THE FRUITS OF MY LABOR

“And now, the end is near;
And so I face the final curtain.”

Each year, after a few winter months in Florida, I begin to miss Montréal and am eager to go home and recharge my batteries. After all these years of living elsewhere, it’s still my home, and it is very important for me to go back and spend the summer there. I drop by Montréal from time to time even when it’s cold as hell — I love that city.

Early on in my career, I realized you have to take life seriously, because if you don’t, you won’t end up where you want to be. You have to be careful — if you start doing something like taking drugs, you’re going to fuck everything up. That’s why I never took drugs: I was in charge of my life. I quickly learned that nothing lasts forever, especially not a wrestling career. I don’t know how long I’m going to live, or even if I am going to be healthy in a few years. I don’t want to end up in a home and rot away all alone, so I always keep an eye on the future. I didn’t think Louie would go first. And with all the travel I did, I could have died in a car accident on almost any given day. Still, as you know, that doesn’t mean I didn’t have fun along the way . . . And I still have fun today.

I play golf a lot with friends, and I enjoy spending time with the likes of Sylvain Grenier, Stéphane Levasseur, and Frédéric Dumoulin. (I even sang at their weddings.) Don’t worry, ladies, Sylvain is not married yet.

If I had not found wrestling, I might have become a comedian. Here in Québec, there was a guy named Gilles Latulippe who became really famous doing vaudeville, burlesque, television, and theater. After meeting on the golf course, we became good friends. If we had met when we were young, we could have become quite the funny pair. Strangely we were brought up in the same neighborhood — his dad owned the local hardware store. But he was almost four years older than me, and we didn’t meet until decades later. When we played golf, we’d never stop telling jokes. During the summer, I sometimes went to Gilles’s shows. He was amazing onstage, exactly what I think comedy should be. When he passed away in 2014, Gilles’s widow and son made sure to let me know he appreciated my friendship. We laughed our asses off together, that’s for sure, and it makes me wonder about roads not taken.

Another person I got to know at Le Mirage — the golf club owned by René Angélil, Céline Dion’s husband and former manager — said to me when we first met, “Mr. Patterson, I know you very well and I know your real name. It’s Pierre Clermont.”

I thought, What’s the big deal? You’re not the only one, buddy. “Yeah, so?”

“I know everything about your whole career.”

He introduced himself as Rodger Brulotte, but I still had no idea who he was. He said he knew many of my uncles, and that he’d been brought up in the same neighborhood, too. Well, it turned out that Rodger has been a Montréal journalist since forever. He was the French voice of the Expos and Major League Baseball when Montréal had a team. I didn’t know that, I guess, because I had spent so little time at home during my career. He now works for some of the biggest television and radio stations and with the most-read newspaper in the city. We started to play golf together after that, and we’ve become friends. He’s introduced me to a lot of the hockey players and other celebrities in the city.

I love to enjoy the simple pleasures of life and getting out for fun things like golf. But unless I’m performing in front of a crowd, I somehow always feel there is something missing.

One day, after finishing on the golf course, I joined the guys I’d been playing with for a beer at the clubhouse. I was a mess after a few hours on the course, so I just wanted a quick drink. I really looked terrible.

At Le Mirage that day, they were hosting an amateur singing event and the place was jam-packed. We went in and sat at the bar — but the thing was no one would volunteer to sing. It wasn’t karaoke; you had to sing and people were intimidated. The manager started teasing me about going onstage, but in those days I hadn’t really started to sing publicly. He offered to pay for all of my drinks if I got up. To make a long story short, you know wrestlers and their freebies. I got a standing ovation and after that two more people volunteered. I received a second ovation for my encore. It became a regular thing at Le Mirage and they always made sure I was going to attend on those nights. People tell me during the week that when I am singing on Fridays, they have to be there because their wives would not have it any other way. This really is how I got started and now people can usually find me at my favorite karaoke bar in Montréal or in one in just about any city I visit with WWE. There are even videos of me singing posted on YouTube — performing like this fills a void.

The first time I did a show in Miami, I was scared. I had to sing for two hours all by myself and I wasn’t sure I could pull it off. People had paid fifty dollars for the show and a good meal, and I was more nervous than if I was headlining Madison Square Garden for a fifth time with Bob Backlund. Pier Béland — a famous singer from Montréal, who has since passed away — even got onstage with me as a surprise, and she never did that for anyone. We had become close over the years, and I appreciated her supporting me like that. Then Latulippe came out as another surprise and began to tell jokes. I never asked either of them to do this for me; they just did. People went away saying I had quite the show, and I was very happy.

Near my house in Florida, there’s a bar called Frenchie’s. As the name indicates, it’s a favorite hangout of Quebecers living in Florida. I go there almost every day during the winter to eat and visit friends. I did a show there recently that I billed as my retirement from singing. If I ever come back to do another full show, it will have to be billed as a “special attraction . . . for one night only . . . as requested by the fans.” I played my ultimate trump card that night to make sure I would leave an impression: I had The Rock join me onstage. The crowd went crazy when they heard his signature WWE intro: “Do you smell what The Rock is cooking?”

I fell to my knees as if I was truly shocked when he appeared, and then we sang a little duet. To close the show, I bought a glass of champagne for everyone in the bar and sang “Quelle importance le temps qu’il nous rest?” Everyone in the room knew the French song; its title means “Is it important the time we have left?”

Maybe because I was born in such a large family, I never felt the need to have a lot of people around me all the time. I love a good party and everything, but I don’t feel lonely when I am by myself. Louie has been gone for a while now, and I don’t feel the need to be with someone for the sake of being with someone. I make many friends, but I’m free to do as I please.

I like going to the gym today more than I ever did during my active wrestling career. As I get older, I’ve noticed that when I skip the gym, it has an impact on what I can and cannot do. I want to enjoy life as much and for as long as possible, so I go to the gym. I love to walk, too, and that also makes me feel good.

I’m not a big movie buff, but if there is a can’t-miss movie I will go. But it better be really good, because sitting in a theatre for two hours is not really for me. My favourite TV show is America’s Got Talent — I can spend hours watching that. If I were a young man today, that’s probably where you’d find me. On stage, trying to win a million bucks or become a star in Las Vegas.

I like doing crosswords and I like to read biographies. I’ve especially loved the ones about my favorite singers, like Frank Sinatra, Paul Anka, and Eddie Fisher. And I like reading newspapers to keep up with what is going on in the world. Back in the old days I would always have a book or a newspaper with me while traveling. Now, I also have my iPad. Surprisingly, perhaps, I like shopping. Now don’t get me wrong, I like shopping, not buying. I usually just go to find and admire beautiful things. In fact, sometimes I’ll go to a store three or four times before making up my mind and buying something.

I also love going to live shows. But it’s mostly comedians who interest me, rarely singers. I did sit in the second row to see Alys Robi. She was a big star in her day, and if she was to come up today, she would be as big as Celine Dion. They made a movie about her life that really touched me and I remember her from when I was growing up. When I saw an ad in the paper that said she was having a one-night-only show at Theatre National I ordered ten tickets for my whole family. She hypnotized me.

I’ll never forget that night; she was too good. I had goose bumps hearing her sing live. After the show she was in the lobby selling her CDs and meeting with fans. Man, I lined up like everyone else to kiss her hand. She was show business incarnate. And strangely, her dad was a wrestler — and she had dated Paul “the Butcher” Vachon, Mad Dog’s brother. I remember her attending wrestling shows in my early days. She would be performing at Casa Loma and in between sets she would watch the matches at the Palais des Sports. My favorite song she sings is “Laissez-moi encore chanter” or “Let Me Still Sing Again.” It touches me deeply; I relate to her being considered too old but she just wants the world to let her sing.

I loved my trip to Egypt where I visited the Sphynx and the pyramids.

I still travel at least once a month with WWE, and I’m always wonderfully humbled by what life has in store for me. We did a show in Malaysia and stayed in Kuala Lumpur in a hotel just in front of the Petronas Tower. We were in a hundred-floor skyscraper, with marble everywhere, and I had a room so big I was sure there had to be a mistake. I was one of the producers in charge and it was shortly after 9/11. I don’t have to tell you that security was a concern. (We also went to Singapore, where you can’t throw your cigarette on the street without being arrested. There are undercover cops everywhere there.) In Kuala Lumpur, we weren’t allowed to leave the hotel. We traveled in buses from the hotel to the arena, escorted by the police. During the show, I went outside in the parking lot and our buses were being guarded, with police cars surrounding them. No one could get near them — the idea being that they were preventing someone from planting a bomb. It’s so odd to think back on it now, but things like that get you nervous about what could happen. How could I have ever imagined when I took the Greyhound from Montréal to Boston that I would end up in a bus in Kuala Lumpur under police protection? I didn’t know what a Kuala Lumpur was . . .

When I was in Boston, I sometimes felt it was inevitable that I’d have to go back to Montréal. I was enjoying myself, but not making any real money. What was I going to do with my life? I didn’t want to go back to work in a factory. I wanted a career. I was one of the lucky few who made it, but there was a price to pay. I missed the weddings and birthdays and — except for my mom and dad — even the family funerals. I was happy, but because of wrestling I was never as close to my family as I should have been. Another small regret.

Today I try to play catch-up. That’s part of the reason I spend more time in Montréal now. I have a great place downtown, and in the winter I don’t have to go outside and I can walk in the underground tunnels everywhere in the city or just hop on the subway. When it’s warmer and sunny, I like to walk until I reach Papineau Street or the old Montréal Forum before returning home, just like when I was a kid.

I still enjoy the nightlife, and I try to make new friends.

I was in my favorite Crescent Street bar once when I met these two kids from Toronto. Obviously, they were older than twenty-one, but at my age, I call everyone I meet a kid. Anyway, I was sitting there hanging out, as I often do on a Monday night so I can watch Raw — I have a report to send in, even when I’m not on the road. Finally, after a while, they mustered the courage to ask me if I was Pat Patterson. I decided to have some fun and I said, “No, I’m not.”

One of them said, “It’s amazing how much you look like Pat Patterson.”

“Who is Pat Patterson?”

“He’s a wrestler.”

“I’m sorry. I know nothing about wrestling.”

The poor guys were freaking out because they thought they’d found my long-lost twin. They searched for pictures of me on their phones and showed them to me.

“Goddamn, that son of a bitch does look like me.”

Finally, I burst out laughing and told then I was indeed Pat Patterson. I had an audience of two and that was enough for me. Again, if you ever meet me, expect the unexpected.

Another time, at the same bar, I struck up a conversation with two students about their future. They knew who I was, but we were just talking about life and about the future. I told them the story of my youth and they could not imagine how hard my early days were. We had fun drinking and talking. One of them gave me a big hug out of nowhere and told me, “Mr. Patterson, I will never forget you. All the knowledge and inspiration you gave us tonight. I want you to know, you made a difference in my life.”

Another time, there were two women drinking beer on the patio when a homeless person passed by, grabbed their drinks, and started to run. I didn’t think and went running after him. I caught him before he could even reach the corner of the street.

“Give me those goddamn beers now.”

Everyone was watching, so I decided to scare him a little by telling him what I’d do to him if he ever tried that again. He ran off. I came back to the bar with the beers and got a standing ovation. Anything to get a reaction from an audience . . .

I love meeting people in show business, because we speak the same language. Most wrestlers from my day don’t want to admit it, but what we do is show business. I don’t go to a lot of wrestling conventions, but I managed to have fun one year in Las Vegas. I sang “My Way” at a karaoke bar and all of the old-timers in attendance were crying. I’m telling you, all wrestlers are artists at heart. In a way, I don’t miss wrestling as much as some do, since I have found so many other interests and managed to stay involved in the business. But I don’t want my whole life to be about wrestling, and I don’t live and breathe the business anymore. I don’t have a lot of friends who are still in wrestling. Mean Gene is a good friend, and he’s still in the business — but more about him in a bit. The truth is, I used to enjoy the company of men like Red Bastien and Nick Bockwinkel because we had fun talking about everything but the business.

I have remained close with Louie’s family and I go back to Boston once or twice a year. That’s important to me. Instead of a tombstone, I had a bench in marble made for his graveside. It has his name, his date of birth, his date of death, and a phrase he loved engraved upon it: “I love loving you!” I don’t just love you, I love to love you . . . I miss him very much. If it weren’t for his ­absence, my life would be perfect. I don’t know whether I want to be buried with him in Boston or back home in Montréal, but I’m really not ready to think about that just yet. Going to see Louie at the cemetery makes me happy. I feel close to him again. We’re all scared of death; we all wonder what comes after. I don’t know if there is something after, but it can’t hurt to hope I’ll get to speak with him again.

In 2006, I had a brush with death that changed my perspective. Actually, I’m very lucky to still be alive. I had an aortic aneurism. When that type of thing reaches five centimeters, they operate on you right away, no questions asked. (Remember that piece of information for a bit.)

I was in old Montréal with my sister Annette in one of my favorite Italian restaurants. For some reason, my back hurt like crazy. Nothing out of the ordinary after a wrestling career, however; it’s kind of expected for your back and other body parts to hurt from time to time. I had played golf that day so I blamed it on a pulled muscle. I went to smoke outside and I tried to stretch, hoping it would go away. But it got worse. My sister finally said, “That’s enough. You’re going to the clinic.”

When I finally saw a doctor, it was early the following day. He had x-rays done and everything. The doctor said, “It’s very serious, sir. I suggest you go to the hospital right away with this paper.”

I wanted to go back to Florida to see my own physician, but this doctor said I had to get checked out first. It was too dangerous for me to fly. At the hospital, I waited for quite a while before my sister got mad and finally got them to send me for a scan. At that point, I was suffering pain like I’d never experienced in my life. Finally, a doctor appeared to say that situation was indeed very serious and that they were waiting for a specialist. Twenty minutes later, after another scan, a heart specialist appeared to say he had to operate immediately.

“How serious is it, doctor?”

“You have a ten percent chance of surviving this operation. And even if everything goes well, you might lose the use of your legs.”

I had been scared a few times in my life, but never like that.

I was able to give my sister my watch and rings and I said my goodbyes and I went for surgery. My aneurism was at 11.9 centimeters wide: they had never seen one larger. People usually die before one gets anywhere near that size.

I woke up four days later, in rough shape. Even after I started to feel better, they still weren’t sure if I’d lose the use of my legs. So out of fear one night, I just got up and started to walk, naked, in the corridor. I told the medical staff I was leaving to play golf. I spent two more weeks strapped into the bed after that little escapade. When I was finally able to leave the hospital and walk normally, I was told to stay in Montréal for another month to recuperate. When I finally saw my doctor in Florida, he told me he couldn’t understand how I was still alive. A few months later, I went back to the clinic that had sent me to the hospital. If I had taken the plane back to Florida like I wanted to, I would not have made it. I thanked the doctor there for saving my life and we both started crying. I was grateful. Today I don’t take chances with my health, and every six months I get a physical. Nobody knows exactly how the aneurism happened. And while my whole family came to see me and were very kind, it was no fun being so helpless. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance at life and I plan to make the most of it.

I have medication I need to take for the rest of my life, hopefully to prevent this from ever happening again. And so it’s all good: I’m still here. Now that I have told the world I’m gay, I have more dreams for the future.

I would love to do a big show in Montréal, invite all of my friends to sing and play music. All the money from tickets sales would go to help gay youth. I’d love to create a foundation to help young people who have been thrown out or shut out by their parents, just like what almost happened to me. But I also want to say this: my father was a good father; we always had everything we needed. For a long time, he just could not wrap his mind around the fact I was gay. He met Louie and he finally came to love him. But there are a lot of people out there who are just as ignorant as my father used to be, men and women, who just need time to learn to accept their children. That’s why I want to help . . . So no one has to experience despair like that.