Learning What ‘Hard Times’ Meant – Remembering Dusty Rhodes

Last week’s little escapade into writing about wrestling proved to be great, as there were many of you who welcomed me back without qualms and accepted me once again. I do want to stress that it is my ultimate goal to bring about intelligent and thought provoking stuff on a weekly basis here, so if you ever feel the need to call me out, or accuse me of slouching, please feel free to do so. Our goal here is to bring back the writing that lasts longer than the page. Speaking of lasting long after expiration, I bring you another trip into my past with hopes of connecting it to our present.

Around the age of 12, my parents uprooted us, claiming that we were going to stay with my mom’s uncle for a bit. I knew little about him other than the fact that he was a recovering alcoholic. At this age, I was angry. Parents had lost their jobs, and Eminem was in my ears daily. Having to move only made it worse, as I figured out we were doing so during the summer – which meant a lot of lonely days for the near future.

It was the summer of 1999, and I was not yet 13. 411mania was only 411wrestling, its color scheme was 2-note, and I was bummed that there was no internet in the house we were moving to. Our first night at Uncle Danny’s was a Thursday, and I only remember that because I recall sitting in a small room, without a bed, reading a book, when the new – but already familiar – “Everybody on the Ground” came from the living room. I crept out of the door to see something I’ll never forget; my mom’s uncle sitting on the edge of the couch, screaming at the New Age Outlaws. Suddenly, summer didn’t seem so bad. I had no idea Uncle Danny was a wrestling fan. No, not the wrestling fans that we are (The IWC), but the hardcore, scream at the screen, “fuck Hogan, I’m a Flair fan for life” type. Even his hair, as salt-and-peppered as it was, was fashioned after Ric Flair.

I had started watching wrestling around the age of four, just when the cartoon characters were blowing up. I went through their demise and welcomed the Attitude Era with glory. I knew nothing before Doink until that summer of 1999. Uncle Danny realized I was a wrestling fan and opted to put me up on game for sure. With VHS tapes in abundance, I digested wrestling matches that lasted an hour, promos that had tears, wrestlers that had mangled foreheads, and championship reigns that lasted at least four to five tapes! Uncle Danny was proud he found another fan, and I was proud I found an answer to my mundane and sad life. He is one of two people that turned wrestling from a tv show to a life. That second person you may meet in later columns, but for now, let’s get back to Uncle Danny.

One particular day, I had a row with the parents that culminated in them leaving the house for the day, and me refusing to go with them. The argument was essentially along the lines of my being upset that we were struggling, and why they weren’t taking care of me and my two sisters (and my mom was pregnant). It was the typical childish teenage angst, blaming parents for my not having what I wanted while not realizing they were focused on giving me what I needed. The house was empty save for my uncle and myself. I didn’t know it at the time, but my Uncle was listening to the argument, and in his own peculiar way, he asked me to sit at the dining table with him, drinking iced water out of a glass he used to drink whiskey out of.

The quiet was still, but obvious and yet, when he started talking, it was as if someone had pressed play on a VCR – because my uncle cut a promo on me. It wasn’t word for word, guys, but he started talking to me about “Hard Times,” and how I didn’t know what they were. He gave examples, and ended with “That’s hard times!” I sat, listening as his passion overcame him. His silver-laced hair bounced with fervor as his voice started rising. Although I know the content was serious, and he was only trying to help, I realized that he was cutting a promo on me, and it was nearly the exact one that the curly-haired fat man cut on that VHS I had watched a few days before.

I will not claim to have grown up with Dusty during the time that numerous other wrestling fans have. In fact, I struggled with posting this so soon considering the dichotomy that death creates among journalistic writers – yes, even for a lowly wrestling site. Are we blaspheming our hero? Trying to hop on the hot news of the week? Or are we lauding our beloved and hyping up a history of honor that they deserve? Surely, it’s a fine line, but it’s not one that I will tout, and if crossing over is the only way of sentimentality that we possess as writers and readers, then so be it.

You see, Dusty was a man of passion who – regardless of whether you followed him since his heyday of blood-filled matches, or just recently saw him trying to quell the fire between his sons. I challenge any one wrestling fan to see Dusty and think for a second that he wasn’t real. Dusty is real, and if there’s something that he has ALWAYS done within the context of his promos, it was to create an immediate connection with the fans. His use of common phrases, his colloquialisms, his blending of reality and fiction, his use of HIS OWN LANGUAGE “Chicken feed, pay windah, a “walk-behindah.” Some saw his athletic prowess as proof positive that the “look” of a traditional wrestler could be challenged. Some saw the viciousness within the confines of those ropes as something unparalleled. What I saw, however, was a man use his words – that’s it, just words – to create a story like no other. Not a story that astounded, blew your mind, or baffled your believability – but one that could relate. Dusty Rhodes wined and dined with king and queens, but before that he slept in alleys and ate pork n’ beans – just like any of us.

We moved from my Uncle Danny’s, obviously. He and I kept in touch for a while, talking about wrestling and the like. I remember asking him about the promo, and why he opted to use Dusty Rhodes on me. He told me it was because he didn’t know how to talk to kids, and felt that it was the only way he felt he could connect. I never forgot the lesson, never strayed from greatness, and never saw my life as “hard times” again.

Thank you Dusty Rhodes.

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Tony Acero has been writing for 411wrestling.com for five years and takes himself about as seriously as you do. He likes whiskey, Mountain Dew, and Batman. He is a published author, currently working on his third book and questions almost daily why he spends more time on a hobby that doesn’t make him any money than the supposed career his degree dictates he should have. When he’s not writing for 411wrestling.com, you can find him wallowing in self-pity under a tree wearing no pants.