early-morning practices with the orange glow of the sun just beginning to rise and Paul Simon’s “Loves Me Like a Rock” playing on the radio. It was during those drives that I finally began to bond with my dad. We’d talk about all kinds of things, his life and his disappointments, in particular Smith, a total sore point because of the baby and because he seemed to screw up every chance my dad gave him to be our leader. It was during these intimate talks that I sensed he saw something in me.
Of course, there were still times when our relationship was complex, even volatile. One night during football season, I was watching The Merv Griffin Show with my mom, and Ellie wouldn’t stop whistling a jingle from a TV commercial. When I asked her to quit it, she whistled as loudly as she could until even my mom became annoyed and told her to stop. Ellie flew into a rage, smashed a dish on the kitchen floor and tore into my mom for taking my side.
Seconds later, Stu stomped down the stairs and tackled me to the floor, mauling me like he’d done countless times before. After several minutes of my mom screaming in his ear that I’d done nothing wrong, he let up and got off me. I went down to my room in the basement and punched the walls, promising myself I would never let him do that to me again. Stu, Ellie and my mom carried on arguing noisily and then I heard a knock on my door. My dad had come to apologize to me. It was the last time he ever laid a finger on me.
That fall, Stampede Wrestling became interesting again with the arrival of a masked British wrestler called Kendo Nagasaki, who bore an uncanny resemblance to The Cool Cool Killer, one of the imaginary wrestling characters I liked to draw. I was no longer selling programs; I’d grown big enough to join Wayne as a bouncer at the front door. I was girlcrazy, bursting with testosterone. I’d grown up, probably too fast.
My brothers had taught me all there was to know about sex before I knew the truth about Santa Claus. Smith had a movie projector and showed hard-core porn flicks on the wall of the attic bedroom. Young trollops at the wrestling matches, many of whom I’d known since I was little, eagerly opened my eyes to what I’d seen playing out on the attic wall. By the time I was sixteen, I was sneaking them down the dungeon steps at night and into my little lair, where I lost my virginity to a cute, dark-haired, blue-eyed ring rat named Sheila. On weekends I’d cruise down to Victoria Park in my dad’s van along with several buddies, with Steve Miller playing on the radio, singing about the midnight toker getting some lovin’ on the run. Three or four ring rats would climb in, and we’d head out to Clearwater Beach. Heads bobbed up and down in every seat. With Smith’s example in front of my eyes, I was always careful not to get anyone pregnant.
Once the football season ended, wrestling started. Dean had graduated from high school and was still the only Hart kid to ever win a wrestling medal at the city championships, two years earlier. I decided it was my responsibility to pick up where Dean left off. Though he was always working and never got to see a match, I knew my involvement in amateur wrestling made my dad happy. That year all I could think about was winning a gold medal. With the help of an injured teammate by the name of Brian Hatt, who motivated me to train hard, I burned off ten pounds to drop to under 145
pounds—and a lower weight class, where I stood a better chance of winning.
The Friday night of the city championships was the first time that I didn’t go to the matches at the pavilion. My dad gave me an encouraging pat on the back as he was leaving, but I sensed he didn’t think I could win. I beat everyone in my weight class, including Bob Eklund, who would eventually become the Canadian National Amateur Wrestling Champion. I carried on winning into the second day of the tournament. When my brother Keith showed up that Saturday
Of course, there were still times when our relationship was complex, even volatile. One night during football season, I was watching The Merv Griffin Show with my mom, and Ellie wouldn’t stop whistling a jingle from a TV commercial. When I asked her to quit it, she whistled as loudly as she could until even my mom became annoyed and told her to stop. Ellie flew into a rage, smashed a dish on the kitchen floor and tore into my mom for taking my side.
Seconds later, Stu stomped down the stairs and tackled me to the floor, mauling me like he’d done countless times before. After several minutes of my mom screaming in his ear that I’d done nothing wrong, he let up and got off me. I went down to my room in the basement and punched the walls, promising myself I would never let him do that to me again. Stu, Ellie and my mom carried on arguing noisily and then I heard a knock on my door. My dad had come to apologize to me. It was the last time he ever laid a finger on me.
That fall, Stampede Wrestling became interesting again with the arrival of a masked British wrestler called Kendo Nagasaki, who bore an uncanny resemblance to The Cool Cool Killer, one of the imaginary wrestling characters I liked to draw. I was no longer selling programs; I’d grown big enough to join Wayne as a bouncer at the front door. I was girlcrazy, bursting with testosterone. I’d grown up, probably too fast.
My brothers had taught me all there was to know about sex before I knew the truth about Santa Claus. Smith had a movie projector and showed hard-core porn flicks on the wall of the attic bedroom. Young trollops at the wrestling matches, many of whom I’d known since I was little, eagerly opened my eyes to what I’d seen playing out on the attic wall. By the time I was sixteen, I was sneaking them down the dungeon steps at night and into my little lair, where I lost my virginity to a cute, dark-haired, blue-eyed ring rat named Sheila. On weekends I’d cruise down to Victoria Park in my dad’s van along with several buddies, with Steve Miller playing on the radio, singing about the midnight toker getting some lovin’ on the run. Three or four ring rats would climb in, and we’d head out to Clearwater Beach. Heads bobbed up and down in every seat. With Smith’s example in front of my eyes, I was always careful not to get anyone pregnant.
Once the football season ended, wrestling started. Dean had graduated from high school and was still the only Hart kid to ever win a wrestling medal at the city championships, two years earlier. I decided it was my responsibility to pick up where Dean left off. Though he was always working and never got to see a match, I knew my involvement in amateur wrestling made my dad happy. That year all I could think about was winning a gold medal. With the help of an injured teammate by the name of Brian Hatt, who motivated me to train hard, I burned off ten pounds to drop to under 145
pounds—and a lower weight class, where I stood a better chance of winning.
The Friday night of the city championships was the first time that I didn’t go to the matches at the pavilion. My dad gave me an encouraging pat on the back as he was leaving, but I sensed he didn’t think I could win. I beat everyone in my weight class, including Bob Eklund, who would eventually become the Canadian National Amateur Wrestling Champion. I carried on winning into the second day of the tournament. When my brother Keith showed up that Saturday
Similar Books
