(***Disclaimer; this is probably my favorite story ever)
I'm reading the NCAA post-weekend fall-out this morning at work and I find this interesting little nugget about Florida's pre-game on Thursday night before they beat Butler. Apparently, Billy Donovan is the smartest man ever as instead of giving his team a pep-talk himself, he brought in Ric Flair to do it instead. Wow! Now that is coaching. I guess The Nature Boy was strutting and Wooooing like crazy in front of these kids right before they took the floor...I can't even comprehend how awesome this would've been to see live. Because of this, and I had them anyway, Florida is going to repeat easily because no other team could top getting Ric Flair to support them. Congratulations, Gators, on going back to back. It's over, no need to play the games.
Of course, this got me thinking. My boss is out sick today so I've been doing even less than I normally do. It got me thinking about the greatest story ever told. The night I was almost killed by Mr. Perfect (The Genius was not there although he looks magnificent in this picture).
OK. I'm 16 years old and it's Thanksgiving break. Black, Rune, Buke, Shegitz, Glick (I think), and myself head up to Seagate Center in Toledo for a taping of WCW Saturday Night. You know, the show that WCW used to run that featured terrible matches and never advanced any storylines. Anyway, to start things out, we leave at like 3 pm and Buke is already hammered. He's laying in the back of John's Wagoneer (yes, THEE Wagoneer) and rainbow vomits all over himself no more than 5 minutes into the trip. We had to pull over on 24 to clean his ass up. Alright, we get up there and our seats are general admission so we're waiting in line forever so we can get near the rail where the wrestlers walk down and get on tv. I should tell you that I took a big tube of eye-black that baseball players wear and painted a Hulk Hogan beard on myself...it looked terrible. I also made signs!!! I really can't remember that much but if memory serves me, I had a sign that featured our Pacers intramurals logo (Superman logo but with a P instead of an S), one that read (For a Good Time, Call [whatever Zamarippa's phone number was] and Ask For Armando, and a (Goldberg Fears Z-Man) sign. They all got on tv. I should also point out that while we are waiting in line to get in for two and a half hours, Buke was passed out on the floor of the arena with puke all over his pants. But I did get former terrible wrestler, Glacier's autograph. You're jealous.
The matches were terrible. Buke woke up only to almost get ejected by getting caught on camera by the WCW guys flipping off Eddie Guerrero. This was hilarious by the way. These big white trash HJ's screaming at a 15 year old kid that was drunk out of his mind. If anyone remembers Miss Jackie (I think she may have been with Harlem Heat at the time), he did propose to her that night in the parking lot.
Which brings me to my story. We have nowhere to go when the show ends so we all go back to the wrestler's parking lot and wait for them to leave. There's a group of about 15 people standing around each exchanging insults to yell at the wrestlers, for some unknown reason, before they got in their car. All of a sudden, it's my turn. I'm standing next to Black and say "I'm gonna pick a fight with whoever walks out next." And by God, who comes strolling out the door about 10 seconds later...
Curt Fucking Hennig. Mr. Perfect.
"SUCK MY ASS, HENNIG, YOU BITCH! I'LL WHIP YOUR ASS!"--me, screaming this as loud as I can due to him being about 30-40 yards away
He says nothing. But I do notice that he is walking right toward me. He gets about 20 yards away and I'm trying to decide "Do I have the balls to fight Mr. Perfect?" I decide I do not. I start running away from the group, not too far away, but far enough for Hennig to know that I'm a giant vagina. He gets into his car, I thank God that I'm not on the receiving end of a "Perfect-Plex" and that I did not shit myself, and he pulls out of the lot.
To save some face, I thought it was best if I insulted him again. So here I am with my fake Hulk Hogan eye-black beard, chasing Mr. Perfect's car down the street in downtown Toledo.
"GET BACK HERE, YOU BITCH. I'M GONNA BEAT YOUR ASS!"
I'm about 15 yards from his back bumper until I noticed that the traffic light we were both approaching was yellow. We both hit the brakes, him in his car, me on my feet. The only difference was that he waited at the light while I ran back to my buddies with my tail between my legs.
Fast forward to some random day in 2003 when I read that Curt Hennig was found dead in his hotel room somewhere. I think I read later that it was a drug overdose or something. That day was also probably the last time I thought of this great tale.
Hennig, you may have won the battle on the mean streets of Toledo, but I won the war.