About this time I had the opportunity to work with another legendary name in the business. Eugene “Mean Gene” Okerlund was as recognizable as anyone at the top of the professional wrestling world, having been the main interviewer with the WWF during the mid-eighties golden era. I couldn’t even think of him without instantly imagining Hulk Hogan towering next to him, shouting, “Let me tell you something, Mean Gene!”
For whatever reason, the WWF hadn’t offered him a contract renewal, so in late 1993 Eric Bischoff welcomed him into WCW with open arms. When Lash and I had our first pre-match interview with him, his presence alone took us aback, all five feet six of him as well as that little mustache. We just couldn’t believe it was really Mean Gene standing there with a mic in our faces, giving us that intent look as he asked about our opponents for the night’s WCW WorldWide tapings in Orlando—Johnny B. Badd and Mr. Badstreet USA, Michael Hayes.
What can I say about that first encounter? At least it started out great.
Lash blasted off into some of our classic dialogue. “Let me tell you suckas something! We’re not going down Bad Street. We’re going down 110th Street, fools!”
I jumped in. “We’re the Harlem Heat, and we rule the streets! Now can you dig that?” Like a complete idiot, I thrust my arms out dramatically for emphasis and knocked the stick right out of Gene’s hand.
He picked it up quickly and shot me a look of disgust, as if he were thinking, Who the hell are these guys, and why am I wasting my time with them?
Man, talk about making a great first impression with a legend in the business!
Our first six months in WCW spun by quickly. In December, we competed with Scorpio and Bagwell, traveling to the Georgia towns of Dalton, Gainseville, and Macon.
We closed out 1993 with a Christmas matinee in Denver, which was miserable for this Texas native. It was about five degrees, and there must’ve been at least a foot of rock-hard snow on the ground. But we were there to put on a show for about a thousand WCW faithful who came out on Christmas to see a good show, so I gave them my best.
By this point in our various runs with each other since June, Scorpio and Bagwell could really cook it up with Harlem Heat in the ring. We easily predicted and followed each other’s moves, and the four of us brought the crowd to their feet with one high-flying maneuver after another.
Because we were in Scorpio’s hometown, he brought out one of his showstoppers. When it was time for me to go down for the count, I took a clothesline from Bagwell and fell into position near their corner. Scorpio leaped to the top turnbuckle and turned out a perfect 450-degree splash.
Whenever he did that move, to make sure I didn’t get the air knocked out of my lungs, I’d make sure my arms were tight across my chest. My hands cupped my groin for safety, too. When it came to aerial maneuvers, Scorpio was effortlessly safe, but there’s always going to be risk when a 225-pound man rotates in the air with all that momentum. While his landing looked like a ton of anvils, it was light as a feather. The audience roared as I took the three count for the hometown boy.
After the show, Scorpio brought me to his warm, inviting home to meet his big family and share Christmas dinner. It put me in a nostalgic frame of mind. I thought of the boisterous Christmases at home when all my siblings converged on our little house to enjoy mom’s delicious home cooking.
I also thought about Brandon and hoped he’d gotten everything he wanted. As always, I’d sent money to Carolyn so she could check off his wish list for Christmas as well as his birthday on December 29.
He turned ten that year. I called to wish him a special day, but I deeply regretted that I couldn’t make it to Houston to see him. He was always on my mind in every town and arena.
The New Year crept in without too much fanfare as Lash and I once again headed up and down the Georgia highways. People didn’t usually recognize us yet, but we were gaining some attention with our solid TV matches. Lash and I were doing our jobs and doing them well, but we had a long road ahead of us.
We started the year in Gainesville on January 3, 1994, in another confrontation with Cactus and Maxx. I found myself once again staring up as Jack heaved from the apron with a sickening thud onto the concrete next to me. I knew each of those elbow drops was shaving off the quality of his life, but Cactus was a man on a mission.
The Clash of the Champions on January 27 in Baton Rouge brought a complete surprise to everybody when Bobby “The Brain” Heenan decided to come on board. Heenan was arguably one of the greatest WWF managers and wrestling personalities of the eighties, and here he was on WCW television. Harlem Heat wasn’t on the card that night, but Lash and I were there to see the events unfold.
When we saw Bobby walking around backstage, I elbowed Lash. “Hey, look who it is. The Brain.”
We had a Mean Gene moment, finding it hard to believe another legendary figure was coming into the company. I thought WCW must’ve been doing something right to be bringing in more familiar faces from the competition. Little did we know this would soon become a trend.
Bobby joined the commentary team, exuding his typical sarcastic heel disposition that came so naturally to him. The classic one-liners fans were used to hearing from Heenan in the WWF were now enhancing the product of WCW. He was a perfect complement to Tony Schiavone. They had a fun antagonistic banter under the action on TV. They were great both for business and for guys like us.
In fact, every time we would be in the ring, Bobby would naturally side with Harlem Heat, the heels. One time we were walking down the aisle and fans were in our faces, booing. I looked at the broadcast later and heard Tony say, “Is that thumbs-down to Harlem Heat, or is that thumbs-down to the Brain from those fans there? I guess we’ll never know.”
Bobby didn’t miss a beat. “I believe they’re giving you the thumbs-down or Okerlund. Because they wouldn’t give it to me, and they certainly wouldn’t give it to Harlem Heat.”
Later during the same match, after I gave a jobber my jumping Harlem Sidekick, Bobby said, “They don’t care who you are. They’re just going to beat you up! Take a good look! Videotape it, rerun it as much as you want. Slo-mo it, fast-forward—it doesn’t matter because you’re going to have to get in the ring with Harlem Heat, and we’ll see what you’re made of then, tough guys!”
Those kinds of lines were exactly why Bobby Heenan was an asset to WCW, and Lash and I knew we were fortunate to have him.
Soon it seemed new talent came into the company every other week. Not all were seasoned veterans from the WWF; there were some promising newcomers too. Bischoff was looking to develop some homegrown talent, just as Sid had done with us. One of those guys, who went by the name of Terra Ryzing, debuted that February.
When Ryzing came in, I’d never seen or heard of him, but you could tell he’d be a star. In fact, he already was, because somebody had scouted him out and brought him to WCW as a hot commodity. With his look and demeanor, WCW might’ve even been grooming him as the heir apparent to Ric Flair. He was unquestionably putting in the hard work. At his debut on WCW Saturday Night, I saw a lot of Flair’s characteristics in him. He wore blue trunks, had the blond hair and the arrogance, and his Indian Death Lock finisher was like a reverse version of Ric’s figure four.
With his natural athleticism, great looks, and strong work ethic, Terra Ryzing would go on to solidify his place in wrestling history as Triple H in the WWE. Not only would he end up leading two of the most recognized stables in this business with DX and Evolution, but he’d also go on to become the COO of the WWE.
Even though we passed each other only a handful of times, I knew I’d see him again.
We spent February in the warmth of Orlando at MGM for a few weeks of WCW WorldWide tapings. Match after match, Lash and I focused on getting ourselves over with the crowd with building energy in the ring.
Near the end of the month, on February 20, at SuperBrawl IV in Albany, Georgia, we were booked into a major PPV win over Thunder and Lightning, a muscular babyface team the company was pushing at the time. The guys wore blue singlets and capes that brought Batman and Robin to mind. Lightning, whose real name was Jeff Farmer, was someone I really enjoyed working with anytime we had the chance. A few years down the line, Jeff would find greater exposure and success when Bischoff reinvented his look into one of the most iconic wrestlers ever.
Harlem Heat was hitting our stride and starting to upgrade our look. Gone were the Brooks & Dunn shirts and the standard black-and-red tights. We were now wearing matching one-piece black vinyl long-form tights with custom-stitched red-and-orange flames. I also incorporated plastic rings that rested on our chests and connected fabric straps, leaving our shoulders and backs exposed. We’d keep the do-rags for now and add matching vinyl jackets for our entrance to the ring.
No one had seen anything like our custom look. We were still 110th Street all the way, but even brutes from the ghetto like to look good. We lit ourselves up into the kind of characters we would’ve wanted to see on TV growing up. Richard Roundtree of Shaft would’ve been proud.
Going into that match, I had a ton of anxiety. We were starting to feel the pressure of being the only black guys on the roster. It’s hard to explain, but on occasion, being in the Deep South as a black heel team and constantly being matched with white babyface teams could be nerve-racking.
It sometimes took me to my school days when Lash would protectively walk behind me, his big palm lightly clutching the back of my neck, letting everyone know they’d have to get through him to get to me. Our travels back then were usually without incident, but there were days when someone would yell, “Nigger!” With Lash there, I’d just look around and shrug it off and we’d make our way onward.
As confident as I was by this time in my career, when I inevitably heard some hillbilly in the crowd yell a crack like that, it just rolled off my back. Whatever their problems were, they had nothing to do with me or Lash, and I was determined to never let attitudes like that hold us back.
By this time, rumors were running rampant about WCW recruiting Hulk Hogan. Hogan had left the WWF in the midst of a steroid scandal that culminated in a federal trial. Hogan testified in exchange for immunity from prosecution. In the wake of the storm, he left the business to pursue opportunities in film and TV. By the spring of 1994, Hogan was doing a show called Thunder in Paradise for TNT on set in Orlando, and word reached us that Bischoff went down to offer him big Turner money to return to the ring.
Hulk liked what he heard, and the creative wheels were set in motion. The Hulkster’s star power would be a game changer for everyone employed with WCW. The company wasted no time airing vignettes as early as SuperBrawl IV with Mean Gene, The Shockmaster, and Brutus Beefcake on the set of Thunder in Paradise, indicating the obvious WCW tie-in and ultimately setting up his return to professional wrestling and, more importantly, a match with Ric Flair.
Hogan versus Flair had been a dream match for fans and the industry alike for years. Throughout the late eighties and early nineties, speculation ran rampant about who would win in a contest between the WWF Champion, Immortal Hulk Hogan, and the WCW Champion, the “Nature Boy” Ric Flair. When Ric jumped over to the WWF in 1991, hype for a match between the two reached unprecedented heights. The world would finally know who was the best in the business, and fans eagerly anticipated the two titans clashing at WrestleMania. The giants did face each other in a series of house shows all over the country, from New York City’s Madison Square Garden to San Francisco’s Cow Palace. However, they hadn’t faced off on the grand stage of WrestleMania as everyone expected. Now Bischoff attempted to correct history’s error.
When Hogan’s arrival had been officially confirmed, panic set in with the rest of the boys. “Hey, did you hear?” they’d say. “Hogan’s reuniting his old WWF clique and bringing them all over.” They were referring to guys like “Macho Man” Randy Savage, Brutus “The Barber” Beefcake, “The Mouth of the South” Jimmy Hart, “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan, and “Earthquake” John Tenta. “Man, this could really mess things up for our spots.”
With Mean Gene and Heenan already in WCW, it seemed the WWF’s transfer was almost complete. To me, the momentum was a good thing. With the stars coming over, so should new revenue for WCW’s house shows, PPVs, and merchandise, which would increase paydays for everyone across the board.
With Hogan’s arrival a few months away, I was gearing up for two weeks in Germany. On March 8, we arrived in Ludwigshafen, where I performed a series of singles matches with two of the business’s most recognized players, Sting and Ricky Steamboat. Like Flair, these major players had requested to work with me. I was humbled, but this time I wasn’t going to let my nerves work against me. I laced up the boots, composed myself, and prepared to make everyone proud.
By this time, Sting and I knew each other from time backstage and mixed tag matches. My objective was to generate heel heat and make him look as good as he ever had in his career.
We proceeded to get in the ring and light it up, and something occurred to me: Sting’s letting me lead the match. His confidence in me made me realize just how much I’d learned, and I wasn’t going to let him down. Of course, the outcome was for me to get wrapped up like an inverted pretzel in the Scorpion Death Lock, but as the crowd’s cheers exploded, the loss felt like a victory.
When we got to the back, Sting congratulated me with a huge smile.
Steven Regal, who’d had his doubts about me and Lash when Sid brought us in, announced to everyone, “I’d like to see anyone in here go and do better than that.”
It was an unforgettable moment to receive that validation from the seasoned pros.
The next night in Cologne, Ricky “The Dragon” Steamboat and I went twenty minutes without a net, and it was the smoothest action I’d experienced in a ring. Steamboat was teaching me with a style that contrasted with Flair’s. Ricky would have me on the hook in the corner, chopping me across the chest while talking to me in short statements: “Duck the clothesline. Harlem Sidekick. Steal some heat.” It was so simple, perfect, and yet completely different from anything else I’d been shown. Flair was a master at making himself and his opponent look good, whereas Steamboat was a pro at making the match look good.
By March 16, the German tour was winding down with just a few more shows to go. We were in Dresden, changing after our performance, and I was talking with Regal. Out of nowhere, Cactus Jack barreled through the curtain, blood covering every inch of his face. He wasn’t complaining, and he never even grimaced or made much of a sound. He just avalanched onto a bench, breathing hard.
Just then, WCW announcer Gary Capetta burst in, looking ghostly pale. He held something bloody in one hand, and as he walked toward Cactus, he said, “Jack, this is your ear.”
Wait. What was that?
Regal and I looked in Gary’s hand, and there it was.
Jack gazed at it with no expression for a couple of seconds, then slowly looked at the rest of us with a smirk on his face. He put his fingers up like little pistols and gave his trademark catchphrase, “Bang, bang!”
I was shocked beyond words.
Regal looked at me as if to say, What is this madness?
I thought, Is this what this business is all about? What have I gotten myself into?
As it turned out, Cactus had wrestled Vader, and when Cactus went to clothesline him, the big man ducked, sending Cactus out of the ring toward the floor. However, Cactus’s neck got caught up in the top and middle ropes, which were rubber-coated steel cables. In an attempt to free himself with the ref’s help, the over three-hundred-pound Cactus pulled and scraped his head through, almost completely severing two-thirds of his right ear from his face. He climbed back up to finish the match, and as he was punching Vader, the dangling piece of his ear flew off. The referee saw the curious fleshy object sitting in the ring, quickly picked it up, and gave it to Gary in the corner.
Eventually, Cactus would have reconstructive surgery, but the results weren’t ideal.
I couldn’t get the whole scene out my thoughts. Well, Booker T, welcome to Cactus Jack’s world of professional wrestling. Bang, bang, indeed.