and significantly compromised the work rate in the entire industry — something, I’d venture to say, hasn’t recovered to this day.
Much of Coleman’s success was attributed to his awe-inspiring physique, rather than his wrestling ability. He would inspire a host of other bodybuilder types (and misguided promoters) to follow suit, with the end result being a proliferation of anabolically enhanced cohorts. That set the stage for athleticism and wrestling acumen taking a back seat to aesthetics — something that seemed to peak during the days of Hulkamania where looks definitely took precedence over substance. The offshoot has been nothing short of tragic, as a whole generation of younger wrestlers came into the business in the ’80s and
’90s and, having seen the success of anabolic warriors like Coleman, Hogan and countless others, decided to go that direction rather than “saying their prayers, 37
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eating their vitamins” or learning how to work. We all know how many guys have paid the price for having taken that unfortunate shortcut.
And then there’s Billy Robinson. By any yardstick, he belongs in wrestling’s hall of fame for having been one of the best workers of his era and a cutting-edge trendsetter. Instead though, he’s been more likely a candidate for wrestling’s hall of shame because of his reputation for having been a cheap shot artist and bully. Here’s not to you, Mr. Robinson, heaven doesn’t hold a place for those who prey — if you catch my drift.
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Even though Abdullah, Coleman and Robinson all moved on after 1970, our business remained strong for the next several years, with other dynamic and talented wrestlers rising to the fore: Tor Kamata, John Quinn, Kurt Von Hess, Don Fargo, Greg Valentine, Carlos Belafonte (father of WWE star Carlito), Gil Hayes, Dan Kroffat, Tor Kamata, Bob Sweetan, Bob Lueck and Dan Kroffat, as well as British stars like Les Thornton, Angus Campbell, Geoff Portz and Kendo Nagasaki.
Because our promotion was on such a roll and wrestling seemed like it might be a lot more fun than a conventional nine-to-five endeavor, I began thinking I might like to give it a whirl. There were a couple of obstacles though. My dad was pretty savvy and well aware that wrestling was something of a perilous career choice. He therefore decreed that before any of his kids were allowed to get involved in it, we had to first get our university degrees.
Beyond that obstacle, my dad had always had a thing about size; he liked big cars (Cadillacs, in particular), big houses, big dogs and big wrestlers. In fact, if you weighed under 220, he wouldn’t even consider you. I was a couple of years away from getting my university degree at that time, but, more distressingly, I was kind of a runt. Even though I’d been drinking protein shakes and eating ’til I 41
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felt like puking, I couldn’t seem to put on any weight. I was stuck around 170. As a result, it didn’t look like I’d be living out my dream of being a wrestler anytime soon. Even so, as Rod Stewart once rasped, “Never give up on a dream.” Although my dad wouldn’t let me wrestle, I was able to persuade him into letting me referee in some of the small towns, like Red Deer and Lethbridge, as a means of earning some walking around money. The refereeing gig actually proved to be a great learning experience, as I had a chance to see firsthand what was getting over and what wasn’t — how and why. As well, it gave me insight into the interactive elements and would also alleviate most of the stage fright rookies tend to have, because I’d already been in front of an audience many times as a ref.
Aside from gleaning bits and pieces from