Dave Batista, “The Animal” of the WWE, had been irritating many of the men and women in the locker room with his attitude toward the rest of the roster and his relationship with one of the WWE Divas, Melina. He even said in an interview with The Sun that the SD guys had no passion, pride, or dedication. That kind of statement regarding your own company is bad for business, and it reminded me of what Russo was doing when WCW tanked.
When I first met Batista in late 2001, he’d been coming up through the development system at OVW with Brock, Orton, Cena, and even Sharmell before her knee injury. As he was finally integrated into the company, working dark matches before Raw and SD, I found him to be very down-to-earth, respectful, and likable. He did all the right things, took his cues, and listened and learned.
His newly developed friendship with Hunter led him to the Evolution stable along with Flair and Randy. We had quite a few matches in his earliest days on Raw and on the road. We got along great, and I shared as much advice and insight as I could in our short times together. With his intensity and bodybuilder size, he’d become a major WWE Superstar.
But by the spring of 2006, I barely recognized him. A bigger issue had been developing over the last few months that would lead to a real clash between the two of us.
Batista had been messing around with Melina, John Morrison’s girlfriend, in front of everybody, including Morrison. They’d be out at the bars and clubs all over each other and sharing hotel rooms on the road, while John was too passive to do anything about it. It bothered everyone.
The boys were giving John a hard time for not doing anything, and there was no question he was really upset but unsure what to do.
As a result of all this, both Batista and Melina developed serious heat with all of us. We decided in Germany to handle things in our own system, Wrestlers’ Court, where we dealt with crimes against the code of the locker room.
Since Dave wasn’t on that tour, that left Melina, who had no idea she was about to be taken into custody and placed in front of the Honorable Judge Undertaker before a jury of her peers. She was grilled by prosecuting attorney Bradshaw and me. It was time for an admission of guilt.
We officially charged Melina with Divaism, the flagrant act of running around on one’s husband or boyfriend, shaming the Divas’ division and locker room.
It was really only an elaborate joke and a way to tell Melina what needed to be said, put it in the past, and move forward.
When we got back to the States, however, Dave wasn’t happy at all. There was tension in the locker room while we stayed on our separate sides at the first SD taping since our return home in Cincinnati on May 2.
The following Saturday, May 6, most of the WWE rosters from both brands traveled to Encino, California, for the big commercial shoot for SummerSlam 2006.
We were staying at a mansion the company had rented out. It was beautiful with sprawling grounds, amazing scenery, and a giant swimming pool. Rey Mysterio, JBL, Randy Orton, Finlay, Ricky Steamboat, Matt Hardy, Tatanka, Melina, and others—virtually every WWE Superstar and Diva—were all having a great time, enjoying a perfect California day. JBL was acting crazy in the pool, and he tossed a producer in. Every time the producer tried to get out, Bradshaw grabbed him and threw him back in. The producer and all of us were cracking up.
In the midst of all the insanity, Dave, who’d arrived late, came out to the pool area and stood there scanning the scene, not saying a word to anybody. Rey and some others went up to break the ice with a hello, but Batista simply stood brooding.
Tatanka, a guy I really respected, was in the pool next to me. He leaned toward me and said quietly, “Look at him standing there, big-timing as usual. He doesn’t even have the respect to come over and say hi to the boys.”
Later on, we had some lunch around the patio tables, and I excused myself to the bathroom. While walking toward the house, I noticed Dave heading my direction. Before we passed each other, he veered to the far left to go around me.
I stopped and yelled out, “Hey, Dave!”
He turned around.
As politely as possible I said, “Here’s the thing. You don’t like me, and I don’t like you, but the fact is we have to work together. But I’ll make it clear: if you cross me, I’m going to kick your ass and there ain’t nothing you can do about it. The best thing possible would be to keep your distance.”
All the boys outside stopped eating to watch. You could hear a pin drop.
I saw him heating up as I walked away.
When I came back and sat to continue the good time we were all having, he stomped toward the table. “What’s your problem with me, man? Do you find me to be a challenge because I’m the top draw on the card and have done more in the last couple of years than you have in your entire career? Are you jealous?”
“Are you kidding me? You’re going to stand there and disrespect all the boys by saying that?”
Then in an act of machismo, he asked me to walk with him outside the gate and settle it.
I said, “Man, get out of here. If you’re going to do something, do it right now. This isn’t the school playground.”
He glared at me. I’d called his bluff, and he didn’t do anything. To me it was obvious he was only charging off at the mouth because all the agents like Finlay and Steamboat were gathered around.
I went back to my plate, and he walked away.
Shortly after, one of the producers came to me and said, “Booker, we need you to get ready for a shoot. Can you get dressed?”
“Absolutely.” I made my way to my tiny bedroom and started undressing. I was down to my underwear and nothing else, not even socks, when Batista walked in wearing his wrestling gear.
“Talk that shit you were just talking out there, Booker. Go ahead.”
I laughed. “Whoa, man, you’re going to come in here and catch me in my drawers? Come on. If you want to do this, get out of here and let me put some pants on. I’ll be right out. This is ridiculous.”
He stared a hole through me. “There’s not much room in here anyway. I’ll be waiting just outside for you.”
“Okay, I’ll be out in a minute,” I said, rolling my eyes.
I casually put on a pair of pants and a white shirt, no shoes or socks, and took my Paul Boesch, diamond-encrusted ring off my left hand and placed it on my right. As I opened the door, I was fairly annoyed he was wasting my time and delaying the shoot. I took two steps out, and there he was. “Well, I’m out here. Now what are you going to do?”
“Talk that same shit you were outside,” he said again.
“Man, if you’re going to make a move, go ahead and do it. Otherwise, I’m going to film my spot. I’ve got business to attend to. That’s why we’re here.”
Rey came in and said, “Come on, Book! Don’t do this!”
“Rey, please step back. If he’s going to do something, let him do it.”
Dave took a big, slow swing at me.
I stepped to the side, and he fell forward, striking nothing but air.
I thought he was joking. It was a total goof punch with nothing behind it. “Man, you don’t want this. Let’s go about our business.”
I started to walk away when he threw another shot, just as poorly timed, and again I slipped out of the way as his arm passed me.
As much as I regretted it, in an effort to put this thing to a quick end before it got out of control, I took two steps back, quickly stuttered up, and punched him right in the chin.
All of a sudden, I felt arms around me and heard yelling. “Book, stop it! He’s had enough!” It was Finlay.
I looked back and saw Melina’s boyfriend, John Morrison, also there helping pull me off, which was crazy. Part of me wanted to kick his ass for not handling his own problems.
Sharmell was finally in there too, furiously looking for Melina because she wanted a piece of the action too, but that girl was long gone.
I told Finlay, “Okay. I’ll lay off.”
But before Finlay let go of my arms, Batista reached up and—boom—punched my left eye.
I started chuckling that he’d sneaked one in on me like that, which was the only shot he managed during our little escapade.
I told Fit this had to be finished, and he stepped back as I took Dave right back down.
Even Sharmell laid in a couple of kicks on him.
Finally, Finlay again stepped in.
“Okay, Book, that is enough. He can’t take any more.”
I looked down at Dave, and Fit was right. He was pretty well beaten up, and it was obvious this thing was over. His face was a mess, and it was clear he wasn’t interested in continuing any more than I was.
Before I left, I turned to Dave and said as if we were out in the school yard, “If this beef of yours continues, every time I see you and the boys ain’t around, I’m gonna beat you up again.”
As he started to get up, he muttered, “Well, that’s really mature.”
To which I responded, “Yeah, well, it was really mature for you to call me out to a fight too.”
I walked away, cleaned up, and went on to the shoot. Once I’d had a chance to think about it, I started having concerns about what had just happened, knowing full well I could’ve walked away and been the bigger man instead of resorting to physical reprisal with one of the top guys. What would Vince or anybody else in the WWE think? The last thing I wanted was to reflect poorly on the company and the business.
The next day, Johnny Ace invited Dave and me to breakfast at our hotel to talk about the situation. We knew we had to work together or lose our jobs. Dave even said he regretted the fight. For the sake of the business, we put it behind us.
Before the SD taping in San Diego on May 9, Vince called me into his office and wanted to hear the details for himself.
I told him if it ever happened again, I wouldn’t try to walk away from a fight. I would walk away.
He looked at me and simply said, “Only if you have to, Booker.”
In the end, although there was no love lost, I released all animosity toward Dave. I had to for my own well-being. Harboring anger would only hurt me; it’s just not healthy. Instead, I decided to respect him for having the courage to stand up when he felt he had to, win or lose.
There would be a time we’d have to work with each other and be professional performers under contract for Vince, the company, all the boys in the locker room, and the public. In the days and weeks to come, the story of our real-life fight was big news on the Internet. People got it wrong every time with their theories and assumptions.
All the boys who weren’t there kept pulling me aside to ask what happened, and I always told them the truth. Many of them heralded me as a backstage hero and a leader, but that’s not how I felt about it. Respect is gained through time, performance, and behavior, not through swinging your way to infamy. Slowly but surely, a lot of the veteran agents, like Sgt Slaughter, Gerald Brisco, Jack Lanza, and Pat Patterson, approached me to let me know they respected what I did for the business—that I’d fought for everything they stood for.
Unfortunately, I think Dave wore our fight like a dark cloud over him for many years, feeling he had a lot to prove publicly. Maybe that was part of the reason he eventually retired from the WWE. He stepped into an MMA cage in 2012 and emerged victorious, and now he’s established a successful career in Hollywood. I give him much respect for it.
At that SD in San Diego where I met with Vince, it was time to get on with the show. My match was with Kurt Angle, but Teddy declared he wasn’t medically cleared after a story line injury from Mark Henry. I walked out, counted to ten, and declared myself the winner.
Now it was time to move on to Judgment Day 2006 in Phoenix on May 21 for the final match of the tournament against Lashley, whom I had some unfinished business with. I’d known Bobby since he first came into the company. As with The Boogeyman, I wanted to assist him in every way possible.
I approached the OVW graduate and former amateur grappler to give him some advice. I let him know he was a mirror image of Brock Lesnar but he could work on his reactions in the ring. “Look at yourself,” I said. “You’re intimidating and have every asset to be a huge star in the company, but you’ve got to stop rolling around for the little guys. You gotta get in there and take charge. Come to my school in Houston, and let’s work together, man.”
To my surprise, he declined. “Look, I really appreciate the offer, but I’ve got to listen to what they tell me and not offend anyone.”
Well, he just had. “Okay, I see. No problem.” I didn’t say another word.
After only a few months of being a WWE yes-man, Bobby was sinking fast. Fearing he’d be fired, he approached Sharmell. “Why doesn’t Booker like me? What did I do?”
She said, “You must’ve said something to him he didn’t like. Think about it.”
Before I knew it, Bobby came to me saying it was time he apologized and came to Houston.
We started working hard at PWA, and right before my eyes he began applying his knowledge and rose to the very top as a bright star, making me a proud mentor and friend.
By that night in Phoenix at Judgment Day 2006 for the KOTR final, we got in there in front of fourteen thousand strong at the US Airways Center. I was ready to really test him. It was a strong match, and Bobby was using his size and power as any big man should, with pick-up-and-throw moves and belly-to-belly suplexes. I took it all to make him look like a believable freak of athletic ability, much like Brock. When it was time, I brought out the heel tactics to chop him down. Sharmell constantly distracted him, allowing me to get the upper hand, and after some more offensive exchanges, my new ally Finlay came down and hit Lashley with his heavy Irish shillelagh.
That was more than enough for me to claim the win and my rightful throne, thus beginning my proper reign in the SD Kingdom as King Booker, with Queen Sharmell by my side.
For that week’s SD on May 26 in Bakersfield, I had my official coronation. William Regal, along with Finlay, joined King Booker’s Court. Regal read from a giant scroll, “All hail His Royal Highness King Booker.”
Sharmell and I came rolling out on a giant throne, enjoying the new character direction. We slowly nodded at Regal’s every word as if we were about to weep from the joy of finally being recognized as royals. We demanded all the people bow as Sharmell crowned me, placed the cape upon my royal shoulders, and handed me a bejeweled scepter.
I loudly decreed Sharmell was my first royal queen, and we exited the ring.
Regal shouted, “Long live King Booker!”
It was the dawn of the most entertaining period of my professional wrestling career.
Since childhood, I’d admired Bruce Lee and Blaxploitation films. I’d imagined entertaining people with unforgettable characters, and now I’d evolved from a thug rookie in WCW to the colorful King Booker. Growing up on the streets of Houston with my siblings after my mom died, just trying to scrape an existence from nothing, I never could’ve imagined this would have been my life. I couldn’t get enough of it.
When creative first approached me with the concept of winning the reinstated KOTR tournament, neither they nor I had any over-the-top direction for how my reign would be handled. They simply trusted me to run with it.
It wasn’t until after I became King Booker that certain ideas came to me. For example, some came while I watched Pope Benedict on the news. Others came while I watched James Bond films. More came while I studied Forest Whitaker in The Last King of Scotland. The more I absorbed their mannerisms, the more creative paths I could traverse.
In particular, I worked on developing my own version of the British accent. But I made a conscious decision to revert to my street speech whenever my character got flustered and upset during a segment. It was my wink to the viewers letting them in on the joke that I was still very much Booker T, only in disguise and denial. I started sticking my pinky finger out far and wide at all times like an aristocratic tea drinker from across the pond and attempted to make everyone kiss my feet, literally.
I think the greatest vignette I ever filmed as King Booker, or King Bookah as both Sharmell and I started saying, was when we went to downtown London in full character. I paraded around the streets with pomp and circumstance as if truly returning to my homeland of peasants, allowing them the privilege of basking in my superiority.
They loved my act, especially the accent. I kept looking for one of the royal guards to break their code and look at me with a smile. One of them quickly winked, and I lit up inside like a little kid. It was one thing to pull off the obnoxious British character in America, but to have won the British over, live on their very own streets, was overwhelming.
I wondered if Hollywood would catch wind of what King Booker was up to and come knocking on my royal door and whisk me away to the silver screen. I was that proud and confident of what I was doing, especially based on the reaction.
I was thoroughly enjoying my new role, but most importantly, Vince and the rest of the creative team really enjoyed watching the evolution of the persona as well. WWE started licensing various versions of King Booker and Queen Sharmell action figures, complete with the crown, cape, scepter, and even the throne. I knew, due to my royalty checks at the time, they were among the best sellers. It was gratifying to know I’d reinvented myself yet again, and there was still plenty of creative and physical fuel in the tank.
Along with the beauty of Queen Sharmell at my side and the brawn of King Booker’s Court of Sir Regal and Sir Finlay steadfast in front of the throne, we moved straight ahead into every challenge sent our way.
Having Regal and Finlay with me was tremendous. The legitimate bruisers from the United Kingdom added credibility to the whole character. In the ring, those two put brutal beatings on anyone standing in front of them. If someone was fortunate enough to make it through the battery of my royal henchmen, then and only then I arose from the throne and took the melee back to 110th Street, medieval style, sucka.
I’m still amazed at how deeply the legacy of King Booker has ingrained itself in the minds of fans everywhere. Even today, no matter where I go, I’m still recognized for that persona. In Toronto, while promoting my book From Prison to Promise, I was walking down the darkened street on my way to dinner when, across the road, a homeless man sat up and yelled, “King Booker . . . Give me five bucks!”
I dig it every time.