Holding the United States title meant an exponential increase in my participation on each broadcast and PPV. Booker T business was about to skyrocket again.
I knew I’d still be involved with Cena’s pursuit of regaining the title, and it was revealed on the August 5 SD in my hometown of Houston that I’d be facing him in a Best of Five Series starting at SummerSlam 2004 on August 15 in Toronto. Cena was their guy, something that was becoming clearer with each passing week, and he was excited for the opportunity to work with me in a new capacity.
At that time, John was in the middle of his whole white-guy-who-can-rap character, which drove some of the audience insane, but I honestly thought he pulled it off pretty well. The guy could rap whether people wanted to admit it or not, and he was getting himself over with his catchphrases and Thuganomics philosophy.
In actuality, Cena was the perfect performer within the SD roster to pull off the Best of Five with because he was willing to be different and had a great look. He was also meticulous about his work and took direction extremely well. I’d look at him and think, Cena’s gonna make it big.
When SummerSlam 2004 arrived on August 15 and we faced off in the Air Canada Centre, the creative team kept both of us legitimately guessing about each performance. Not until just before going out each night did we know who’d be the victor, so we had to call our matches on the go.
That first contest at SummerSlam 2004 saw Cena go up one to zero over me in a nine-minute match after kicking out of the scissor kick, which not too many people were able to do, before dropping me with his Attitude Adjustment finisher. That move might not look like much to viewers, but I can assure you it’s a jarring bump that almost induced whiplash. Not fun at all.
Eleven days later in Fresno, I tied up the series at one win each.
The next day in beautiful Sydney, Australia, on August 27, I took the two-to-one lead in the series.
After a two-week interlude, we resumed the action on September 16 in Spokane, where I tried to sneak John in the face with the championship belt while the ref was down, only to be caught by an Attitude Adjustment that allowed him to tie up the series at two wins each.
Before Cena and I could conclude our series with the fifth and final match, we took another two-week break from each other, which built up the hype for the conclusion at No Mercy 2004.
On September 23 and 30, I was randomly booked into matches with Paul London, which were squashes in my favor.
The day before my first match with London, news hit that The Big Boss Man Ray Traylor had died at his home in Georgia of a sudden heart attack. He was only forty-one.
Ray, or Bubba as I called him, was literally plucked off the streets. After quitting his day job as a real prison corrections officer, he walked into the ring as a jobber for Jim Crockett Promotions’ WCW. By 1987, Vince saw potential in his real-life story and turned him into the hugely successful Big Boss Man. The rest was history.
It was devastating to lose another colleague long before his time.
On Sunday, October 3, John and I descended upon the Continental Airlines Area in East Rutherford, New Jersey, for the grand finale to our Best of Five Series for the WWE United States Championship. Knowing Cena was going over for the belt, I poured on the intensity to make it a quality match and put Cena over. When one guy gets the win and a title, the other comes off looking strong in defeat. If anything, John was the one in for a tough night in the ring.
John and I squared off like two raging bulls, with serious intentions to steal the show. We went in and out of the ring, aggressively attacked each other, taking every liberty imaginable. I assumed the role of ring general, and Cena was a good follower, easygoing and fluid.
When it was time to bring it home, I went for a leaping Houston Sidekick. Cena ducked, leaving me to crotch myself on the top rope. He made an Attitude Adjustment attempt, which I reversed into a Book End, before going for the cover. He kicked out at two. I missed a scissor kick, allowing John to cover me for the two count. We got up and began trading blows when Cena took control, hoisting me up for a powerful AA. I crashed to the canvas as John covered me for the championship win.
At the end of the day, I was proud of what both John and I had accomplished in our Best of Five Series.
After losing the United States title, I lay low for a few weeks, not working too much on TV. My run with Cena was concluded, and it was just a matter of time before creative pointed me into a new angle.
By October 21, creative entered me into a program with WWE Champion JBL and his lackey and chief of staff, Orlando Jordan. Teddy Long set up a Six-Man Tag Team Match with R.V.D., Rey Mysterio, and me versus JBL, Suzuki, and, René Duprée. Before the match, in an attempt to gain favor with me, Bradshaw sent Jordan my way to deliver a greeting from the champion. I scorned Jordan, the “errand boy,” and told him to get out of my face.
Getting back to the Six-Man Tag Team Match, R.V.D. and Mysterio felt they couldn’t trust me, assuming I went into business for myself by aligning with JBL. I played the part, staying distant and disinterested, but when they finally had no choice but to tag me in, much to Bradshaw’s chagrin, I clocked him and Duprée. I quickly covered and pinned JBL but saved a Book End for Orlando.
Jordan was put into a singles contest with me the following week for a shot at JBL’s WWE title where I made short work of him.
I traveled to Cleveland for Survivor Series 2004 to face Bradshaw before a packed house of seventy-five hundred. JBL worked a different style than what I was accustomed to: a big-man, brawling approach. I adapted, and we had a competitive match. We shared leading back and forth, but of course I had the obstacle of Orlando standing at ringside, causing a constant distraction. In fact, he found himself in the ring on the receiving end of yet another Book End, but Bradshaw took advantage of the interference. He knocked the taste out of my mouth with the belt and stole the pin fall to retain it.
I demanded an immediate rematch at SD, but because Eddie and The Undertaker were also in top contention, Teddy Long decreed there would be a Fatal 4-Way Match for the WWE title at the final PPV of the year, Armageddon 2004.
Leading up to the big main event in Duluth, Georgia, The Undertaker, Eddie, and I were subjected to various warm-up tag and Six-Man Tag Team Matches against JBL, Jordan, and their newest allies, Danny and Doug Basham, known simply as The Basham Brothers. The weeks passed like hours, and on December 18 it was time for JBL to step up and put the gold on the line against three determined veteran competitors.
The Undertaker viciously set the pace by jumping out and destroying the rest of us, even hitting three consecutive chokeslams on Eddie, Bradshaw, and me. But as he went to give JBL the Tombstone, out of nowhere, Jon Heidenreich, an imposing madman, showed up and hit The Undertaker with a clothesline and pulled him out of the ring for a cobra clutch.
With The Dead Man out of the way, JBL came running up on me with the Clothesline from Hell and stole the win.
The WWE Championship now out of my grasp, I shifted my attention to what would become an experience of a lifetime: I was booked for the second annual WWE Tribute to the Troops on December 23.
We were headed to Tikrit, Iraq, where we’d perform an exclusively SD card of matches at a secure military base for men and women of the United States military. We took off from New York in a Lockheed C-130 Hercules cargo transport plane, which was big enough to fit an aircraft carrier, the Houston Astrodome, and Madison Square Garden inside with still enough room to spare for Big Show. Exaggerations aside, the huge plane transported pretty much the entire roster, including The Undertaker, Eddie, JBL, Show, Angle, Mick Foley, Hardcore Holly, Rey, Heidenreich, and me.
It was a twenty-hour flight with one stop eight hours in. We landed for a three-hour layover in Germany, where we stretched our legs and hung out bowling and playing games. Then we loaded up again for the long haul to Tikrit, another twelve hours away. Many of us caught up on sleep, or at least attempted to.
Big Show knew from experience to bring his own big air mattress. He claimed a corner, blew up his bed, and went to sleep.
About two hours into Show’s slumber, as he snored like a lumberjack sawing logs, someone tiptoed up to the mattress and stabbed it with a ballpoint pen before sneaking away. The air slowly rushed out with a pshhhh, and Show steadily sank to the floor as if he were in quicksand.
Ten hours later, when we were about to land, Show came to and lost his mind. “Whoa! What the hell happened to my bed? Oh, my back! I’m stiff as a board.”
Nobody said a word as Show examined every inch of the deflated bed to determine the cause. Then he found it. “Which one of you popped my bed, huh? Somebody’s going to pay—and pay big!”
Again, nobody spoke, but their gazes were darting around, each person looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.
Show conducted his own investigation, questioning everybody, but he never did find the culprit.
A caravan of armed military Hummers met us at the airport, and soldiers chauffeured three wrestlers to a vehicle. It was cold outside and not at all what I expected. At forty-seven degrees, Iraq wasn’t quite the hot desert climate I’d assumed it to be. It was like Reno, Nevada, in the winter.
When I sat in the front passenger seat, I had a good view of a bullet hole in the windshield in perfect alignment with my head. It felt like we were on Mars as we traveled the desert terrain to the home base, where we’d rough it in barracks just like our hosts had been for weeks, months, and years. We ate what they ate, observed their drills. We were even invited on flights in Black Hawks to visit other bases and to target practice with an array of rifles and pistols. I made sure to hop into Hummers with my military chaperones and visit every side of the sprawling base to raise the soldiers’ spirits, which also raised mine.
It brought to mind a phone call I’d received the previous year from a friend making a similar appearance in Iraq with the WWE.
“Hey, Booker! It’s Termite. How are you, man?”
I hadn’t heard from the former pro boxer and fellow Houston native, Maurice “Termite” Watkins, for a little while.
“Termite! Hey, I’m doing all right. What are you up to?”
Termite sounded really distant and broken up, but then it all made sense as he continued. “I’m over in Iraq visiting the troops and having a great time with these young men and women, and I’ve got somebody here who wants to say hello. Is that cool?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Put them on.”
It was a young soldier who was excited beyond belief to speak with me. He briefly chatted me up, asking me basic questions about my career and how things were going in the States, and I could tell it meant a lot to have a piece of home transmitted through our call together.
Before he had to go, he asked, “Do you think you’ll come over here with the WWE next year for a show?”
I thought about it. “Yeah, man. If they go again, I’ll be there. But do me a favor. Be safe out there, and keep your head down. I’ll see you soon.”
It was a great memory, and as I lay down that night in Iraq, I hoped I’d have a chance to shake that soldier’s hand.
Before I fell asleep, a mortar exploded not far from the base. Even though we felt safe among our heroic brothers and sisters, feeling the concussion through the ground definitely unnerved us and made it impossible to get a good night’s rest before the big day.
I felt even greater respect for the men and women trying to sleep there night in and night out.
When it was showtime, I got my two Red Bulls in me and jumped rope. In the cool temps, I was burning up with a cold sweat and ready for my show-opening bout with René Duprée. It was a truly special moment to walk out to the thunderous reaction from the rows of helmeted young soldiers and service people.
René and I put on a furious performance, which we dedicated to our deserving audience. We were well aware we were bringing them comfort from home, if only for a few golden moments of escape, through our brand of entertainment. I got the pin with a super airborne scissor kick for the victory and pulled out a dizzying Tribute to the Troops Spinarooni.
The most memorable image I have of that match came after I won and jumped onto the top turnbuckle with my hands raised, looking down at the troops as they cheered for me. In my heart, I was cheering for them. It was an emotional moment that will never leave me.
That night before we left, I decided to take the short walk to the little latrine they used for washing up at the edge of the base. Because we were literally in the middle of nowhere, there wasn’t any ambient light from nearby towns. Nighttime in the desert of Iraq is pitch black. You can’t see your own hands and feet. To remedy this, each person was given a little green glow stick. They put one around my neck and said, “The creek is fifteen paces that direction. You’ll see it no problem.”
As I carefully ventured ahead, a green light passed me. Two paces on, another green light drifted by. Another green light came near, and I could hear the bustle of the latrine ahead, but this third light stopped just past me and reversed toward me.
“Hey! I know you!” The man was almost completely blanketed by the darkness.
“You do? How’s that?”
“Last year Termite Watkins put you on the phone with a soldier and you were kind enough to speak with him for a minute. Remember?”
I couldn’t believe it. “Are you kidding me? Hell, yeah, I remember. What are the odds? I told you I’d come!”
He laughed. “You told me to keep my head down. I’ll tell you what, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. When I heard the WWE was coming and saw your name on the list, I couldn’t believe it.”
And there we were in the middle of Iraq, two Americans doing everything in our capacity to try to serve. As we parted ways, I reached down and picked up a decent-sized rock to commemorate everything I’d experienced in my couple of days in Iraq. Later I wrote 2004 on it in marker. It’s sitting on my desk now, and it always will be.
On our return flight, Big Show tried desperately to repair his bed with duct tape and any other adhesive he could get his big hands on. Finally, he fixed it.
As soon as he went to sleep, the ripper sneaked back over and popped it again.
Sweet dreams, giant friend.
When I was finally back on American soil and walking through the doorway of my home in Houston, the inevitable was awaiting me. Sharmell told me she hadn’t seen or heard from Brandon for the last twenty-four hours. I was not only worried; I was disappointed that he might’ve messed up again.
Prior to this disappearing act, Brandon truly seemed to be doing well for himself. He was close to earning the GED Sharmell had been helping him with. To show him how proud I was, I’d taken him to the local Chevrolet dealer and bought him a Suburban. He was beyond excited, and honestly so was I, but to give him a little responsibility and help build his credit up, I left a few thousand dollars on the note for him to pay off.
Not more than a few days later, I came back home and saw a Jaguar sitting in the driveway.
“What is that outside? Where’s the Suburban?”
Brandon was too cool for the room about it. “Aw, Dad, it’s no big deal. I traded it in even for something a little more my style. You don’t mind, do you?”
It did bother me, but I let it slide, though I wondered what might be coming around the corner with him.
That night when I got back home from Iraq, I was lying in bed worrying about Brandon’s disappearance when the bell at the gate sounded. I looked outside to view the last thing anybody, especially me, wanted to see outside the house: several police cars.
I got dressed and went outside to buzz them in. As they drove up the driveway, there was Brandon in the backseat of one of the cars. He got out and said he was robbed of his wallet, taped up, and thrown into the trunk of his own car while the perpetrators committed another aggravated robbery across town.
I felt sick to my stomach. I saw no signs of his being taped up or struggling—no messed-up hair or clothes, nothing. I sensed he wasn’t being honest but thanked the cops and asked them to keep me posted on the status of the car and Brandon’s wallet.
The entire night, I stayed up talking with Sharmell. She didn’t believe Brandon either. Without concrete proof, I decided I had to let it go and wait to see if the tall tale caved under the pressure.
And it did.
While I was back out on the road, my nephew Kevin, Billie’s son, called. I loved and trusted Kevin and had asked him to stay at my place when I was out of town. It gave me peace of mind to have a responsible man there in my absence.
“What’s up, Kevin?”
“Book, if Brandon’s wallet was stolen, how is it sitting in his room right now?”
It felt like a giant dagger stabbing me in the back. My son had made a fool of me for the last time.
When I got home to confront Brandon, Sharmell told me the cops had already put two and two together and picked him up. He was sitting downtown at the county jail for a few days.
I received a call from the father of one of Brandon’s friends. As it turned out, it was Brandon and this man’s son who committed the crime of aggravated robbery at some local business and then cooked up that whole story. “So what do you want to do?” he said. “Do you want to get separate attorneys for them, or do you have someone in mind you’d prefer using for both?”
“Listen, you can do whatever you want to do, but I’m not doing a thing. He chose to break the law, and now he’s going to receive the full extent of the law.”
The guy was silent, more than likely shocked, but he didn’t have a clue about my past, let alone what had transpired between Brandon and me over the years.
The man wound up paying for both boys’ legal assistance.
Brandon came home a couple of days later.
“Get your things, and get out now,” I said. “I don’t care where you go, and I don’t want to know once you’re there. Just get out.”
As I watched him pack, he didn’t even look at me. He seemed interested only in making sure he secured his PlayStation.
A few minutes later, he was ready. The door hit him on the way out for the very last time. Brandon had followed in my footsteps, all right, down to robbing a store. I couldn’t believe it. The circle had been completed. I’m sorry to say, Brandon and I barely speak to each other these days, and I’m not sure if some grand miracle will ever occur to change his lifestyle, as it did for me.
And that was the end of 2004 for the Huffman household. Happy New Year to us, right?