I wasn’t in the May 12 Raw in Philly, but Teddy Long and Stone Cold, the new Co–General Manager, announced I’d be in another battle royal, the newly reinstated WWE Intercontinental Championship at Judgment Day that Sunday in Charlotte. I was optimistic the belt might be coming my way until I saw the promotional poster for the PPV. It was a magnificent work of art featuring only me in a creative double image standing in my entrance pose in color within a larger, blacked-out silhouetted version. I felt honored to be immortalized in such a way to promote the event, but being featured in a PPV poster is usually a kiss of death indicating it won’t be your night.
When it was show time, I buckled up my boots, drank my two trusty Red Bulls, jumped rope, and was ready to perform as if the belt were coming home with me. As the match began, it was Jericho, R.V.D., Val Venis, Lance Storm, Christian, Test, Goldust, Kane, and I going strong for the second richest prize in the WWE.
Kane was the biggest threat, so the rest of us tossed him over in a group effort. Then Goldie came after me with an attempt, but I reversed and took him for a ride out of the match. I eliminated Test and smacked Christian in the face with a Houston Sidekick to the mat.
They hit my music, and Pat Patterson was handing me the belt until the ref, who’d been knocked out, came back to life just as Christian sneaked back in and hit me with the belt, sending me over the top to the floor.
Although Christian had clearly cheated in front of everyone, this performance was a definite move back up the ladder for me and escalated the conflict between the two of us.
Christian and I would continue feuding on Raw, weekend house shows on the road, and subsequent PPVs into July.
At Insurrextion 2003 on June 7, in Newcastle, England, the WWE’s fourth and final exclusively British PPV, Christian rolled me up and used my trunks for leverage to score the pin fall.
Eight days later at Bad Blood 2003 in Houston, the hometown hex came upon me. I had all the momentum rushing forward to eclipse Christian as he rolled out of the ring and allowed himself to be counted out, keeping the title. Or so he thought. The ref made it clear that if he didn’t get back in the ring he would actually forfeit his title. Reluctantly, Christian came back to the ring and hit me with the belt, taking the DQ but retaining his championship.
Every single time, everywhere we met, he managed to squeeze away by either cheating to win, receiving interference from Jericho, losing by DQ, being counted out, or even being assisted by Eric Bischoff.
On June 30 in Buffalo, Christian and I battled for two full-time segments between commercial breaks, maybe one of the longest matches in Raw history, and we came to a point where we caught each other in a double small package with both of us being in a pinned position. Nick Patrick, no longer a biased WCW official, counted three and awarded me the championship, or so I thought. Seconds later, Bischoff came strolling out and announced it was a draw and again the belt eluded me.
Performing with Christian in the marathon-type stretches was a tremendous experience. When we got in there and started working together, I discovered Christian was a master of timing, instincts, and psychology. He performed like a veteran with twice his years of experience in the ring. He taught me a few tricks, and we got along so well that sometimes it was nearly impossible to wrestle him with a serious approach. He’d be saying something funny and making outrageous faces to make me crack, and like Knobbs in the old days, sometimes he succeeded.
As amicable as Christian and I were, though, business was business and my pursuit of the WWE Intercontinental Championship finally came to an end the following week in Montreal, Quebec, Canada: Christian country.
First, Stone Cold came out and apologized for not having been around for a while due to food poisoning and said it would be Booker T and Christian again for the IC title that night.
Christian said, “I have nothing left to prove to Booker T or his peeps,” but when he tried to walk out on the match, Austin commanded him to come back and said the title would be on the line due to his constant count-out wins, and to ensure a fair fight, there was a no-DQ rule in effect.
Christian, saying the match couldn’t start until he was in the ring, tried to walk away again.
Austin grabbed him and threw him inside, and the bell rang.
It was finally my time, and the crowd knew it. I swarmed all over Christian and scissor kicked him to the mat, went for the cover, and got the three count. It seemed I’d won, but it was another false finish as the ref said Christian’s foot was on the rope.
I’m pretty sure Christian and I set the record for suspenseful false finishes in a single feud. Dusty Rhodes would have been proud.
We resumed the match, and Christian scored a low blow on me and almost had the pin and the victory, but I kicked out, recovered, and took control for a second. My final scissor kick nailed Christian’s championship coffin.
“One! Two! Three!”
I’d finally done it.
I almost expected another last-minute swerve to take away the title, but it never happened. I was the new Intercontinental Champion.
Late into my first Raw IC title defense in Indianapolis on July 14, the creative guys didn’t disappoint. They had Christian pin me for the title, but in another controversial false finish, a second ref ran down and contested the call. My old supermarket combatant Stone Cold came to the ring with a third official and ordered us to continue. In no time flat, I pinned Christian to rightfully retain the belt.
While I left with the prize held high, Christian threw a classic tantrum in the ring. When he made the mistake of putting his hands on the ref, Austin promptly delivered a picture-perfect Stone Cold Stunner to close out the segment.
Over the next couple of weeks, I squashed Christian’s buddy and my old partner Test in Los Angeles with Steiner. It looked as if I was free of attempts at my title for a while. However, fate has a clever way of throwing a wrench into a smoothly operating machine.
The WWE went down under for a short tour. The first night in Sydney, August 1, I teamed up with Goldie for old times’ sake against Jericho and Christian. It was a standard match. I combined a scissor kick and Book End on Christian for the victory, followed up with a dazzling Spinarooni, my first in Australia.
After the show, I grabbed a bite and a drink with the boys and went to bed feeling charged for the following day.
When I woke up, though, something was wrong. Really wrong.
My back was radiating with a pain I’d never experienced before. When I tried to start walking, it was as if my entire body seized and I had to lie on the floor. I finally mustered up the strength to make it to the shower, thinking the hot water would loosen me up.
It did—enough for me to limp through the next couple of shows.
I had to tell everyone what was happening with my back, and I’d wrestle as conservatively as possible. I was in pain and scared about what might have been the cause.
When the tour was over, I struggled to get on board the plane for a dreaded long flight to Los Angeles, where we had to make a connecting flight to Nova Scotia for Raw on August 4. As we flew, I couldn’t sit or stand comfortably and opted to either lie on the floor or across three seats.
When we landed at LAX for the connection, I knew I couldn’t make it through the last leg of the flight, so I called the WWE office to let them know.
The talent relations agent was dismissive. “Well, just continue on to Canada because we can still use you for pre-taped promos.”
“I don’t think you understand. I can’t go. I’m lying here in customs at LAX and can’t go any farther. I’ll just book my own flight home.”
The agent repeated what he wanted me to do. He obviously wasn’t getting it, so I hung up. Honestly, I was ready to quit then and there.
I turned to Chris Brennan, one of the WWE trainers. “Here,” I said. “Take the belt and give it to whoever you want to. I’m going home.”
“Okay, okay, just calm down, Booker. Think about it for a minute. Is this really what you want to do?”
“I’m out of here, man. Whatever’s wrong with my back is serious, and I’ve got to get it checked out.”
I booked the first flight to Houston. Sharmell met me at the airport, and I went straight home to bed.
The company called me that first week and asked if there was any way I could manage to make a Sunday house show in Des Moines on August 10 and officially drop the title to Christian. I said I’d be there.
On August 10, in the midst of mind-numbing pain, I attempted to hide my hobbled state and made my way to the ring for a quick championship loss. In the shortest and least action-packed match of my career, I wasted no time in neutralizing Christian with some kicks and punches and then dramatically missed the scissor kick, landing with the pain of a thousand daggers in my spine.
Christian took his cue, picked me up for the Unprettier, and covered me to regain his IC belt.
As Sarge and some other guys from the back came and helped me out of the ring, I couldn’t hide the pain from the people who saw me up close. Little did they know that what they witnessed couldn’t have been more authentic than if they were wheeling me out on a stretcher, which would’ve been better now that I think about it.
The next night on Raw in Moline, Illinois, my entrance music hit. To everyone’s confusion, out walked Christian with the IC title. He announced to the world he’d beaten me the previous night and was seeking a new challenger, which turned out to be little Spike Dudley. While I watched, laid up in my bed, Christian destroyed Spike in a matter of minutes.
When I saw the doctors, they told me I had a pinched sciatic nerve, which caused the unbearable pain from the middle of my back all the way down to my toes. It was decided I would have a cortisone injection. The doctor asked me if I wanted to see the five-inch-long needle he was going to jab into my vulnerable spine. No way. They anesthetized me, and I was completely out for the procedure.
Afterward, it was all a waiting game at home to see how well the steroids did their job. In the meantime, I relied on Sharmell for everything. I couldn’t make it to the bathroom on my own even with crutches. If I tried to brave the trek to the kitchen, the progress was about a single step every twenty to thirty seconds while I held onto the wall. It was brutal.
As it turned out, the injection didn’t work.
I thought my career was over.
The doctor said he wanted to try it again with a different anti-inflammatory agent, which at first sounded like an unnecessary risk just to wind up with the same result. But I thought about the quality of my life and the possibility of returning to the ring.
Finally I said, “All right, let’s go.”
So they put me under one more time, and once again I returned to my bedroom to recover.
Some of the boys, like Hayes, Goldie, R.V.D., and Nick, checked in to see how things were going, sending positive thoughts and well wishes. They worked, too, because day after day I started feeling better.
Within a couple of weeks, I morphed into a sturdy thirty-eight-year-old, ring-ready Booker Man. It was late September when I started working out, amazed at how quickly everything came back to form. The more I trained, the more I thought about returning to the ring.
After believing my career was over, now I was setting my sights on a comeback in another few weeks.
I made my official return on October 13 at Raw in Pittsburgh for a Tables Match, of all things, with Shane McMahon and The Dudley Boyz against Christian, Jericho, and La Résistance, a new heel team comprised of René Duprée and Rob Conway who portrayed despicable Frenchmen.
At first, I thought the creative guys were ribbing me. A Tables Match after what I’d just gone through? But they weren’t. So with the intention of having absolutely zero contact with the tables whatsoever, in pure irony, I wound up being the one who claimed the match for our team by spinebusting Conway through the table.
Six days later, I was surprised to learn Road Warrior Hawk, Mike Hegstrand, had passed away at the age of forty-six in his sleep at his home in Indian Rocks, Florida.
When I heard of his death, I thought how amazing his career had been with Animal in The Legion of Doom: The Road Warriors. They’d revolutionized tag team wrestling in the eighties, just as I believe Lash and I did in the nineties with Harlem Heat.
I was saddened to hear we’d lost another one of the good guys.
On October 20 at the beginning of Raw in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, the WWE paid tribute in a moment of silence.
About eight years later, when Hawk and Animal were inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame, I knew they deserved it for their undeniable contributions as one of the greatest professional wrestling duos of all time.
Later that night, I not only defeated Orton by count-out but made the announcement I’d be joining Stone Cold’s team of HBK, R.V.D., and The Dudleys at Survivor Series 2003, where his job as Co-GM of Raw was on the line against Bischoff’s team of Christian, Jericho, Orton, Steiner, and The World’s Strongest Man, Mark Henry.
So on November 16 at the American Airlines Center in Dallas, I struck first in the match and eliminated none other than Scotty Steiner. Before there was any time to celebrate my victorious moment for the team, Henry took me out with the World’s Strongest Slam, setting up a brief feud. HBK appeared to be our sole survivor at the end but was defeated despite his tremendous effort, thus ending Stone Cold’s tenure as Co-GM of Raw.
I’d get my revenge on Henry. The six-feet-three, 385-pound two-time Olympic weight lifter and gold medalist at the 1995 Pan American Games had signed with the WWE in 1996. He was still relatively green in the ring by the time I started performing with him, but he told me he was a fan of mine and had admired my work in WCW for years. We formed a quick bond.
That particular night on Raw in Beaumont following the PPV, I hit Henry with a missile dropkick but was eventually caught in his World’s Strongest Slam finisher, which pancaked me. I kicked out of it at the last second and later pinned him, using my legs on the ropes for leverage and every advantage at my disposal against the younger behemoth.
He got his chance to return the favor a week later in Utah, where thanks to Bischoff’s inventive Raw Roulette Wheel, I squared off with Henry in a Salt Lake City Street Fight.
That night, I tried to surprise the big man early by hiding on the stage and then pouncing as he made his way up, but once we got back in the ring, he took over. He threw me into a trash can set up in the corner and then smashed me repeatedly over the head with it for the winning cover.
With our single wins against each other, it was decided Henry and I would put an end to the feud on December 14 at Armageddon. It was time for me to step up and display the ring-leading command of a five-time WCW Champion.
It seemed the WWE disliked cold weather as much as I did and booked many of our winter events in warm cities. We flew to Orlando for the PPV, which suited me fine.
I started the match by hammering Henry into the corner with punches, but he merely pushed me off like a cruiserweight and clotheslined me off my feet. We took the action outside, where I led him around, acting hurt. Then, after turning one of the corners, I surprised him with a back thrust kick.
But my advantage wouldn’t last. Mark quickly took control, throwing me into the ring steps. Eventually the two of us made it back in, where I delivered a missile dropkick. Henry recovered and grabbed me like a rag doll in a huge bear hug. In the closing moments of the match, he threw me into the corner and avalanched me before picking me up for a botched powerbomb, in which I kind of slipped through his arms.
I was able to get up, kick him in the stomach, scissor kick him for the second time, and put a closure to the rubber match of our series.
With the year slowly winding down, it looked as if I might’ve been heading in a new direction by the very last Raw of the year in San Antonio on December 29, my son’s twentieth birthday.
Randy Orton, the reigning IC champ, was in the ring running his mouth about Mick Foley, saying he was a coward for not attending. I made it clear my New Year’s resolution was to whup his ass and take the title. As soon as I threw the gauntlet down, Mark Henry attacked me from behind and left me on the stage.
Randy walked past and accepted the challenge. The funniest part of working with Randy had nothing to do with the match itself. It was in the hours leading up to the broadcast.
Before that show, at about 5:00 p.m., Randy came up to me. “Hey, Book, so what are we going to do in there?”
I kept walking as he followed. “I don’t know yet. Come find me in an hour.”
An hour later, Randy was front and center again. “So what are we going to do in there?”
I looked at him, barely. “Man, let me get a Red Bull in me. Come back in thirty minutes, and we’ll figure something out.”
Half an hour later, Randy was following me again. “Okay, so what are we going to do in there?”
“You know what, Randy? I need another Red Bull, and then we’ll talk, okay?” I thought it was amusing and took it in stride.
Finally, right before going out the curtain, as his entrance music was playing, Randy was in a panic. “I have no idea what we’re going to do.”
I smiled at him. “Don’t worry, man. Me neither. We’re going to call it in the ring.”
We went out there, and I started off aggressively, leading him around the ring. Without a hitch, we seamlessly switched it up as the crowd soaked in the physical story developing in the ring. Just as things got going, Kane’s entrance pyro went off and distracted me toward the ramp, giving Orton the chance to roll me up out of nowhere for the pin.
The next thing I knew, The Big Red Machine was all over me with a beat-down from hell, concluding my last appearance for 2003.
When I went up the ramp and through to the back, Randy was waiting for me. “Holy shit, man, that was awesome! Is it always supposed to be that easy?”
I smiled. “Yes, it is. Happy New Year!”
Brandon had been on my mind for the last couple of months. Sharmell had been encouraging me to give him a second chance and have him come back home. I could do that with one stipulation: if he didn’t mess it up. Sharmell even wanted to help Brandon get his GED.
Brandon moved back in that winter into the best conditions a young man could ever dream of. I felt if he was serious and could be trusted, the world still offered him tremendous promise, but he’d have to work for it.
Sharmell and I were committed to providing all the support he’d need. The rest of the journey was up to him.
When he came back into the house, our relationship was relatively normal, almost as if he’d never left, and we were all in good spirits about the whole deal. Sharmell really liked him, and the three of us would go out to eat or hang out when I was home. While I was on the road, Sharmell helped him transfer what credits he did manage to gain and got things rolling with his GED program.
As far as I was concerned, it was now or never with my son. Brandon had a lot of catching up to do, but at least he was on his feet and starting to run in the right direction.