Bret Hart

Bret Hart’s Calgary Sun Column

Not again.

The wrestling fraternity mourns the loss of yet another brother. Big Boss Man, Ray Traylor, died of a massive heart attack. He was only 42. He leaves behind a wife and two daughters just, 8 & 11.I’ve started to become numb to the sad and seemingly never ending roll call of dead friends. The length of the list became alarming a long time ago. Why? Why are so many pro wrestlers of my era dying so young? And at a rate something like ten times higher than football players of the same age. Ray Traylor’s gimmick name became his calling. His friends called him Boss Man. He was a big, husky kid out of Georgia, the epitome of all that’s good about Southern rasslers. His good ole’ boy accent was no put on and despite being a 300 pound brute that terrorized Hulk Hogan with a billy club, in real life Ray was a big, friendly southern boy. A charming, likeable shy man with a penchant for laughing and joking all the time. He usually had a big grin on his face and it actually sounded natural the way he said, “gal dang it” a lot. The first time I met Boss Man was in the old Hart Foundation days. I’d joke with him that with his beard, shades and matching flat top he was Anvil’s younger bigger brother.

At that time the WWF was highlighting big monster cartoon gimmicks to work with the Hulkster. Ray Trayor got his start in wrestling in 1986 as Jim Cornette’s bodyguard, Big Bubba Rogers. He submitted his resume to Vince McMahon who noticed that he’d been a real life prison guard in Marietta, Georgia, and Vince took it from there and Boss Man was born. I could write about Boss Man’s epic battles with the like of Hogan, Macho Man Randy Savage and even Andre The Giant - or the rare but great matches when Boss Man teamed up with Akeem against the Hart Foundation. But I’d rather tell you about the real Ray Traylor, a good and decent family man who lived a clean life.

And he was a good westler. In the last bits of Hogan’s real era he drew serious money and was respected by his fellow wrestlers for being a team player and goold ole boy with a big heart. How that heart could finally give out, at such a young age, scares me.

I used to enjoy looking forward to a time, many years from now, perhaps a cauliflower alley or hall of fame get together. .. or maybe even just in my back yard sitting around my fire pit shooting the bull with Owen, Davey, Pllman, Perfect, Rude, Boss Man, even Miss Elizabeth. But the list of dead friends is yet another name longer.

like it here. After all I’ve been through I want to stay awhile. I took a long bike ride yesterday and thought about Boss Man all day asking why. Ray was especially close with Perfect and Rude and if heaven is indeed such a great place I find solace in believing that they will tell him why.

Good bye Ray Traylor.

I can't believe my heart's still pounding
I can't believe how close I came
And meanwhile heaven's falling
The fallen angels flown away
My worst nightmares became real
I got so scared that I forgot my name
And that'll be me someday
With stolen wings and evil ways
Straight south with the keys to the pearly gates
(Alkaline Trio)

A guy came up to me at the airport in San Francisco yesterday, asked for my autograph and inquired what brought me out that way. When I replied that I was there to make an appearance at a wrestling show he got so excited that he ran off saying, “I have to call my friend and tell him The Hitman is making a comeback!” He was gone before I could stop him to tell him that I’m not making a comeback - because, in a sense, I never really left!

Most of you know that I had no choice but to hang up my tights as a result of a career ending concussion. Not to mention that it was followed not that long after by a major stroke. I bet you’d be amazed at how many people still come up to me wanting to know when I’ll be back. I take that as a good sign that my recovery has come a long way. But, like I said, I never really left.

Take last night’s show for example. It’s for an outfit called Big Time Wrestling, which is run by a friend of mine by the name of Kirke White. Kirke is a struggling independent promoter who prides himself on making sure that all the boys get paid, even when things don’t go so well, and in putting on old fashioned realistic style rasslin’ shows that are simple but well structured. But what I really like about Big Time Wrestling is that they’re small time - only in the sense that a few hundred people turn out for each show. I’ve wrestled in front of huge crowds, - 67,000 at the Skydome, 86,000 at Wembley Stadium. I main evented the biggest venues in the world for twenty years straight ..... and I do have a standing open invitation to do it again - any time I want. But right now I actually prefer a more intimate setting. It’s like the Rolling Stones showing up unannounced to play a small club in Greenwich Village.

Since I can’t wrestle any more, what I usually do is sign autographs. Occasionally I get in the ring and say a few words to the crowd. When I had my stroke I got piles of letters of concern and support from my fans and I like to go out and show them that I’m doing much better now. I also enjoy visiting the young wrestlers in the dressing room. Even when I was world champion I always made a point of shaking hands with and addressing every wrestler from the top to the bottom of the card as equal. A lot of wrestlers that go to the top forget that they were once on the bottom. I always take it as a compliment when any wrestler asks me to watch their match, and if I can I will, afterwards giving an honest appraisal. I’ve done these sorts of things all over North America, Europe, Australia and New Zealand, among other places too, but I often choose not to widely publicize these appearances because I like an atmosphere of being able to hold conversations with old fans who tell me they tried everything over the years to find a way to meet me. Now they can! I actually recognize a lot of them as regulars who attended my matches or from autograph sessions or even from mobs in hotel lobbies. So many times I wished I could actually talk to and get to know this sea of faces who supported me through thick and thin. Now I can!

Another thing I enjoy about these independent shows is that they give me a chance to catch up with wrestlers who I was on the road with but haven’t seen for a while. Guys like Superfly Jimmy Snuka, Bryan Adams (Crush), Sabu - or even Harley Race. Not too long ago there was actually a Hart Foundation reunion, in Buffalo, New York. The Hitman, Anvil and Jimmy Mouth of the South Hart walked out to the ring and we each said a few words to a delighted crowd that gave us a touching thunderous ovation. I wonder if they could tell that The Hart Foundation got a kick out of it every bit as much as they did!

The next day I was in Toronto doing something with CBC - and it just so happened that Summerslam was at the AIr Canada Centre. Well, there were Hitman sightings all over town! Pointing and with wide eyes wrestling fans naturally assumed that I was somehow involved with the pay per view and it was amusing how rumors were flying world wide on the internet. Ironically, I’d just told the crowd in Buffalo, the night before, that at the present time I prefer to be more accessible to my fans rather than the atmosphere of barricades and security necessary at the big shows.

Take Wrestlemania XVIII, for example. The WWE invited me to be a guest referee, but I declined. I was insulted when a high ranking WWE suit (no, not Vince) told me that he’d seen me on a small time wrestling show out of Australia and, he proceeded to strongly advise me to stop doing appearances for independent promoters. To look at myself, that my stock was at an all time low. I smiled to myself when I realized that he just didn’t get it. I’m retired from wrestling. And I am fortunate that my name is big enough that I can choose to do small things - or big things - simply because I enjoy them. I might accept a booking in Montreal just because I like the food. Or Hawaii, because it’s a nice break in winter. Or a small town in the middle of nowhere because I get to see an old friend. I like to think that I’m a down to earth guy and I think being unpretentious is actually what keeps my stock high.

Hey, my dad was an independent promoter so maybe that’s why I enjoy helping them when I can. Of course I can’t do every show but I try to position myself where I think I’ll do the most good. I find something personally satisfying in seeing guys going in there and giving it all they’ve got just for the love of wrestling, and not the recognition or the money. And maybe that’s the point. For my whole life I’ve loved wrestling and it just plain feels good to go back to my roots once in a while, without any fanfare or cameras rolling.

Here it comes again ... The Great Alberta Beef Eating Contest! I had such a great time at last year’s event that I’m really looking forward to doing it all over again - and them some!

The second annual extravaganza will kick off at 10:30 a.m. on Labour Day with a fun filled parade in Cochrane.Alex Baum has asked me to ride the Cochrane Dodge chuck in the parade.The last time anyone asked me if I wanted to take a chuck wagon ride it was World Champion driver Mark Sutherland during the last Stampede - and as much as I appreciated his kind offer I politely declined because I’m sure the speed limit would have been a wee bit faster than the Labour Day parade!

Then it’s over to the grandstand for the second annual Great Alberta Beef Eating contest. This year’s event will be bigger and better, in support of reopening the U.S. border to Alberta beef, a cause to which former Stampede wrestler Dan Kroffat and Cochrane Dodge owner Alex Baum are deeply committed. Over 50,000 concerned individuals from all over the world have already signed the petition on their web site opentheborder.com. Dan and Alex stress that they are not politically aligned and are in full support of all of the government’s endeavors. “Like restaurants are smoke free, we are politics free,” Kroffat explains. The pair hopes their campaign will raise awareness to all aspects of this crucial issue. Additionally, not being scientists, they do not preach the science of BSE and neither has any financial interest, either professionally or personally, in the beef industry.They initially envisioned this as a regional effort but were quickly delighted to find their campaign garnering national attention and now international support. “We’ve heard from parts of the world that we never imagined,” Dan exclaims enthusiastically and is only further encouraged.And of course The Great Alberta Beef Eating Contest is all in good fun too! For photos of last year’s event visit my web site brethart.com.

My personal trainer, Grant McReynolds, one of the strongest men in the world, will be on hand again. He’s bringing a contingent of ‘leaned out’ strongmen from B.J.’s gym not to mention Tokyo Joe’s equally hungry wrestlers who all plan to win the hamburger eating championship of the world! Grant is apparently keeping under wraps a secret weapon of sorts, James ‘Big Gulp’ Carmichael! There are those regulars at the gym who still fondly recall a time, years back, when James out ran and out ate strongmen Bill Kazmire and Ted Arcedi in an embarrassing dead heat run from B.J.’s to Peter’s Drive In for a hundred dollar bet!

I’ll have to check the rules but I’ll bet ya my pug dog, World Mexican Dog Wrestling Champion , Coombs, fresh off winning both the arm wrestling and hundred yard tractor pull at this year’s pug fest, could very well eat them all under the table!

Dan told me quite excitedly, with a nod and a wink, that he isn’t yet at liberty to say, but that he’ll have a big announcement on Monday. He asked me to pass it on that if you’re planning to attend any event in support of Alberta beef - this is it!

Knowing Dan - that’s no bull.

Yesterday was just another day for most people but it was a monumental turning point for the Hart family. Believe it or not, to the best of my knowledge, yesterday was the first time ever in the entire history of the Hart house that the doors were locked. No one even knew where the keys were - or if there really ever were any! The doors had always been open to all comers. And the phone number that had never been unlisted for all these years
now rings disconnected. What a strange feeling.

My way of saying goodbye was to simply ride by on my bike, the way I’ve done since I was small. A flood of memories came over me. I remember staring up at big husky behemoths quenching their thirsts with my dad’s homemade beer, after tussling for hours in the not yet so infamous dungeon. Some would be sprawled out on the grass but most sat on the stone steps that led to the dungeon.

My brothers and I would often split up into teams for tackle football with some of the wrestlers joining in. I remember waking up to a boarding house atmosphere as busy as an ant hive. Hart kids everywhere. There was one time, when I was about five years old, that I got chewed out by my mom and dad for something. I sulked for a little while and finally made the decision to run away from home. I wandered into the kitchen and chopped off a hunk of cheddar cheese with a butcher knife, grabbed myself a couple of huge red apples and wrapped it all up in a handkerchief. I think I even got one of my brothers to help me fasten the bundle to a broken tree branch - and I headed west!

I followed what was then called the old goat path that wound it’s way up past CFCN tower. There wasn’t much around there in those days, just a few houses scattered here and there. It was a warm summer day and I would have been wearing my nth generation hand me down hush puppies, brown shorts, a brown striped t-shirt, and my prized Popeye sailor hat.

I wandered down the Old Banff Coach Road for what felt like miles, still brooding about getting into trouble in the first place. Finally I sprawled out in a grassy field, not far from where COP is now. As I chomped on my apple and chewed on my cheese I could see the school busses that littered the yard of Mr. Fergusen, who was the bus driver who put up with all the Hart kids.

I thought it was pretty profound that the school busses were the same color as my cheese! I lay there with my hands behind my head wishing that I’d brought some water and wondering what I’d do tomorrow.

I fell asleep.

When I awoke that big old summer sun was still there but I realized that it was getting pretty late. I saw this image in my head of my poor mom crying and my dad shaking his head as they explained to the policemen that they’d been a little hard on me and I’d run away. I could hear the odd dog barking off in the distance. Perhaps, I told myself, they were blood hounds searching high and low for that missing Hart kid. The more I thought about it the guiltier I felt. And besides, my stomach was starting to growl. Enough was enough. After all, I’d only got yelled at. I made my way home expecting to see some sign of police cars and perhaps a few newspaper people, possibly Johnny Hopkins, one of my mom’s friends who wrote for The Albertan.

When I climbed the wooden back steps it struck me that it was awful quiet. I patted old Bing the boxer dog on the head, pushed open the screen door and walked into the kitchen thinking everyone would be crying and upset. I wanted to say. “Ah, don’t worry ...”

All was quiet. Dinner was over. The kitchen table was littered with messy dishes, except for the plate of food that’d been put out for me. My mom casually wandered into the kitchen with the newspaper and said, “Hi dawling.” With all the usual chaos that went on there every day and so many mouths to feed no one had even realized that I’d run away.

I shook my head as I shoveled spaghetti into my mouth and thought to myself, that’s the last time I’ll ever run away. And I never did again. Yesterday, as I peddled away, I found myself humming the long and winding road, that leads to your door, will never disappear, I’ve seen that road before, It always leads me here, lead me to you door ...

So much has changed. Houses fill the fields all the way past Ferguson's farm and they’re making the old Banff Coach Road into an expressway. Hart House, well, she belongs to someone else now. And I hear they’re tearing the old Victoria Pavilion down next.

The wild and windy night
That the rain washed away
Has left a pool of tears
Crying for the day
Why leave me standing here
Let me know the way

In recent years many professional wrestling schools have popped up across Canada and around the world. I more often than not have little good to say about most of them.

I wasn’t inclined to believe that the skills necessary to make the big time could be learned because many so-called teachers are limited in knowing the basics themselves and often take their fees based on teaching somebody a headlock or something simple like that.

I’ve always said that the Japanese pro wrestlers were always the best conditioned and well taught. I learned all the basics, not so much from my father, but from Mr. Hito and Mr. Sakurada, two Japanese wrestlers. I attribute a great deal of my success to both of them for all they did for me. The most important things they taught me were how to protect myself and how to protect my opponent.      

I always took great pride in never injuring any of my opponents. How ironic that my career was cut short when Bill Goldberg inadvertently booted me in the head back in December, 1999. A transplanted nosetackle from the Atlanta Falcons, Goldberg learned his wrestling at WCW’s powerplant training camp, where I don’t think it was a priority to protect your opponent.

People often ask me where the best pro wrestling schools are. I’ve always felt that Calgary turned out the best of the lot, starting with my brother, Bruce, who helped launch Chris Benoit and Flyin’ Brian Pillman, along with very many others. My brother Keith also helped launch Chris Jericho and Lance Storm, while Leo Burke and I tutored Edge, Christian, Test, Ken Shamrock, and numerous others.

Lately I’ve been training at B.J.’s gym and what’s really caught my eye are the remarkable training sessions put on there by Tokyo Joe for a handful of dedicated young pro wrestlers, some of whom, not surprisingly, are Hart grandchildren.

Joe worked briefly in the Stampede territory back in the early 70’s where sadly his budding career was cut short when his car slid off the road during a terrible snowstorm. While he was pushing it out of the way of passing vehicles he was struck from behind by another car that slid off the road, costing him a leg, from the knee down.

Despite the loss of his leg Joe stayed involved in wrestling for years, crd booking wrestlers over to Japan, where notably both Owen and Benoit first became marquis names.

Seeing Joe put his recruits through his basic training is, for me, a thing of beauty. I know of no pro wrestling school anywhere in this hemisphere that takes the time and energy to teach with such meticulous science. His students are all stand out athletes that can break out into countless perfect moves timelessly, over and over, with such crispness that it makes many so-called wrestling schools hang their heads with embarrassment. In fact Joe goes to great lengths to teach everyone of them how to legitimately apply each and every submission hold with authenticity.

Joe’s best student has been T.J. Wilson, who is currently a rising star over in Japan. Another standout wrestler only just breaking the horizon is the highly talented Harry Smith, son of the British Bulldog. Some night soon Harry will have no problem filling his great father’s boots. Standing 6’5”, 240 lbs. he most certainly will be the best prospect to bank on making it to the big time in the near future! Harry is as dedicated and conscientious as his dad was strong and with Joe teaching him he cannot go wrong.

A rising star in the female grappler department is young Natalie Neidhart, daughter of Jim the Anvil Neidhart. She too has waded into the profession, showing great skill and determination, with the power and speed of a Bradley tank, much like her dad. Tokyo Joe is careful not to spread himself too thin, instead choosing only a mere handful that he personally feels will make the effort, put in the hours day after day, with respect and dedication worthy of his time.

It’s a pity that he can’t teach everyone the art of pro wrestling. Take it from me, Tokyo Joe is, without a doubt, the best teacher of pro wrestling in the world - and that’s saying a lot.

A friend in need is a friend indeed.

A little over two years ago I found myself dealing with the toughest battle of my entire life. To be honest, when I look back on it all now it seems like a bad dream.

In the early days just after I suffered my stroke I was still in shock as I desperately came to terms with the challenges ahead of me. I remember the doctors and nurses doing all they could to support me as I was prepared for my very first day of physio therapy.

It broke my heart when I was finally able to listen to my phone
messages, especially when I heard the gentle voice of my good friend Daniel Igali. He happened to be in town during the G8 summit and was kind enough to invite me out for dinner with the head of the United Nations, Kofi Anon, and all the African leaders.

Daniel and I had become friends when he passed through Calgary shortly after he won the 69 kg Gold medal for wrestling at the 2000 Olympics in Sydney. We had both dealt with recent tragedies within our families and I had the highest regard for Daniel when he represented Canada and I was proud of him when he dropped to his knees and kissed the Canadian flag after winning.

I’d only just become half paralyzed and oh how I wished I could have taken him up on his kind invitation. Deep in despair I was about to be wheeled down to the bowels of Foothills Hospital when in walked Daniel, along with his coach Dave McKay.

I sometimes wonder how I made it through that time in my life, let
alone that day. But I’ll never forget that it was Daniel Igali who pushed my wheelchair out of my hospital room and down the hall for what would be the first day of the rest of my life. Those first small steps were such a big step on a very long road to recovery. It’s not my intention to write about that dark
time. Quite the opposite, I’m happy to say I’ve been blessed with a miraculous recovery, in no small part because of the encouragement and support of my real true hero of wrestling, Daniel Igali.

Daniel, once again, is representing Canada and faces an uphill challenge as he’s moved up one weight class to the 74 kg division on top of suffering a neck injury, which he had operated on last year. There’s talk that Daniel is not the favorite to win but anybody who knows him knows that his is the heart of a lion and he has a way of realizing his dreams, not just for himself but for all of us who dream with him.

I don’t want to sound biased but I have no doubt that winning a gold medal in olympic wrestling is absolutely the hardest medal of them all to win! It takes incredible dedication, speed, strength, and conditioning to successfully meld mind and body equally while going full blast. I hope Canadians will tune in and watch this first rate world class athlete do us proud.

Daniel Igali is a true Canadian hero. Nobody appreciates that more than me.

Hart House has been sold.  
 
If only the walls could talk. They can’t, so I will. To that extraordinary old house I’d like to say, thanks for the  memories. Growing up in the world of pro wrestling was zany and chaotic but Hart  house was always, to my earliest memory, a safe place. It was home.  The sturdy mansion was built in 1905 by Edward Henry Crandell, a brick  and masonry baron who came west from Ontario to settle in Calgary in 1899.

After the Crandell children were grown the house became a refuge for orphans  and convalescing children run by the Red Cross until they gave up the lease. Crandell’s son moved back in with his own family until the brick business  collapsed in the 30’s and Crandell turned the already quarter century old manor over to Judge H.S. Patterson, who raised his own children there until putting it on  the market in ‘51.

In the late summer of that year my father fell in love  with the estate on first sight and bought the house, along with the thirty acres  upon which it sat perched atop Patterson Hill, surrounded by woods and  wildflowers, and an exquisite unobstructed vista of downtown Calgary, seven miles  distant, framed by the meandering Bow and snowcapped Rockies.  It wasn’t long before the Harts turned this house of distinguished  lineage into a cross between the Beverly Hillbillies and the Munsters - filled  with a cast of characters that Barnum and Bailey would be hard pressed to top!  

Maybe not so oddly, the house was always very much a reflection of my  father. Strong. Sturdy. There for you in times of trouble. Warm.  The heart of Hart house was unquestionably the dining room. Every  Sunday for fifty years ( fifty years! ) my mother and father delighted in  throwing lavish feasts for anybody who dared to show up. The Hart kids  literally chewed the fat with an endless and ever changing assortment of freaks,  musclemen, midgets, giants, and tough guys - who found out that at Hart house  they were more normal than they thought.
 
The rest of the time the Hart kids generally did our eating in the  kitchen, which Stu had equipped with the finest in second hand restaurant ware  from Calgary’s best steak houses and hotels. Just to set the record  straight, dad did the cooking, mom ran the office. When I think of the expression,  “out here in the fields, we fight for our meals ...” all I can say is I won more  than I lost. Stu grew up in the dirty thirties and having known hunger he  was more than strict about wasting food. Every night he got great satisfaction  in piling twelve dinner plates high, the older the kid the bigger the  portion. Then he’d call us to dinner and all the Hart kids would come out of the  woodwork in a race to get there first. It wasn’t that we were hungry, it was  because the heaping portions were way too big for any of us so the older boys  would grab the smallest dishes and the smallest kids would be left sitting  there, for hours, having to finish off plates of spaghetti that you could barely  see over, while my father stood guard. Nobody went hungry at Hart house. After years of utter frustration my poor mother completely gave up on  trying to be Susie Homemaker and us Hart kids knew as much about housekeeping  as we did about rocket science. Most of the bedrooms were always knee high  in clothes but that didn’t matter, I always figured if you didn’t step on them  they were clean!

I slept in a room with five beds and as many brothers. Trying to sleep  on school nights, or any night for that matter, was a lost cause. It was  all part of the routine, dad slamming his hand on the wall the office shared  with the boys’ room telling us to knock it off.  

Undoubtedly, the room that will always be the most famous is the  infamous dungeon in the basement. Now if those walls could talk, they’d be screaming uncle!

Of course I’ll always remember the once spectacular view of the city  from the picture window in the living room. I hope all those people living in  those crappie matchbox condos are enjoying that view now. It helps me to  feel less guilty about their back view of dead Cadillacs piled up in Stu’s yard  for oh so many years.

So, after over fifty years of celebrations, victories, and losses  .... the credits are about to roll at Hart House. There’s only one more whoop  up before the final curtain call. And in keeping with my parents’ long  standing open door policy, you’re all invited to come by! On August 14th from 2-6 a  cover charge will benefit The Stu Hart Amateur Sport Foundation and space is  limited. For tickets and information call Frank Sisson’s Silver Dollar  Centre 287-1183.

SUBMITTED TO THE CALGARY SUN WHO CHOSE NOT TO PRINT THIS ANTI-HUNTING COLUMN

There is a responsibility that comes with celebrity and I consider it a privilege to use whatever influence I have to raise awareness of just causes. I often have a lot of fun with these columns and have written about everything from Mexican dog wrestling to Stampede memories, but this week I want to speak out about something serious.

In the pseudo conflicts orchestrated in pro wrestling guys in their underwear tell mythic tales of heroes and villains using only their bodies and a ring. There are no camera angles, retakes or stunt men. I have always had a great deal of respect for the art in that. It’s one on one. The same goes for amateur wrestling and boxing, where combatants face off on equal footing, may the best man win, one on one. The sense of pride and accomplishment in a fairly earned victory fuels champions and fosters role models.

I fail to see the glory in taking a high powered rifle with a targeting scope and blowing away a grizzly bear - often leaving orphan cubs behind to starve, get hit by cars - or to be exterminated themselves by some other jerk so he can mount their little baby heads on his wall.

The only thing animal trophies are a testament to is ignorance. In my view, there is absolutely no sport and nothing in any way admirable about hunting in today’s times, where we do not have the necessity of slaughtering our own food, unless the hunter plans to do battle with his bare hands,one on one, and then - what for? Hunting is just senseless butchering, and too often done inhumanely.

And don’t give me this crap about culling the herd, natural selection has done just fine without our ‘help’ since the beginning of time. If there are too many animals in a given area now it’s because we’ve encroached on too much of their natural habitat and upset the balance. I don’t like the very notion that we go around killing anything that gets in our way or inconveniences us - especially when they were there first!

There is absolutely nothing admirable about swooping down on any creature with helicopters, gliders, small planes, or chasing them with motorized vehicles until they cannot run any more so they collapse, only to have their heads blown off as they hit the ground. Or be skinned alive. Or if you’re an elephant you can look forward to being tangled up in a net so your feet can be cut off to become coffee tables and your tusks can be hacked out of your head - while you bleed to death in agony. Don’t get me started.

I would have thought Albertans are better than that! At least, we like to think we are. And that atrocities committedhoui on animals don’t happen here. They’re confined to some far off part of the world and some distant corner of our minds. Do we not pride ourselves in protecting and conserving our natural resources?

So why do we condone the reckless extermination of grizzly bears in Alberta to the point that they are in serious danger of extinction? Just two hundred years ago there were up to 16,000 grizzlies in Alberta. Now there are only about 600.

This shameful decimation is almost entirely due to human caused mortality. And the biggest problem, it’s no surprise, is the Banff-Bow Valley corridor.

In the past decade visitation to Banff has increased to more than five million annually. If this trend continues as many as nineteen million will be visiting Banff each year.

There is a serious question we need to ask before the grizzlies, and numerous other creatures in the Banff-Bow Valley ecosystem, are just plain gone - forever. I am not addressing this question to those of you who are already doing all you can to raise awareness - the question is for the rest of you. It is with great civic pride that we Albertans brag about preserving our national parks, but underneath it all what are we really more concerned about preserving, tourist revenue or ecosystems?

I am not blind to the economics of this. It’s just that I have no tolerance any more for those who turn a blind eye for a quick buck. It’s no different than poachers in the jungle who exploit or exterminate animals for money - except in our case I think it’s even more unconscionable because we have other means of supporting ourselves.

There are dedicated people much more knowledgeable than me about this issue and I think it’s long past time we all listened attentively to what they have to say. The Grizzly Bear Alliance is a growing collection of organizations, foundations and businesses representing almost 500,000 conservation minded individuals committed to maintaining a viable grizzly bear population in Banff National Park, the Bow Valley watershed and throughout Alberta. They believe that all of these issues can be addressed without harming Banff’s economy by a concerted effort and an effective long-range plan to maintain a healthy grizzly bear population.

Until such a plan is enacted, every time you show the mountains off to a visitor, or enjoy their natural beauty with your family, there is an invisible dark and heavy pall hanging in the air. A secret we don’t want the tourists to know and that we’d be uncomfortable explaining to our kids. Until you stop waiting for someone else to do something about it, just by being there you’re part of the problem instead of the cure. The bears and other wildlife were there first and as we encroach more and more on their habitant and migration routes, always remember, they are not a menace to us, we are a menace to them. To those committed individuals and organizations who have been sounding the alarm, I hope this helps.

After the great response that I received from last week’s column I’ve decided to take another dive into the past and bring back to memory my dad’s big Stampede show from July 3, 1981.

It was a very big show, especially in the minds of all the Hart boys. Stu’s budget was limited because the show was being held in the Stampede Pavilion instead of the Coral, where the gate would have helped recoup most of his expenses. I can remember that it was a real cooker, about 100 degrees. By the time I walked to the Pavilion from Scotsman’s Hill, carrying my bags, I was sweating as though I’d already worked.

The dressing room was packed with the usual unusual assortment of freaks and pro wrestlers of all shapes and sizes from around the world. I took one look at the disappointed face of a young, thin seventeen year old kid, Davey Boy Smith, who was a long way from being The British Bulldog. He was quite distressed being that it was such a big show that he would have to face the one and only Mandingo!

Mandingo was actually from Honolulu. He was a bell boy in real life, with nice, neat short hair that probably went well with his uniform when he brought people’s bags to their rooms. My brother Bruce appreciated his kindness in helping him with his accommodations while visiting Hawaii and because he was trying to break into pro wrestling Bruce invited him up to visit during the Stampede.

Despite the fact that Mandingo had never actually wrestled he was now sitting in a chair in the dressing room with a chain around his neck and J.R. Foley standing next to him holding a plastic bag containing raw beef livers and kidneys.

It was the second match of the star studded evening and the unassuming bell boy was suddenly frothing at the mouth as J.R. dragged him out for his match. Davey rolled his eyes and proceeded to go out and throw him around for ten minutes before beating him with a running powerslam. I do remember Bruce laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes!

The very next match was the legendary Sky Low Low against Frenchie Lamont. It was special for me in the sense that Sky Low Low was undoubtedly the greatest midget wrestler of all time and this would be one of his final curtain calls. He’d been hanging around J.R. Foley too much and much like J.R., Sky was a little tipsy as he made his way to the ring. Frenchie Lamont was one of the strongest midgets and he was somewhat of a hometown hero around the St. Regis and the Cecil. He made a point of launching Sky, who was easily in his sixties, like a cannonball, yet Sky gave him his greatest match that night. The third match saw Bruce get the best of Adorable Adrian Street, a blonde haired Brit working the over the top gay gimmick. Bruce was one of Calgary’s wildest cowboys year round - not just at the Stampede! After Bruce gave Adrian one of his famous running bulldogs for the finish it wouldn’t have surprised any of the fans if he’d have grabbed an arm and both legs and tied them up like a rodeo calf.

The highlight of the card was the six man triple tag team match with none other than the legendary Dr. D. David Schultz, along with one of the greatest tag team combos Stampede Wrestling ever had in Kerry Brown and Duke Myers. They had a real barnburner with Randy Tyler, Bill Irwin and the mangy Scotsman Duffy O’Rourke. What I remember most about that match is Dave Schultz poking Duffy in the chest declaring, “You stink boy! You stink bad! You need to take a damn bath before you step in the ring with me again!”

The Dynamite Kid, pound for pound, is probably the greatest pro wrestler of all time. In a world mid heavyweight championship match that night he squared off with my older brother, Keith. Keith was a top hand with a good background in amateur style wrestling. Dynamite may also have been hanging around with ole J.R. and seemed to wrestle with reckless abandon. Fans may appreciate remembering that Dynamite invented the tombstone pile driver, not Undertaker or anyone else, and after he tombstoned Keith he climbed to the top turnbuckle pad and most amazingly dove three quarters of the way across the ring to deliver a beautiful knee drop not quite perfectly, chipping some of Keith’s teeth before beating him.

I went out that hot July night for my AWA world title match against Nick Bockwinkle, one of the all time greatest champions of any league, with special guest referee seven time world champion Lou Thesz. I was wearing my dad’s once famous black velvet ring robe and I was as nervous as I can ever remember. The Pavilion, like every Stampede, was completely packed, standing room only. At that time I was a long way from being The Hitman. There were fans patting me on the back as I made my way to the ring, some that I remembered selling programs to as a kid and many that’d known me my entire life. Working with a bona fide world champ meant that he would lead the entire match and I would have to be up to snuff to follow. But after fifty eight minutes of a grueling paced catch as catch can where if I wasn’t in a hold I was putting one on, falls evened up at one a piece. I was sunk in deep with an abdominal stretch with no chance that the champ could ever reach the ropes. J.R. Foley cost me the match by casually strolling up to Tommy Carr the timekeeper right next to Ed Whalen and with his steel-tipped cane he rang the bell. The match ended in confusion with seventy year old Thesz peeling off his shirt and knocking Foley all over the ring! Just as Ed Whalen closed out the show with the immortal words, “ ... another ring a ding dong dandy!”

I’ve been wrestled around the world a few times over since that match with Bockwinkle and it still stands out as one of my favorite championship matches of my career. I learned so much from Bockwinkle, and from Harley Race, there’s no doubt they helped set me on the right course to winning seven world championships of my own.

I just got back into town in time for Stampede and no sooner did I walk through the doors at international arrivals I was greeted by a country western band. It's good to be home.

Like most native Calgarians, the Stampede has always held some of my fondest memories, especially as a young kid when my dad put on the biggest wrestling show of the year highlighted by some of the wrestling world’s greatest attractions.

One of my favorites was when the legendary Harley Race squared off against the seven foot four, eighth wonder of the world, Andre the Giant for the NWA world title.

Andre loved the Stampede! It was customary and was actually part of his contract to have three or four huge bottles of red wine on hand in the dressing room. Andre would usually devour them one after the other with little or no after effect. By match time it was easy to smell the alcohol coming through his skin.

Andre had great respect for Harley Race, who, quite probably, may have been the all time toughest pro wrestler to lace up a pair of boots. Harley was only a six foot tall two hundred fifty pounder but he had double tendon strength in his hands and could snap a pair of pliers any time he felt like it! He also had steel plates in his arm and his forehead from a near fatal car wreck! Yeah, Harley was legit tough!

Back in '76 I scrambled to find a seat right behind Tommy Carr, the timekeeper, and, of course, Ed Whalen, in the sold out Stampede Corral. These were the days before the glitzy WWF. The smell of cigarettes and popcorn filled the air.

The first match on that Friday night, July 15th, that lit the crowd up was the mixed midget tag team match where J.R. Foley and his two bad midgets, Billy The Kid and Little John, took on the Martinique High Flyer Jerry Morrow and the two good midgets, Haiti Kid and Hillbilly Pete. There was a real art to the slapstick comedy of midget matches and being the skilled professionals that both J.R. and Jerry Morrow were it wasn't long before the entire building was howling with laughter! I always enjoyed the midgets and I wish they were more a part of the pro wrestling spectacle today.

One match after another eventually lead up to the international tag team title match, where my older brother, Keith, along with Larry Lane, defeated the scrappy Royal Kangaroos! As legend has it, Jonathan Boyd, a tenacious Aussie, bet his entire week's pay with Harley on a cut of the deck. Boyd smiled when he pulled a King. Harley cooly slid an ace out and Boyd wept like a baby for the rest of the night - and through the new few weeks too! But for me, one of the all time great matches in Stampede Wrestling history took place that night when Dan Kroffat thumped Killer Tim Brooks and won the North American title with his infamous sleeper hold. If you happen to see Dan around town doing his usual charity work don't let him put a sleeper on you!

Finally, the main event! I can actually say I felt sorry for Harley Race as he made his dashing entrance in his purple felt robe, with the handsome black and gold NWA belt strapped around his waist. You could hear the crowd bristling with anticipation as Andre lumbered out of the opposite dressing room like a giant brontosaurus. I'll never forget the great show they both put on! Especially when Andre hoisted Harley over his head and tossed him out of the ring! I would come to learn, many years later, from Harley himself, that Andre was running on high octane when he did this, but never the less the ever indestructible Harley somehow managed to get back in the ring! The match ultimately ended in a knock down drag out back to the dressing room with my dad right in the middle and Ed Whalen trailing not far behind, describing it all in his one of a kind realistic style!

No, the title didn't change hands. But I can assure you that every fan left the Corral that night completely satisfied by another great Stampede week extravaganza!

Yeah, there's the WWE ... but I'll take the gold old days any day.