Dusty: Reflections of Wrestling's American Dream by Dusty Rhodes, Howard Brody Page A

match!
    Longevity is Terry’s thing, and I don’t know any better way of explaining it than the time he picked up a roll of barbed wire and threw it at me. People know those big rolls weigh about 15 to 20 pounds, and he just threw it at me and hit me in the arm with it—just threw it at me. I was looking the other way and turned around and I was thinking, “This stupid motherfucker!” Well, when shit like that happens, you get so mad you start hitting him fucking hard with whatever you can grab. You’re so mad your eyes are shut as you’re hitting him and the brutality about it threw us together with great respect for each other.
    We have a tremendous amount of respect for each other because we still—and I won’t even say the word—we still believe it’s real while others don’t … that’s what makes it great! What you would call an angle or a great feud or whatever, but we can’t talk about our ending because it’s still going on.
    But let me tell you how crazy Terry Funk really is.
    He would go down to the airport while I would be there and he would walk behind me without me knowing it. As he was following me, he would scream “Fatso!” then he’d hide behind somebody or in a corner so when I would turn around, I didn’t see anybody. I’d walk about five more feet and he would yell as loud as he could, “Fatso!” So I would turn around again and look back and I still didn’t see him. But then I would hear him so I would ask him later on, “What were you doing at the fucking airport calling me, ‘Fatso?’”
    He’d say, “No, I was saying to somebody walking with me, ‘Is that so?!’”
    “What do you mean, ‘Is that so?’”
    He’d look right at me and say, “You just took it wrong … that’s why we don’t like each other.” And then he’d walk away.
    That was his mentality.
    We had a lot of fun together, buddy.
    Dr. Jerry Graham was a huge star going all the way back to the 1950s with his tag-team partner Eddie Graham. Their team was legendary and they wrestled as brothers, although they weren’t related. But by the time I came in contact with him, he had become a full-fledged out-of-his-mind motherfucker.
    What I am about to recount is the God’s honest truth. This is the story of one legendary week in the Amarillo territory.
    On Sunday, we left Amarillo and headed to Albuquerque early because we had a long haul to show up before the night matches. At that time Terry and I traveled together—running with the boss’s son couldn’t hurt! As we finished television and went to the show at the Civic Center, Dr. Jerry was already working his magic.
    I don’t remember who Doc rode with, but he was to manage me as I would be facing the greatest Latin babyface and pro wrestler in the world, Jose Lothario. It was a good house, paid attendance-wise. I think Terry was wrestling some star like Bull Ramos.
    Anyway, I got my ass handed to me by Jose, and he got the win, lucky bastard! After the match, as I laid spread out on the mat like a fucking bear rug, Doc jumped in the ring and had me open my mouth. He put three pills down my throat before I could say no. It had happened. He looked at me and said. …
    I didn’t know what he said or what the pills were. Shit, those pills could have been LSD or even poison. Well, as I got back to the dressing room I was scared, but I was also pissed at him. To this day I respect the men and women in our industry who kept me from saying anything about it.
    Then the real fun began with the drive from Albuquerque to El Paso; a long trip. Terry told Dory Sr. that no one wanted to take him, so the old man said we had to take him. I said, “Let Harley [Race] take him. He was the booker. Shit!”
    Harley said it would be fun. Fun?!
    We loaded up the green Pontiac Grand Prix and hit the road.
    You have to understand that back then there were some back roads we took to get from Albuquerque to El Paso that were right out of the movies: dirt roads, little