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The match finally began and Vader started clubbing my head like Barry Bonds at a T-ball park. After the fifth or sixth shot (I lost count) I realized I had to fire back or get eaten alive—maybe literally. For every one of Vader’s punches, I threw five stiff ones. Hey, at least I had quickness on my side. After that the big mastadon calmed down, and we worked the rest of the match. Very snug, but relatively safe.
After a downward spiral and the one-two-three I came to the back and thanked him again. Bradshaw was waiting like a hungry wolf to see if I would complain. Not me. Believe it or not, Jay hits harder with his punches that we’ve all deemed “the rubber mallets.” So this wasn’t so bad once I gauged Vader’s bearlike paws.
“This wasn’t the first experience I had with the world of Bradshaw. Let me explain. The site was once again Copps Coliseum, and I was showering after having just worked Glenn Kulka in the opening match. I had yet to make my TV debut, but by now enough of the guys knew me, so I felt fairly comfortable. That is, until the light shining into the shower was suddenly blocked out. I looked over to see Bradshaw standing there in his full cowboy wrestling garb. In any other situation, a six-seven, three-hundred-pound man in chaps and a cowboy hat standing in the shower might be strange, but in this industry it’s really not. So I went back to soaping myself up until I felt a large, calloused hand placed on my tush. I knew both of my hands were in front of me, and I had a sinking suspicion I knew what crazy Texan was lathering my ass (let me stress there was no insertion and no disappearing knuckles, if ya know what I mean). I turned to see Bradshaw’s evil, ten-gallon-hat-topped grin, looked at Glenn (who was showering and avoiding eye contact nearby) , and said, “He’s actually soaping my ass!”
