He made a point to thank me and he even mentioned it in his book. (Did everyone write a book before me?)

Daniel Bryan: could you imagine if he had not been brought back to WWE? When I tried to get his name back in discussions, Vince resurrected the “dead to me” line. Bryan had choked ring announcer Justin Roberts with his tie, unknowingly breaking company policy of choking anyone on television. I told Vince that many people had done a lot worse than Bryan, and they’d been brought back. Everyone makes mistakes. I thought we should give him another chance and John Cena even agreed with me. That didn’t hurt. Bryan never asked me for anything; I just felt we should give him a second chance.

Just like I’d battled for Shawn, I refused to let go. When Bryan came back, he went over like there was no tomorrow. Because he’s special. Look at all he’s accomplished.

I’ve often told Vince, “It’s hard for me sometimes. And I want you to understand something. I have two hats here: the friend and the colleague. Sometimes, it’s difficult to be both at once. Don’t get mad at me when I need to tell you the stuff you don’t want to hear. Understand also that I will never abuse our friendship and tell you to do something that’s not to better the business.” You just can’t use a man for your own personal gain and call him your friend. I will never do that, and I never have. Business is business and friendship is friendship. When I wasn’t around in-person, Vince was always calling me. I think we needed to be friends to maintain our sanity — I was with him twenty-four hours a day — but business always came first.

Another talent I love is Chris Jericho. A few years back, when NXT first started, they wanted him to compete with one of the rookies from the show. He was a bit upset and he wanted to speak to me about it.

“Pat, you know I respect you. Tell me the truth. What do you think?”

“What’s the problem?”

“I don’t understand . . . It’s not helping me.”

“Chris, when he beats you, you’ll go crazy. He got a lucky win on you . . . It’s not going to kill you, it’s just . . . entertainment.”

The last time he came back to work with a big contract, I teased him.

“I’m so glad you came back. That loss, I guess it didn’t kill your business.”

He never forgot that lesson and he even mentioned the story in his third book. (Three books — I can barely get through one. Kids today . . .)

He’s a hardworking son of a bitch. Guys his size have to be really good and produce every single time they go out there. I feel a real connection to this type of talent. They remind me of my own career; they face the same issues that I faced. Like me, they have something different from larger-than-life characters like Hulk Hogan, Randy Savage, or Ultimate Warrior.

What you project as a character is what ultimately sells tickets. Mickey Mouse still sells tickets for Walt Disney. It’s almost as if Vince looked at wrestling years ago and decided to create something similar. He saw wrestling like the world of Disney, with all those characters aiming to be bigger than life. I never asked if that was his intention, and at some point we probably tried to do too much . . . Like making a garbage man a character and stuff like that, where everyone was cartoonish. I think we’ve struck a better balance today; there will always be a need for good characters, which can turn around the career of a good wrestler. Sure, we have hits and misses, but for every Duke “the Dumpster” Droese, there is an Undertaker.

You know, we weren’t sure what to do with Undertaker when he first came to WWE.

“You know how I see him?” I said to Vince. “I’m not sure what is the exact word for it, but he reminds me of characters in old Western movies . . . That guy with the long black coat who would have different roles in town. Like a doctor . . .”

Vince said, “You’re not describing a doctor, Patrick.”

“I don’t know what they are called.”

Someone said, “From your description, I think you mean an undertaker.”

That was a good name — I had the concept in my mind but I didn’t know what to call it. The funny thing after that is when Percy Pringle came in to work for us, he told us he was a licensed mortician. Undertaker and Percy knew each other from Texas — it was a match made in hell. When the man who would became Paul Bearer said mortician, Vince and I started laughing. He was mortified, the poor soul. He was sure he had just blown his interview by saying the wrong thing. We reassured him he had said just the right thing. Isn’t that amazing?

For a long time, it was only me working with Vince. Now, there are something like twenty people working in creative with him. How they get anything done amazes me.

I went years without seeing Hulk Hogan after he left Florida, but you could tell he was already starting to piece things together. He was always a Vince McMahon Jr. guy, part of his vision all along. I told Hulk to call Vince Jr. when we crossed paths working in Montréal for André’s promotion. The rest, as they say, is history.

In this business, if you love what you do, all you have to do is invest in some boots and a pair of tights. That’s what Hogan did, and he became bigger than all of us. His success then trickled down to everyone else in the business.

I believed in Hulk Hogan as “our guy” in the mid-1980s. He was the hero and we depended on him. All that mattered was that he was WWE’s locomotive. When we worked together, it was my job as a producer to make him comfortable and let him know that the company had his back. That didn’t mean, however, I would not poke fun at him.

On one occasion, he was in a big meeting with Vince in one of the boardrooms, so I went to the top of the tower in Stamford and hung a Hogan wrestling buddy from the roof so that it would dangle just in front of the window. We all had a good laugh, and that’s all that mattered. You need to laugh in this business if you want to make it. Too bad it’s not always fun. It can be very hard and there is often not enough time to enjoy success.

And when tragedy strikes there is even less time to pick yourself up.