The new United States Champion Bobby Lashley surfaced for a series of matches in June, but I had no desire for a title. The over-the-top King Booker character caught on with amazing heat from the crowd and became very professionally satisfying. I didn’t need a championship; I was royalty.
If anything, I would’ve been looking for the World title to correspond with my golden crown and scepter. In early July in Philly, the Big Gold was in sight as I was entered into a No. 1 Contender’s Battle Royal for a shot at the champ, Rey Mysterio, at The Great American Bash 2006. But before any of that could happen, someone committed another major crime against the royal Red Bull cooler.
By that point, the WWE had resurrected ECW as a third televised promotional brand with its own roster, and they taped their show before ours like a doubleheader.
That night I came into the dressing room and went for a can as usual, but alas, they were gone. I scanned the room, about to lose it. I saw Sabu, one of R.V.D.’s best friends and a cool guy, but then I saw a person next to him drinking a Red Bull.
“Where’d you get that Red Bull?”
“I got it out of the cooler,” he responded.
Wrong answer.
I looked at him with anger and disbelief in my eyes. “Why are you in here?”
Sensing my growing temper, Sabu interjected, “He’s cool, Book. He’s a buddy of mine.”
“No, he’s not cool!” I snapped back.
And with that, I slapped the can right out of his hand to the ground. “You shouldn’t be drinking anything in here! Not my Red Bull, not a Coke, not even water! You haven’t earned it. Get your stuff. You’re out of here!”
Everybody watched in stunned silence as I grabbed him and his gear bag and threw him out of the locker room. Then I said, “You know what? You ain’t even allowed in the same building as me!” I marched him to the back door and kicked him right out of the Wachovia Center, never to be seen again. Done.
Not very kingly, I realize, but you don’t mess with my Red Bull.
I settled for coffee—French roast with cream and sugar—and it all worked out. A couple of hours later, I entered and won the battle royal, earning a title shot at Rey Mysterio at The Great American Bash 2006 on July 23.
That night in front of almost ten thousand at the Conseco Fieldhouse in Indianapolis, the WWE Kingdom watched Queen Sharmell and me enter the arena, being driven in on a long platform with me seated on my throne. Fireworks lit up behind us as I sat there, humbly soaking in the jeers. Even though I was getting booed, I was sure to hold a posture of appreciation and humility. I milked my entrance for all it was worth, taking my sweet time stepping off the throne and basking in the royal adoration of my subjects, who packed the arena. I swear it must have taken me five minutes to enter the ring and thrill the fans with the sight of my red robe opening up like a giant umbrella as I spun in place in the middle of the squared circle, my arms outstretched. I love to entertain, and I was enjoying every single second of my regal entrance. Minutes ticked by as I slowly made my way around the ring, looking into the stands and saying, “Thank you . . . thank you.” It was good to be king.
Rey and I put on a great match that I was proud of. Near the end, referee Nick Patrick was knocked out when Rey delivered his famous 619, followed up by a frog splash in homage to Eddie Guerrero. He covered me, hoping to secure his title victory, but there was no ref to be seen. With no official in sight, I gave Rey a low blow and a royal Book End to add insult to injury. While Rey was down, I rolled outside and grabbed a chair, bringing it back in the ring to finish him off. But Rey was too quick for me, and he dropkicked the chair into my face, knocking me down. As we both lay there in the ring, the crowd’s energy built into a frenzy when Rey’s longtime friend and Eddie’s nephew, Chavo Guerrero, ran toward the ring and picked up the chair. Looking as if he would hit me while the ref was down, Chavo swung as hard as he could and directed the blow at Rey, smashing him in the head with a loud crash. I looked at each of them in disbelief and took the opportunity to cover Rey just as the ref was waking up. One, two, three . . .
I was now a six-time World Heavyweight Champion. And what a splendid champion I was!
By August, The Undertaker was next on my red carpet behind the velvet rope as we clashed in East Rutherford in a classic confrontation. After coming out on top, I knew the real clash was about to begin when Batista finally returned to the fold and wanted a shot at the King. Only this time it would be in a ring and not a rented mansion.
Since our fight, Dave hadn’t shown his face backstage—or anywhere, for that matter. News of our meeting at SummerSlam 2006 in Boston was quickly spreading around as the spectacle of the show not to be missed. I work as stiff and snug as possible for the believability factor, which means cool heads have to prevail when we’re in the ring doing our best to entertain the fans. The question was whether or not Dave would respond professionally to my in-ring style or lose his cool.
The big summer event was finally here. Time to find out if it would all be water under the bridge or if things would escalate to the next level between us. My majestic music hit and Sharmell and I made our way out to the top of the ramp. “All hail King Booker!” she would say over and over again into her mic as I stood there basking in my own glory. This was SummerSlam, the second biggest PPV event of the year, and I was going to be sure to give the fans 110 percent from the time I walked out. On my way to the ring, a young man was proudly holding up a sign that said, If King Booker Wins, the Peasants Revolt. It was clear that I was at the height of my popularity. We entered the ring and humbly thanked the fans as I awaited my opponent.
The crowd erupted as soon as Batista’s music hit, and he came down the ramp to a deafening pop. With his theme song blasting, the mood was perfectly set for the two of us to settle our differences and clash over the World Heavyweight Championship.
The bell rang to start the match, and we circled each other, building up the tension. When we locked up, Batista gave me a strong shove, backing me off him. He glared at me as I looked back with disbelief. Even though we were legitimately feeling each other out, we still had to perform, which meant that every look, every emotion, had to tell a story in that ring. We locked up again, and I reversed it into one of the corners. As I started to back off him, I moved my arm under his for a clench and gave him a really stiff right-handed smack across the face.
Dave’s eyes filled with anger, and he shoved me off him and down onto my back. You could see he was ready to let loose, but then there was a moment he looked at me and looked down at Sharmell and froze. I just stood there, wondering how he’d proceed.
To his credit, he kept his cool, and we resumed a damn good match that had real personal heat blazing all over it. The match went back and forth between us, with me even taking an opportunity to smash my scepter over Batista’s head while Sharmell distracted the ref. Batista would pay me back for it by crotching me on the top rope with an atomic drop and taking the advantage. Luckily for me, Batista couldn’t capitalize on it, and we spilled out onto the floor, where I threw him headfirst into the steel ring steps.
JBL was on commentary, adding great emotion to the match by saying Batista was distracted by Sharmell’s beauty, since she was like a “goddess on high.” I was glad the commentator’s focus stayed on our match and they worked as hard as we did to keep up the tension for the fans.
Building the story we were telling in the ring, I went to the top rope and delivered a missile dropkick, covering Batista for the two count. In frustration, I stood him up and hit him with a Book End for what I thought was surely my victory.
The ref counted, “One! Two! Thr—” and Batista kicked out.
JBL screamed, “This is what a World Championship is about!”
After the missile dropkick, and the Book End, I had one more trick up my sleeve. I yelled at Batista to get up and kicked him in the stomach, buckling him over. I bounced off the ropes and went for my scissor kick to ensure my win, but Batista dodged out of the way and took advantage with his own kick to my gut and then a powerful jackhammer, covering me for the pin. “One! Two—”
At the last moment I kicked out, bringing the fans to their feet in disbelief. Sharmell clutched her chest in a sign of anxiety as the camera panned to her. Everyone was playing their part to add as much intensity as possible to this match.
Near the end, Batista took advantage once more with a full-nelson slam. He looked to the crowd and motioned his gladiator-like double-thumbs-down, which signaled the setup for his finisher, the Batista Bomb.
Not wanting to see me succumb to defeat, Sharmell charged the ring, jumping over my back, and began slapping Batista over and over in an attempt to get him off of me.
Referee Nick Patrick had no choice but to ring the bell and stop the match, giving the DQ victory to Batista but allowing me to keep my title.
Any animosity Batista and I had between each other was left in the ring. We put on a good match, told a good story, and left with much more respect for one another.
As was always the case when a performer held a belt for more than a couple of months, especially the WWE Championship or the Big Gold, it was up to creative to develop new angles to keep things interesting for the fans and talent alike. The idea they came up with was to book all three of the top company-branded champs—John Cena from Raw with the WWE title, Big Show with his ECW World title, and me with the SD World Heavyweight Championship—together in November at Cyber Sunday 2006 in Cincinnati to decide for the first and only time in history who the true WWE Champion of Champions was. The unique stipulation about this match, however, was that fans would vote and decide which title of the three would be defended that night. And none of us would know the answer until right before the match started.
On the night of the PPV, The Big Show, Cena, and I were all in the ring with three referees in a line holding each of our titles as the results were revealed. The graphic of all three of us appeared on the Titantron as the entire arena and fans at home waited. Out of over fourteen and a half million votes worldwide, 12 percent wanted Cena to defend his title, 21 percent wanted to see Big Show defend his title, and an overwhelming 67 percent wanted me to defend my World Heavyweight Championship. I stood in the ring in disbelief as I looked around at the audience with a look of pure betrayal on my face. I had my work cut out for me.
Being in a triple-threat match meant it didn’t matter who you pinned or submitted for the victory. So Cena and Big Show didn’t have to defeat me, as long as they defeated someone. I had the most to lose that night, since I was the only one who could lose a title. They both had everything to gain. And since there was no count-out or DQ, I was in for the fight of my life.
It was an incredibly exciting experience mixing it up with Cena and Show on November 5. For the big boys, the night felt more like recess than work. The people were on their feet almost the entire match as we bounced and flew all over the ring with intensity, aggression, and passion for everything the WWE and our business stood for. Even Sharmell got in on the action as she took a strong Attitude Adjustment from Cena, adding to the drama.
Ultimately, when the time was right, celebrity guest of the night Kevin Federline, Britney Spears’ husband at that time, interfered on my behalf by hitting Cena with the World Heavyweight title while he was trying to make me tap out to the STF. As John got up and turned his back to me to face K-Fed, as he was known, I grabbed the belt and hid it under me for the opportune moment. When John came back around to finish me off, I hit him square in the face with the title, securing my victory not only as king and World Heavyweight Champion but now as the Champion of Champions.
I left the ring with my title and holding my queen in my arms. A personal sense of satisfaction and accomplishment washed over me as I caught my breath and reflected on one of the biggest nights of my career.
Like all great reigns, this one too finally came to an end. Fifteen days after the exhilaration of Cyber Sunday, at Survivor Series 2006 in Philly on November 26, I dropped the Big Gold to none other than Batista. It concluded my last and longest reign with the World Heavyweight Championship, clocking in at over four months, and I was grateful for every day of it. It was my turn to pass the torch.
Dave was the perfect choice. Not only was he still one of the most marketable faces for the company, but our real-life altercation added more realistic appeal to the product than advertising could have. What had transpired between Dave and me didn’t merely blur the lines of disbelief; it obliterated them—something money can never buy.
In hindsight, I almost think the Champion of Champions win over Cena and Big Show was management’s way of indicating their respect for me before going out and relinquishing the title. To be honest, after reaching the pinnacle, I wasn’t sure where creative would go with my character. I thought maybe that particular incarnation of the heel version of King Booker had run its course and maybe I’d flip for a babyface run.
As always, not one to play politics, I trusted Vince and his team to guide me. Whatever they had in mind, I’d work hard to make it a success.
The remainder of 2006 saw my King’s Court of Regal and Finlay dissolve as Fit threw his hat in the ring and ventured into the title picture himself against the likes of Cena and Batista.
At the beginning of the New Year, I was still riding the creative currents. I found land when I was entered into the Royal Rumble 2007 on January 28 as the twelfth entrant. Kane dumped me over the top for a ride home to Houston but not before I sneaked back in behind the referee amongst the chaos and eliminated the big monster for a quick, malicious payback.
Back in Houston, I kept my kingly duties on February 2, when the Ancient Order of Royal Houstonians, known to peasants as Houston’s City Hall, gave me the key to the city. After having the key placed honorably around my neck, I proceeded to read from a speech I had prepared. In my best King Booker accent, I began to praise Queen Sharmell before turning my attention toward the fans. Breaking from my accent and tapping into the thug from 110th Street, I said with as much conviction as I could muster, “It’s about damn time!” The whole thing was just a story line, but it was a blast to ham it up in front of my own hometown. I’d even brought in three guys from my wrestling school as the Ancient Order, and they were thrilled to be on a WWE stage that night.
Toward the end of my speech, I spotted Billy Gibbons from ZZ Top in the front row and ordered him to kiss my royal ring, which he refused. In a fit of anger, I shouted into the mic, “Kiss it, you sumbitch!” I then calmed down and told him that I knew his kind and that instead of kissing my ring, he wanted to kiss my royal foot. Again, he refused. My frustration grew as I directed my animosity toward the fans, calling them ungrateful and telling them they should all be bowing down to me.
As I was admonishing them, Kane’s music and pyro hit, sending shivers down my spine. Kane wanted to gain revenge on me after I’d destroyed his chance at a WrestleMania XXIII title match during the Royal Rumble, and he made his presence known loud and clear. He stalked down to the ring and destroyed my guys before I tried to mount an offense against him. Overwhelmed by his monstrous power, I hightailed it out of there through the crowd, leaving Sharmell behind to catch up with me. With my key to the city gripped in my hand, I ran away to fight another day.
A week later in Omaha, I demanded an apology, but the only possible retribution that came my way was a match at No Way Out 2007 in Los Angeles. Unfortunately, after a hard-fought match, Kane would pin me cleanly in the middle of the ring with a chokeslam. My kingdom was crumbling.
In an effort to regain control of my empire, I wrestled and finally defeated Kane in a Falls Count Anywhere Match on SD. Although my victory was thanks to interference from the Great Khali, it still earned me a coveted spot in WrestleMania XXIII’s Money in the Bank (MITB) Ladder Match.
On March 23 in front of eighty thousand rabid fans of the WWE Universe inside Detroit’s Ford Field, I paraded into a minefield of ladders along with Edge, Jeff Hardy, Matt Hardy, Orton, Mr. Kennedy, Finlay, and CM Punk.
For the record, I hate ladders. I don’t like cleaning my gutters with them, changing my lightbulbs with them, or even looking at them. But with a guaranteed title shot at any championship I’d want on the line, I was determined to bring my best.
At one point, I reached under the ring to grab a ladder to use, only to pull out a short stepladder. I stood there outside the ring in shock saying out loud, “Tell me I didn’t just—” before getting pummeled by CM Punk.
Once I got my bearings and was able to roll back into the ring, I had a good run of offensive on each competitor, hitting them with scissor kicks and spinebusters. Once I cleared the ring, instead of grabbing the biggest ladder and climbing it to victory, I showboated and gave the fans a WrestleMania Spinarooni, which allowed the Hardys the chance to knock me out of the ring with a ladder shot. Like I said, I love to entertain.
In the end, Mr. Kennedy would take the win and another WrestleMania was in the books.
About this time, I was walking out of a hotel one morning when I felt my right knee lock out again. I shook it out and kept walking, thinking, Not again. Medical results proved it was in fact the exact same injury I’d faced several times before. I wasn’t sure whether I had sustained the injury during my ladder match or from running as hard as I could as King Booker. Either way, it was another wake-up call as to how much I’d put my body through.
Once again, I had to be written off TV for surgery and rehab, which we did April 6 in Fort Wayne, Indiana. After I gave Matt Hardy a nice, clean win, Sharmell expressed her disappointment by giving me a big royal slap to the face.
Feeling dejected, I decided to win her back by attacking The Undertaker later that night, which was a grave mistake. Undertaker set me up for a Tombstone Piledriver on the announcers’ table. However, what should have been a dramatic ending, with the entire table crumbling beneath our weight as he drove me down, turned out to be a stiff finisher on top of a table that didn’t collapse. The move looked brutal as he drove me down headfirst, an abrupt end that left me lying there like a corpse.
The Undertaker stood over me, holding up the World Heavyweight Championship as SD faded to a close. It was a great and dramatic way for the character of King Booker to take his leave for the next few months.
With King Booker having exited the WWE for royal repairs, Queen Sharmell was excused from her duties as well. After I had arthroscopic surgery yet again, the two of us returned home to Houston and I began physical therapy while enjoying two other very important things. First, overseeing the amazing progress of the students at my school. And second, absolutely nothing. Other than hobbling around the PWA ring on crutches and instructing with Sharmell, I lay on the couch sleeping, eating, and watching TV.
Soon, I was approached by local Houston radio station KBME 790 and started hosting a WWE-themed show once a week called Tea Time with King Booker, which was really fun.
Before I knew it, a little over eight weeks had passed all too quickly and it was time to dust off the crown and report back to my loyal subjects of the SD Kingdom—or so I thought.
The week before I returned, Vince conducted another WWE Draft Lottery on Raw in Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania, on June 11, and Sharmell and I were sent packing for Monday nights.
I was excited to head back to Raw because it was the flagship show and, more importantly, it was live. There’s no feeling like the adrenaline rush you get from two cans of royal Red Bull and walking out to the live set of Raw every week.
However, just as I was amped up and readying myself to hit the road with the company full-time, a devastating piece of news rocked my life.
On Friday, June 15, 2007, my dear friend Sherri Martel, Sister Sherri, died at her mother’s house near Birmingham, Alabama. I was emotionally destroyed. I loved Sherri like a sister and had stayed in touch with her since she’d departed WCW permanently in 2000. There’s not enough room in this book to properly articulate what Sherri did for my career when she came on board with Lash and me. Having her next to us as the ultimate heel manager of the ring had elevated Harlem Heat to a status of legitimacy we’d never thought possible.
Sherri knew how to play just as hard as she worked. I kept thinking of the times I’d put her to bed, fed her, and brought her hot cups of coffee, always looking over my shoulder to make sure she was still following me through airports and arenas. When she’d remarried shortly after the demise of WCW, I’d even been there to give her away in place of her father.
When she passed away, I jumped on the first plane headed for Alabama to say good-bye, and I took personal responsibility for the funeral expenses to ensure it was overseen properly.
Upon arriving at the service in Birmingham, I found it interesting and disheartening that, aside from Marty Jannetty, I was the only one there from the business. Here Sherri had given twenty-six years to the business as one of the most successful female professional wrestlers and managers of all time. She had worked with literally all the greats through the biggest booms in the industry during the eighties and nineties. It was a cold side of the business that met me as I looked around wishing for more familiar faces.
Fortunately, Sherri had lived long enough to walk onstage for her own WWE Hall of Fame induction in 2006, and I was glad I’d been there to give her a big hug. There will never be another one like my dear friend, the incomparable Sister Sherri Martel.
When I did my first Raw appearance on June 18 in Richmond, Virginia, still mourning Sherri, I found it overly macabre that the show revolved around Vince’s staged limousine explosion death the week prior. I’d had enough death in reality to be written into a murderous story line. I desperately looked for the angle to be over so the gloom could clear.
But it was only going to get worse—far worse.
Seven days later, we were set for a full Vince McMahon Memorial Raw in Corpus Christi when the WWE was shaken to its foundation by an event that ignited television debates and newspaper editorials for months.
As Sharmell and I arrived at the American Bank Center that day, we were immediately informed that my friend Chris Benoit, his wife Nancy, and young son Daniel were found dead in their Georgia home the previous day, June 24. I went numb. I picked up my bag, turned around, and walked out. I couldn’t participate in the interviews they’d started compiling with guys for that night’s improvised tribute. It was too much.
Thoughts raced through my mind. My God. First Eddie, then Sherri, and now Chris? What the hell’s going on? Everything’s out of control.
It wasn’t until the next day that we learned along with the nation that it was in fact Chris who’d killed his wife, son, and then himself.
That grisly information flipped me upside down. It was the absolute last thing I would’ve expected, and it was impossible to make sense of it. Chris had seemed down recently, but I’d thought the business was just wearing on him, as it does anyone who’s been in the game a long time. But this wasn’t the act of a sane individual. Suicides were not unfamiliar to our industry, but someone killing his family first? It was too heinous to comprehend. I’ve contemplated a thousand times what was going through Chris’s mind, but that’s an answer he took with him.
I just wished I would’ve reached out to him before it was too late. The tragedy will haunt me for the rest of my life.
Sharmell told me later that prior to my birthday, on March 1, Chris had approached her with a question. “I was thinking about buying Booker a replica of the WCW World Television Championship to commemorate our Best of Seven Series. Do you think he’d like it?”
She told him I absolutely would.
Although he never followed through with it, I was thankful he’d valued our time together.
In the end, I’ll never be able reconcile the memories of the friend I shared definitive moments of my career with and the stranger who ended his family’s lives.
We returned to Corpus Christi on July 16, and although every-one was still reeling from the tragedy, we knew the show must go on.
Unfortunately, the combined losses of Eddie, Sherri, and Chris had taken my mind completely out of the business. It wasn’t fun anymore, and I thought it would be better to walk away at the top of my game rather than be carried out.
With all this on my mind, I entered a brief but overdue feud with the other king, Jerry Lawler. It was a transitional setup to a program with Hunter, who was calling himself the King of Kings and was out with an injury for the time being. Since the day I’d won the KOTR, I’d wondered if they’d have Jerry and me square off in a royal showdown, and now it was finally going to happen.
That night Triple H’s entrance song came on, driving the crowd into a frenzy. But when they saw Sharmell and me coming down the ramp instead, the cheers died. I told them there was only one king on Raw, and it wasn’t Hunter. Then I went up to Lawler and told him to remove King from his name out of respect for my superiority in the role. Jerry told me he’d been a king for thirty years. I scoffed and told him to kiss my ring, but we brawled instead.
On July 23 in Sacramento, again I got in the ring and berated Lawler, calling him Jerome, which cracked me up, and he responded by calling me a royal pain in the arse before knocking me out of the ring.
Honestly, both of us were having so much fun with this angle. It was everything great about the art and entertainment of our business.
We wrestled two matches to settle our dispute over the king of the crown. The first time in Tucson, on July 30, Jerry took the victory by DQ and attacked me as I carelessly walked away.
But then on August 6 in Buffalo, I reigned supreme when it really counted in a Loser-Crowns-the-Winner Match with a clean pin fall.
My official coronation as the King of Raw was to happen at Madison Square Garden on August 13, but Lawler bitterly refused to crown me and instead told me I’d have to face Triple H at SummerSlam 2007 on August 26 in East Rutherford, New Jersey. For his insolence, I proceeded to pummel the former king and bash him over the head with a monitor.
However, Jerry’s declaration of my match with Hunter was more anticlimactic than the people around the wrestling world could’ve ever imagined.
Even though I was having fun in the ring, overall I was still feeling overwhelmingly burned out. I knew it was time to take a step back and ask for my release from the WWE for the time being. To me, it was never going to be a permanent departure, just a breather to let things pass and return at a later date.
I sat down with Vince, and he said if that was the way I felt, then it was the right thing to do but the door to the WWE would always be open. It was my priority to leave on good terms, so I agreed to finish out the scheduled match with Hunter at SummerSlam. And it was just the right thing to do.
I headed straight to SummerSlam 2007 on August 26. It was to be Triple H against King Booker in Hunter’s return match after several months off due to injury. At the same time, I was on my way out. It was an intense bout with both of us feeling something to prove that night in Continental Airlines Arena, and if there was one thing I could count on, it was for Hunter to dish it out as well as he took it. We tossed stiff shots and massive potatoes all night and gave it our all.
Nearing the finish, knowing it was potentially my last big event in front of the WWE Universe, I thought, I’m going for the Hangover, and climbed to the top. Hunter rolled out of the way, recovered, hit me with the Pedigree, and that was it.
There was no fanfare as I said good-bye to King Booker and laid down my crown, shook a few hands in the back, and walked out into the night, no longer a part of the world I’d worked my entire life to become a part of.
The next morning, I boarded my flight home to Houston. I stared out the window, watching the passing landscape, and wondered what would be next for me. Initially, I thought, I’m just going home to focus on my family, my school, and anything in the world I feel like. The future looked bright and relaxing for a change.
But it didn’t take Total Nonstop Action (TNA), the fledgling wrestling company out of Orlando, long to give me a call to gauge my interest. Basically the deal they offered me was two years at a decent salary, only this required eighty dates a year rather than over two hundred with the WWE. I’d essentially get paid enough to take care of all my expenses just to go to Disney World once or twice a week with Sharmell, who was also offered a contract. Even though I was burned out, the idea of a much lighter schedule and the ability to still contribute to the business was enticing. We took the deal, and it was the easiest time in the business I’d had to date.
I didn’t know what to expect from TNA, and when the time came in November of 2007, I arrived with a positive outlook and dressed to impress.
I made my debut on November 11, 2007, at their Genesis PPV as the mystery partner of Sting. My first match at TNA was actually a tag team match for the TNA World Heavyweight Championship, with Sting and I going up against Kevin Nash and defending Champion Kurt Angle. Kurt ended up retaining his title that night, and it felt good to be back in the ring with three guys I had so much history with.
Over time, I would become part of a stable known as The Main Event Mafia, along with Kurt Angle, Sting, Kevin Nash, and Scott Steiner. We were the veterans of the business, and all of us at one time were World Champions. We began a feud with a young group known as the TNA Frontline, and our goal was simple: we would teach these “originals” about respect.
In October of 2008, to be sure the Frontline understood just how much this business was built on our backs, I debuted a brand-new title belt, the TNA Legends Championship. It was a beautiful belt created by me in the story line to represent the most legendary in the business. I took it upon myself to declare me the first-ever TNA Legends Champion, and since it was my own belt, I said that I would defend the title when I so pleased.
That time was in March of 2009 at TNA’s Destination X PPV, against their franchise player, AJ Styles. Styles would come away with the win that night, officially bringing the Legends belt under the sanctioning of TNA and ending my reign.
Not long after that, at Victory Road on July 19, 2009, my longtime friend Scott Steiner and I teamed up against James Storm and Bobby Roode, Beer Money Inc., for the TNA World Tag Team Championship. It had been over ten years since I’d teamed up with my brother Lash in WCW, where we were used to wrestling against Scotty and his brother Rick. And now here we were, two guys from two of the most successful, legitimate brother teams in this business, taking our shot at tag team gold together. We’d come away the victors that night, bringing the TNA Tag Team Championships to the Main Event Mafia and making me a fifteen-time World Tag Team title holder.
Even though in front of the camera we put on good performances, the production behind the scenes was chaotic, and there was no united effort among the performers to raise the company to a higher level. Instead, a lot of people were there out of convenience and stability, with some crossing their fingers that the WWE would call them up. No matter how good my intentions were coming in, there was absolutely no direction in TNA.
Once I realized my employers at TNA were happy to simply have my name on the roster, along with other former WWE and WCW performers, I relaxed. They simply wanted to pay me to show up and work. Okay, I’m content moonwalking right in here, hitting a toe spin, a split, cashing a check, and shuffling right out the door.
And that’s exactly what Sharmell and I did. In fact, we started thinking of our trips to TNA as a long series of Brazilian birthdays—because every time we went to Orlando, we went to the same Brazilian steakhouse, where amazing cuts of various meats were sliced and served to order at the table. When we first started going there, they recognized me and always gave me the 50 percent birthday discount, which made it even harder to resist. I swear, we went there so often that according to their computer registry, Sharmell and I are probably both three hundred years old. It still remains one of the highlights of our trips with TNA.
In spite of the lack of direction, I still had fun in TNA. However, when our two years were up in November of 2009, I walked away knowing there was no other company to complete my legacy with than the WWE. I felt well rested, and my desire to get back in the action was as strong as ever.
Soon after, I contacted John Laurinaitis and told him I wanted to come home. He said it was fantastic news but I’d have to go to Pittsburgh for the standard physical.
I started to get a little apprehensive. I’d injured my neck again, but I figured they didn’t need to know about it. I packed my bags and traveled to Pittsburgh for a full battery of blood tests, MRIs, and CT scans and awaited a contract and start date.
Much to my chagrin, the scans revealed I had a bulging vertebra in my neck too close to a nerve for them to clear me to wrestle unless I had surgery. But before I even had time to consider it, the WWE let me know they felt surgery could be too much of a risk to my quality of life.
I honestly felt like I was being put out to pasture like a thoroughbred that had run too many races and was headed for the glue factory. I started to panic. What am I going to do? Is my career really over on somebody else’s terms?
It was disappointing, but the most important thing about to happen in my life would surpass anything I could ever do in the ring.
After trying unsuccessfully for the better part of two years, Sharmell and I were finally told we were expecting—twins, in fact—the following August of 2010. We were overjoyed as husband and wife, best friends, and now parents-to-be. But now more than ever, because of my memories as a teenage orphan on the streets of Houston, the pressure of impending parenthood was immeasurable. I wanted to rise above the diagnosis of the WWE’s physical and keep working to ensure the security of my family for years, even generations, to come if possible.
Suddenly, several bookings started coming my way from Puerto Rico and Mexico, and I felt they were a godsend. Those territories were the last true bastions of pure blood-and-guts professional wrestling I had yet to experience. I also thought if the WWE saw I was still working and my neck wasn’t a factor, perhaps they’d call and take a chance on me.
On August 5, 2010, Sharmell delivered our beautiful babies, Kendrick James and Kennedy Rose. Man, did we have our hands full. Having these two blessings enter our lives was something neither of us could’ve fathomed when we first met in the business. Our son and daughter were the culmination of everything amazing our relationship represented and a bright beacon toward a future unlike my tumultuous past.
After almost a year of dates with several Mexican and Puerto Rican promotions, John Laurinaitis called me one day out of nowhere. He was the last person I ever expected to hear from.
“Booker, we want you to come back. We’ve got a couple of ideas already lined up for you. Let’s bring you home where you belong.”
I couldn’t believe the timing. Soon after welcoming our twins, I was going back to my company of choice.
Many people blow it when leaving the WWE by bashing everything about it and everyone inside. When you leave a job—I don’t care if it’s McDonald’s—you don’t burn the bridge on the way out by saying things like, “Your fries suck, your Big Macs are terrible, and so is everything else about this place!” All too many guys have buried themselves with bitter departures and then found themselves down the road regretting it. I was thankful the WWE bridge was still open to me.
When I spoke to Vince personally about my return, he said, “Not only are you wanted back, Booker; you’re needed back.”
He offered me a behind-the-scenes role, a lighter schedule, chances to climb back into the ring if I chose, and most importantly the opportunity to remain relevant as my career came to a final curtain call.
It certainly felt as if I’d just been given the keys to the kingdom. Vince’s graciousness and the warmth of my reception into the WWE humbled me.
I’d made it to the next level. Through the years, I’d wondered, Can I make it? Do I have what it takes to maintain longevity in this business? I finally had my answer.
I made my surprise second debut for the WWE at Royal Rumble 2011 in Boston on January 30. When “Can you dig it, sucka?” and my music piped over the PA, it was the single greatest pop of my career. Two Red Bulls raced through my system, but the instant those fifteen thousand people lost their voices for me, I was moved beyond belief. First John Laurinaitis called me up, then Vince made me an offer, and finally the WWE Universe welcomed me back once and for all.
After the overwhelming return at the Rumble, over the course of the following three years, I transitioned into several modes of operation.
First, I settled into a commentary spot with Michael Cole and Josh Matthews on SD. I had a good time while doing it, and it allowed me to enter a brief in-ring feud with Cody Rhodes, whom I requested to work with.
Not long after, I became Teddy Long’s successor as the GM of SD. It was a great position that allowed me to still entertain but not have to test my physical limits in the ring.
The ultimate transition, though, was something I felt uneasy about and found myself almost attempting to avoid.
As WrestleMania XXIX approached on April 7, 2013, in East Rutherford, an agent approached me backstage at SD.
“Hey, Booker, we’re going to put you in the Hall of Fame this year. What do you think?”
Shivers went up my spine. “Um, are you sure you want to do that now? Man, I don’t know if I’m ready yet.”
“Of course you are. It’s your time. You deserve it, and everyone here wants you in.”
Oh no, I thought. If I accept the honor, will I ever be able to put my boots on and return to the game in the ring?
After some time passed, the idea didn’t seem so frightening, and I knew it wouldn’t be the end of my career in the squared circle. I would accept the honor as a member of the performers, past and present, whom the WWE felt shaped the brand and communicated it to the world.
On Saturday, April 6, 2013, at the Continental Airlines Arena, my brother Lash and I formally reunited as Harlem Heat in public for the first time in over thirteen years. For me, it was a big step in helping to mend the tension that had kept us apart for the last eight years. Through it all, the good and the bad, my brother was the one responsible for my entry to professional wrestling when he’d invited me to Ivan Putski’s WWA twenty-two years earlier. There was no one else I would’ve asked to be by my side that night, and I was thankful he’d agreed.
That night Lash called me out on stage, and I was overcome with emotion and gratitude for my family and countless friends and performers, still living and fallen. So many people had helped me get there through many obstacles along the way.
Stepping up to the microphone and taking a deep breath, I was just about to begin my speech when the entire arena erupted into a “Thank you, Booker!” chant that broke me even more. I was humbled. From my heart, I told the people I was the one who was thankful they’d allowed me to be a part of their lives for so many years.
I made it through the speech while looking down and seeing many peers, like Ron Simmons, Michael Hayes, and so many more. It was a surreal, timeless moment.
I glanced at Sharmell, who was holding our twins and had tears in her eyes, and told her, “My wife, my queen. I’d say, ‘I do’ a thousand times over. I love you more than anything in the world.”
As I looked around at the arena, a huge sense of pride welled up in me. I had started at the bottom and made it all the way to the top. Bursting with gratitude and deeply humbled, I brought everything home the only way possible: “And, yes, I do take my place into immortality to the 2013 Hall of Fame. And it’s like I always say: now can you dig that, sucka?”
I was overwhelmed as the people helped me finish the last line with a sucka! that rumbled the roof and my heart.
It was a rare moment when everyone watching got to see and hear from the man, Booker T. Huffman. Not G.I. Bro, not Booker T from Harlem Heat, and not even King Booker. It was 100 percent me, and I was grateful to be able to give my thanks to everyone who’d helped me along the way.
And just when I thought this Houston boy was ready to leave the stage, my brother stepped in my way and told me there was one last thing I had to do before it was over. He wanted it; the people started cheering for it; I knew I couldn’t walk away until I did it.
I gave the WWE Universe a Hall of Fame 2013 Spinarooni that no one will ever forget—especially me. I took off my tailored jacket and got down on one knee as the crowd cheered. As soon as I hit the ground for the backspin, I tore my right triceps right off the bone. The moment it happened, I felt the snap, pop, and pain and instantly knew.
I laughed to myself. Shit. I’m gonna need surgery for this.
It was just business as usual.