Ted DiBiase Read online

  After working a few months in the territory, he once again quit wrestling. Tired of the politics, as well as promoters not properly paying off, he temporarily got out of the business. I recall Dad coming home one night and throwing his bag in the basement as if he would never grab it again.

  Dad was my hero and I wanted to be just like him. He was bigger than life. He had a storied career at the University of Nebraska and I hoped to follow in his footsteps.

  But Dad never wanted any of his kids to get involved with professional wrestling. Back then, wrestling was not a job that would make you rich. There were no benefits, health insurance, pension plan, or 401(k). If you were good, you could make a living. And if you were lucky, you could make a good living. As an adult, I now understand. I understand the hardships, the time away from one’s family, and the insecurity.

  OSCAR NANFITO (childhood friend):

  The one thing that I always respected about Ted was his ambition. As early as ninth grade, he had direction and a vision. He wanted to make something of his life. He always wanted to be a professional wrestler and to be like his dad. I thought it was phony. But if that was what Ted really wanted to do for a living, then I supported it. Unlike me, at least Ted had a goal in life.

  Dad had many connections through friends and family, and throughout our two years in Omaha, he tried a few other jobs. For a period of time he sold life insurance. He also hooked up with Mickey Sporano, a childhood friend. Mickey was in the nightclub business and hired my dad to manage a club. Neither venture provided any long-term success, and he eventually went back into the wrestling business.

  Before we moved there, I had visited Omaha. For the first time, I was introduced to all my relatives on the DiBiase side. I remember Grandma DiBiase, Aunt Betty, Aunt Mary, and many of my cousins. They were all super nice and showed me a tremendous amount of love. From the way they talked to the smell of the kitchen, you could tell the DiBiase family was real Italian.

  We moved to the neighborhood where my dad grew up. The kids that I would meet and play with were the children of people that my dad had gone to school with when he was young. This was where I started to learn about the Italian culture.

  Almost every Sunday we would have a huge lunch. All the relatives would gather at Grandma DiBiase’s house. There would be an adult table and a kids’ table. Before lunch, the men would be outside talking while the women were in the kitchen preparing the meal. The kids would play outside or huddle around the kitchen, trying to sneak a meatball.

  I had already fallen in love with lasagna and spaghetti, and Sunday at Grandma’s house was a feast. Besides the pasta and fresh Italian bread, there was always a meat, some vegetable, like eggplant, and pieces of salami, prosciutto, and cheese. And there was never a shortage of wine on the table. We would eat until the notches on our belt buckles were about to rip.

  After the meal, the women would clear the table and the men would go back to the football game, business discussion, or whatever else they were doing. Some would even take a nap. The kids would go back outside to play.

  About two hours or so later, Grandma or one of my aunts would gather everyone back to the table for dessert. You knew it was time for the sweets because of the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

  The desserts were out of this world. There would always be Italian cookies and pastries, such as almond macaroon tarts, sfogliatelles, pasticciotti, and éclairs. I would always grab a cannoli or two.

  JOHN DIBIASE:

  One Sunday afternoon, some of the relatives came over to our house for dinner. Mom was making lasagna, among other things, as the main course. Ted and I were sitting at the kids’ table in the living room. As the food was coming out, Ted and I started fighting over something. He made me very mad. We started bickering back and forth until Ted got up to go do something—probably to check on the desserts. Seizing the opportunity, I spit in his lasagna! Ted came back and sat down to finish his food. He ate all the lasagna.

  When he completed his meal, I looked at him and said, “How was your lasagna?”

  “It was great.”

  “Good, because I spit in it!” I got in big trouble with my dad.

  My neighborhood in Omaha was very ethnically diverse. You had the Italians to the east, the Poles to the west, the Germans to the north, and a few other groups scattered to the south. All the people who lived within eight to ten city blocks of my house were Italians.

  The house we lived in on South Twenty-second Street was a small one-bedroom with a front porch. When you entered the house through the porch, there was a living room. To the left was the bedroom, with the only bathroom in the house. At the far end of the living room to the left was the kitchen. Just outside the kitchen, there were stairs that went down to the basement, which was unfinished and used for storage.

  MIKE DIBIASE:

  We had a Ping-Pong table in the basement. My cousins Johnny and Jim Sanchez and I used to play all the time. We were all six to eight years older than Teddy. Well, Teddy would always want to play and we wouldn’t let him. Dad finally stepped in and said we had to let him play. So we did. At first we would just beat him real good until he would quit. But you know what? After a while, he started getting better and better. Pretty soon he was beating everyone. I was real proud of him.

  There was also an upstairs attic, with a low ceiling that ran the entire length of the house. Dad remodeled it into a bedroom, and that’s where Mike, John, and I slept. On one side, John and I shared a double bed and dresser; on the other, Mike had a twin bed and dresser.

  There was no central air, just a window unit. During hot summer days, we spent as little time as possible in the attic. But sooner or later we had to sleep. So to keep it as cool as possible, we rigged two box fans in the upstairs windows to circulate the air and keep it cool.

  The house was small, but it was ours. Outside of Grandma’s house in Willcox, I had lived my entire life in an apartment. So I had nothing to complain about, and actually found the house quite satisfying.

  We lived there for two years. I completed the fourth and fifth grades at St. Ann’s Catholic School. I attended mass on a regular basis. I was very serious about my faith and took an interest in God at an early age. I even became an altar boy.

  OSCAR NANFITO:

  Ted was very committed and regularly attended church. We used to hang out in his room, and I would watch and listen to Ted studying the Latin responses to the prayers that were required of an altar boy.

  I believe that even at an early age, Ted wanted to know about God. I always believed that Ted was searching for God. He always believed that there was something bigger than him.

  I was very dedicated to my religious responsibility and never missed a mass. Whether there was a rain- or snowstorm, I was always there for the priest, and I was often recognized for my dedication.

  St. Ann’s was only one block from our house and across from the church was Columbus Park. I loved playing in that park. But I also got into some fights there.

  As the son of a neighborhood legend and professional wrestler, I often was subjected to generous compliments, as well as immature harassment. It was only a matter of time before I would have to prove myself. Tim Lalley, a classmate, would be the person to drop the gauntlet.

  Tim challenged me to a fight. I didn’t have a beef with the kid, but he called me out. Word spread like wildfire, and the park across the street was soon sold out for the afternoon rumble between two fifth graders.

  Tim apparently had some boxing training. When the bell rang, he came out boxing. The first thing I did when he threw a right jab was hook his arm. He immediately threw a left, and I also hooked that arm. I now had both of his arms under mine. I picked him up and took him to the ground and flat on his back. I was sitting on top of him, holding both of his arms to the ground. He was pinned and had nowhere to go.

  As I reached back to punch him in the face, Tim pleaded, “Let me up. It isn’t fair. We are supposed to be boxing. Let’s box.”


  “No,” I said. “Do you want to fight or not? There are no rules in a fight. I am either going to punch you in the face and knock your head off, or you are going to give up and we are going to walk away.” It was good news for Tim that he chose the latter.

  JOHN DIBIASE:

  In the winter months, the city used to purposely flood a part of Columbus Park. It would soon freeze over and the kids in the neighborhood would use it as a hockey rink. One time, Ted was playing goalie. During the course of the game, somebody slapped a shot. Ted stopped the shot, but the puck hit him right in the face. The impact broke his nose. I ran home to get some help and told Dad what happened.

  As Dad and I hurried to the park, we noticed that the guys had tended to Ted and were carrying him back to the house. My dad said, “Hey, Teddy, are your legs okay?”

  “Yes sir. They are okay.”

  “Well, then, put him down and let him walk.”

  6

  THE CHALLENGES OF BECOMING A MAN

  Because of Mike’s influence, I knew I wanted to play organized football. St. Ann’s had a football team for its seventh and eighth graders. Although I was only in fourth grade, I was a big kid, so they let me try out. I was determined to make the team. And I did, as an offensive and defensive lineman.

  In an unprecedented turn of events, I had earned a starting position as a fourth grader. My parents were so excited and proud. The

  Playing high school football.

  football field was directly across from my house, and my parents were there to support me at the first game of the season.

  We were getting beat pretty bad. During halftime my father came up to me, and in front of my teammates he looked at me and said, “Are you afraid to hit that guy in front of you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, it sure looks like you are!”

  My teammates thought the comments were unnecessary and some even called him a hard-ass. But I knew my dad; he wasn’t chewing me out, but rather challenging me. He was just waiting for me to get aggressive on the field. When the final seconds on the clock ticked off, we got thumped and lost the game.

  We walked back to the house in silence. Before I could even get changed out of my uniform, Dad grabbed a football and motioned me to the backyard. He said, “Let’s go, Teddy. I want to teach you something.”

  The first thing he did was adjust my stance. Then he put the ball down in a hike position. “Okay, Teddy, as soon as I move the ball I want you to hit me as hard as you can.” I was confused and didn’t want to hit my dad. “Don’t worry, you aren’t going to hurt me. Just fire out and hit me as hard as you can when I move the ball.”

  When Dad moved the ball and I came off, he smacked me so hard that the impact knocked me over backward. Even though I was fully padded, it still hurt. He told me to come back and we did it again. Once again, he knocked me silly. We repeated it a few more times. After getting whacked four consecutive times, he had my attention. I was all fired up and he was really pissing me off.

  I got back in my stance and started panting and snarling. I was mad and it was go time. Well, he moved that ball and I came out of stance and hit him with everything I had. Simultaneously, Dad grabbed me by my jersey and pulled me right into his face. “You are mad at me right now, aren’t you?” I was still snarling, and at that point I didn’t care that he was my father. “I bet you would like to kill me right now, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good! That is the kind of emotion that I want to see you play the game with every snap. Each time you get down in a stance, you need to think and feel the way you do right now. Don’t ever forget it!” And I never did.

  MIKE DIBIASE:

  Even at an early age, Teddy was a very good football player. At ten years old, he placed nationally in the NFL’s Punt, Pass & Kick competition.

  Dad was desperately trying to get out of the wrestling business, but it seemed like he always managed to find his way back. After spending two years in Omaha, the summer before the start of sixth grade, we moved back to Amarillo.

  The Amarillo territory was Dory Funk Sr.’s promotion. Dory and my dad were not only good friends, they always had classic wrestling battles. Dad was guaranteed he’d make a decent living and be able to provide for his family. The Funk family was always good to my father, and they treated our entire family with class and respect.

  We moved into a decent apartment complex. I really liked the huge swimming pool, and we used it a lot that hot summer. Other wrestlers lived in the complex and they helped us settle in. One wrestler who I thought was pretty tough was “Killer” Karl Kox. Another worker who lived there and was kind and gracious to our family was Tim Woods. Tim and his wife, Tiger, were super folks and we really enjoyed their company.

  Dad was a huge heel in Amarillo but he still managed to capture many titles in the territory. He was a one-time NWA International Tag Team Champion, with Danny Plechas, as well as a three-time NWA North American Tag Team Champion with Danny Plechas, Dr. X, and the legendary Fritz Von Erich, respectively. He was equally successful as a singles wrestler, winning the NWA North American Heavyweight Championship on three separate occasions.

  I loved professional wrestling and especially watching my dad wrestle. Because he was a heel, I didn’t go to a lot of the matches. Even when Dad would take me and my brothers, we would always have to be on alert. He made sure we always sat close to the dressing room. He reminded us, “If anything happens, if anyone comes up to you and starts trouble, or even if you feel scared, just walk right there into the dressing room. It will be okay.”

  There was one night at the Amarillo Sports Arena when things were getting out of hand. All of a sudden, Pampero Firpo came out of the dressing room and brought my brother John and me back in there. He said, “Stay here and don’t move.” They were obviously having a small riot. I then watched him put on these two black gloves and head out to the fight.

  Unlike today—when you have families from many socioeconomic groups attending wrestling events—back then the wrestling crowd was pretty much blue-collar, and they were a rough bunch. I watched wrestling on TV every week; live events weren’t for kids, especially not the children of heels.

  I completed the sixth grade in Amarillo. I enjoyed school and made lots of new friends. I was still husky but starting to get taller. I had a crush on one girl, but I basically never had a girlfriend until high school.

  During this time, I got my first BB gun. I was issued the gun under the condition that I would be extremely careful and shoot targets only under the eye of an adult. Well, I would often take off by myself, with the gun, and head to the pond at the apartment complex and shoot at the ducks. I don’t think I ever hit one.

  One day I was shooting my gun at a horse trailer behind our apartment. I was popping the trailer and the ping noise it made on contact was pretty cool. After I reloaded and fully cocked the gun, I pulled the trigger. Almost simultaneously, my little brother John emerged from behind the trailer. He stepped right in front of my aim, and bang, I accidentally shot him right in the chest. I quickly ran over to him. The BB didn’t even break the skin, but he started crying and screaming. I tried to plead with him to calm down, but he ran inside to tell Dad.

  Dad came outside and called for me to come. He snatched the BB gun from my hand and threw it in the closet, almost breaking it. I was so scared. Dad sat me down and began to chew me out. “What did I tell you? What would have happened if you hit him in his eye? You could have seriously hurt John!” I was crying and very upset. But I knew Dad was right and I told him so. Fortunately for me, this time, I was spared a serious spanking.

  I remember my dad waking me up one time in the middle of the night. It was obvious that he had driven all night to get home, because he was still in his wrestling clothes. “Teddy, go wash your face. When you get done, immediately come down. I have to tell you something.” I was still half asleep, but I washed my face and proceeded downstairs. When I got there he sat me do
wn and said, “Your mother is leaving.” I couldn’t believe it.

  What apparently happened was that after a show, my dad went to a hotel room where the boys were playing cards. They were drinking and having a grand old time. Meanwhile, all night long and into the morning, my mother was calling Dad’s room, but there was no answer. My mom knew about life on the road, and she knew about the reputations of some of the other guys who fooled around with women. Although my dad never had that reputation, it was only human nature for my mom to think the worst. I guess it was guilt by association.

  My heart sank. I ran outside and went around to the back of the apartment. I went inside the horse trailer—the one John had stepped out from behind when I shot him with my BB gun—and cried my eyes out. I started to pray and asked God to make things right. I told him that I loved my mom, and I loved my dad, and I wanted everything to work out. I didn’t want to have to choose between my parents.

  By the time I got back to the apartment, everything had calmed down. Mom was in the kitchen making breakfast. It seemed that everything was fine. Whatever my dad had to do to prove that he was where he was supposed to be the night before, fortunately for me, she believed him.

  Later that summer, my dad had a match with Dory Funk Sr. at the Amarillo Sports Arena. It wasn’t an ordinary match. It was a Texas Death match. In that match, pinfalls don’t count. The only way you win a Texas Death match is when somebody isn’t able to answer the bell.

  In a record that to my knowledge still stands to this day, my dad and Dory Funk Sr.’s match went on for an unprecedented three and a half hours. To keep the crowd engaged for that long is a testament to their working abilities. If you think about it, a football game is more or less a three-hour event with a halftime, time-outs, and other short breaks.