The Hardcore Truth Read online

  THE HARDCORE TRUTH

  THE BOB HOLLY STORY

  BOB HOLLY WITH ROSS WILLIAMS

  ECW PRESS

  PREFACE

  June 2010 — Southampton, England

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Bob’s steely glare bored into me as I asked myself exactly the same thing. . . . There I was, a not entirely athletic 31-year-old who had made his pro wrestling debut just four months earlier, in the ring with “Hardcore” Holly — and he looked pissed off. Even the referee was giving us a wide berth. With no more than a foot between us, I was certainly within clouting distance. The question was just how hard and how prolonged the clouting was going to be. Time seemed to stand still while neither of us did a thing. The audience buzzed, anticipating the forthcoming violence, and all I could think about was how embarrassing it would be to be carted off to the hospital whilst wearing altogether too much spandex.

  I was supposed to be finished for the evening. I’d opened the show, winning a 12-minute contest that was, at that point, the best match of my career. I had been looking forward to watching the main event that would see Bob Holly and Jake McCluskey pitted against the UK Kid and Leon Shah. But, as Leon hobbled back into the locker room after his first bout of the evening, I began to feel uneasy. The unease quickly turned into full-blown panic as Leon explained to promoter Tom (the UK Kid) that he couldn’t put any real weight on his leg. “No worries,” said Tom. “We’ll just use Ross instead.”

  Oh shit.

  It was brown trousers time for sure. Still, I manned up and didn’t let on.

  “So, what are we going to do?” I enquired as casually as I could manage.

  “Dunno. We’ll call it in the ring,” replied the UK Kid, a 12-year veteran. Five-year pro McCluskey looked on in amusement.

  “But Tom,” I whispered, “I’ve never done a tag match before. Can we at least lay out a couple of spots?”

  Tom gave me a devilish smirk. “Well, if you want to go and discuss your ideas with Bob, feel free . . .”

  I looked at Bob, taking nanoseconds to decide that approaching him would not be a clever move. Apparently, nanoseconds were too long. Bob caught me staring in his direction and thundered, “What the fuck’re you lookin’ at?” across the locker room.

  I averted my gaze, changed my underwear, and got warmed up for the match.

  Ten minutes later, as I was jogging up and down a corridor, Tom’s voice rang out. “Ross, are you coming or not?” Tom was in his gear, ready to go. Bob and Jake were ready too, standing halfway down the corridor. Mustering all my bravado, I tried something along the lines of a confident swagger: “Yeah, I thought I might give it a go.” Passing Jake and Bob, I offered a nod and a simple “see you out there.” Bob’s voice, quiet but full of menace, followed me down the corridor: “You’ve got a fuckin’ attitude problem.”

  As I passed Rob Holte, whose often stoic expression now showed something approaching sympathy, I said, “Tell my mother I love her.” Rob was my favorite opponent and had always looked after me but, even so, I would often leave the ring a little worse for wear after our matches. I knew that was nothing compared to what I was about to experience.

  I approached the ring on jelly-legs, running on a mixture of adrenaline and terror, and awaited my fate. As Bob’s music blared over the speakers, Tom approached and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll work most of the match. Just follow my lead, you’ll be fine.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I took up a position on the apron — a position I expected to maintain for most of the match. Roughly 18 seconds later, after two or three quick bumps, Tom scurried over to tag me in.

  I dropped off the apron, refusing his hand, assuming I should play the cowardly heel.

  Tom whispered, “Get between us.”

  By this, he meant that I should sneak into the ring, lure Bob into our corner, and let Tom jump him from behind. Having never been in a tag match before and not yet being aware of all the wrestling lingo, I thought Tom meant that I should physically get between them. So I slid into the ring and marched up to Bob with my arms outstretched as if to say, “Whaddya think you’re doing, tough guy?”

  Under my breath, I asked, “Do you want to hit me?”

  This is where we came in.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  My options seemed to be: A) run away and have Bob catch me and beat the everlasting crap out of me for being a pussy; B) back away and have Bob grab me and beat the everlasting crap out of me for being a pussy; or C) shove him and see what happened.

  I went with C and gave him a respectful shove.

  Bob “Hardcore” Holly then respectfully smacked me upside my head, bursting my eardrum. As he reached down to hoist me off the canvas, I realized I couldn’t hear a damn thing out of my right ear. What if he tried to call some moves to me, I didn’t catch them, and I blew a spot? He’d think I was fucking with him and would absolutely destroy me! These fears were quickly dismissed when his plans became evident. He backed me up into the corner and pulled my shirt over my head, exposing my chest.

  Bob’s chops are notorious for hurting like hell. Up until that point, I could only speculate. Two minutes later, having been on the receiving end of about a dozen of Bob’s finest, I could confirm that yes, they do indeed hurt like hell. My chest, which was now bleeding, seconded the opinion. The crowd had popped for each chop with increasing fervor but, by the last, they were wincing in pain along with me.

  Then something happened that changed my view of Bob entirely.

  Propping me up in the corner and pulling my shirt over my face once more, he leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Sorry, man.”

  Ever the British gent, I believe I instinctively replied, “That’s quite all right,” before he clobbered me again, saving the stiffest shot for last.

  After my brutalization and his apology, the rest of the match went smoothly (save for my nose being cut open — my mistake there, I caught my face on something Jake was wearing), and my input was limited to some basic holds, plenty of cheating, and being sent sailing over the top rope to the unpadded floor. I can’t take any credit for the quality of the match, since everyone else was just working around me, but it remains my best match — and my favorite, for that matter.

  Back in the locker room, after having a picture taken in which I proudly displayed my bloody nose and red-raw chest, I wandered over to Bob to thank him for the match. He shook my hand, thanked me, and said, “You really impressed me out there. You were in the right place at the right time and you took your beating like a man. You did great.” He also told me that my bloodied chest would hurt like hell when I showered. He was definitely not wrong. It was unquestionably the most painful shower I have taken in my life.

  Still, long after the wounds on my chest had healed and as my eardrum slowly repaired itself, I had a memory to cherish and one heck of a story to tell — and video footage to back it up! About 10 weeks later, around the time my eardrum had finally healed, I was surprised to receive an email from Bob — and the content was even more surprising. In the email, Bob reiterated that he had “nothing but respect for me” and apologized for any times he’d treated me badly. (For the record, I don’t feel he ever had.) He finished by writing, “I hope you accept my apology.” Since then, we’ve kept in touch, leading to this project. He’s filled me in on a few things: that he pushed for me to replace Leon for that match in Southampton and that, months before that, when he first heard me cut a promo in training, he pushed hard for Tom to use me regularly on shows. Bob really gets behind the people who he believes work hard to improve and he is extremely supportive while remaining honest t
o a fault. During my training and wrestling “career,” he informed me repeatedly (and accurately!) that I struggle with the athletic side of things but also told me that I had good timing, took a fantastic bump, and could cut a damn fine promo. The fact that he’s so blunt in observing my lack of athletic acumen did actually help me believe the other stuff! The more you get to know Bob, the more you realize he is just not into bullshit and he will call a spade a spade. If you suck, he’ll tell you. If you’re good at something, he’ll put you over for it. In short, he’ll tell you what you need to hear and not what you want to hear. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Up until our match, Bob and I had had something of an up-and-down relationship. In training sessions and at shows, I felt he was starting to warm to my promo ability and my drive to improve in-ring, but he didn’t seem to feel that I was tough enough. During our match, he took it upon himself to test me. Bob gave me an opportunity to earn his respect — an opportunity that I took with both hands. After earning his respect, I’ve got to know Robert Howard the man, as well as Bob Holly the wrestler. I’ve had the chance to learn about his career, his background, his trials and tribulations, and to better understand the circumstances behind certain situations for which he has often been vilified by the wrestling media. Above all else, I’ve had the chance to get to know an unfailingly honest, down-to-earth, caring, and downright decent human being.

  Now, I have the privilege of sharing The Hardcore Truth with the world. After the story has been told, I believe even Bob’s most staunch detractors will have a different answer to his long-time catchphrase, “How do you like me now?”

  — Ross Williams

  CHAPTER 1

  BREAD, GRAVY, AND BABY FOOD

  I’ve never been a fan of bullies.

  I know; it’s ironic, given the way a lot of wrestling fans ended up seeing me later in my career, but the fact remains that I encountered bullying at a young age and I learned to stand up to it pretty fast.

  My brother was always up to no good. We never really had a brotherly relationship when we were kids. Even though he’s only a year and a half older than me, we rarely played together. He and his friends constantly picked on me. One of them in particular liked to help him torment me. They were always together and always trying to get to me. They genuinely scared me.

  If I was playing in the yard by myself, they would sneak up behind me with a gallon bucket of water and dump it over my head. It wasn’t a practical joke between brothers. It was a couple of mean-spirited little shits trying to make themselves feel big by picking on someone younger and weaker. It wasn’t a one-time thing, either. They did this again and again — more times than I care to remember.

  One day, after this had gone on for quite a while, I saw my brother’s friend walking down the street with his mom. At that point I’d just had enough and had to do something. I ran over to them and asked the kid, “Where’s your bucket of water now?” He started saying a bunch of mean things, so I drilled him in the mouth, right in front of his mom. I knocked him down and started kicking him. I still remember his mother screaming at me, saying that she was going to call the police and have me arrested for beating up her kid.

  I was six. I guess you could say I’ve been hardcore since then.

  I figured that if nobody else was going to stand up for me, I was going to have to do it myself. Maybe I could have handled it in a less violent way but I’ll say this — after I stood my ground, those bullies quit coming near me. I didn’t have anyone to help me fight my battles when I was young. You hear stories where the oldest kid in the family stands up for the younger ones — that never happened for me. My brother was half the problem. As we got older, we didn’t fight much but we didn’t hang out or do anything together. The day after he graduated, he went off to join the Marines. I was glad to see him gone.

  You could probably say I was unlucky with my dad too. My mom and dad divorced when I was young, so I didn’t really know him. I know he was a street fighter, always getting into trouble with bikers and stuff like that. He was a real jackass; he didn’t pay child support or anything.

  I’ve been blessed with a great mom, though. My relationship with her has always been good. She’s very goofy, very silly, and one of the kindest people you’ll ever meet — she doesn’t have an enemy in this world. I love her to death.

  She taught me all about hard work. After my dad left and my brother started school, she would take me to work with her because she couldn’t afford a babysitter. We couldn’t afford a car either, so she and I would walk to her workplace. I’d sit on the floor for eight hours each day as she soldered wires on boards. It wasn’t an ideal childhood, but she did her

  best for me and my brother. Every single day, we walked three miles there, she worked, and then we walked three miles back home. I remember trying to keep up with her; she walked so damn fast. I managed, but it sure was tough.

  When we got home, all we had to eat were bread, gravy, and baby food. It was all we could afford and what we had for dinner every night. But Mom did everything she could to feed us. She always did the best she could with what she had. Was I unhappy? I didn’t know any better. I was just a little kid and I had my mom, so as far as I was concerned, that was all I needed.

  Bob with his mother, Judy, and brother, Steve, in 1963.

  I did sometimes wish my dad was around, though. Recently, my mom told me that sometimes he would call to say he would come by but would rarely show up. I don’t remember that but it obviously affected me. Mom told me she found me in the closet one day — she heard me talking

  to somebody. “Bobby, what are you doing?” she asked. “Who are you talking to?”

  I said, “I’m talking to my dad.” I was so disappointed that he hadn’t shown up that day that I had this make-believe conversation, pretending he was with me. I still loved my dad — or at least felt a need for a father figure.

  I didn’t see him regularly and nothing he did back then created a lasting impact. Honestly, to this day, I don’t even remember what he looks like. There were a handful of times when he did come to visit me at the apartment in Glendale, California. I don’t recall too much about those visits. He’d turn up, spend a while with me, and leave. He wouldn’t pay any child support and his visits became rarer as time went on. As I got older, he vanished from my life completely.

  The last time I saw him, I was 16. We’d moved to a different state and I hadn’t heard from him in years. Then, out of the blue, he decided to come up and visit his old family — with his new family. He was remarried with two kids. It was kind of awkward since we couldn’t spend any quality time together. There was no chance for it to be a father-and-son sort of thing — for either me or my brother — because we were always in a group of people. I hadn’t seen him for nine years and I really didn’t know him. He was a stranger to me, but he was still my dad. I would have liked to have had a little one-on-one time with him. I didn’t get it — they hung out for about an hour, then left to go camping. The next day, we went to their camp site, we all had a picnic, and then they headed back to California. That was the last time I saw him or even spoke to him.

  He tried to get in touch with me after I started to appear on TV with the WWF in the mid ’90s, and that just hurt. He hadn’t been there for me when I was growing up and needed a dad, but now that I’d attained a level of notoriety, he wanted back in? I didn’t want to talk to him so I didn’t take his calls. I’d always wanted a relationship with my father, but not one that was motivated by my achieving some sort of fame. As time has gone on, I’ve found myself wanting to find out more about him and to see if we could form any sort of bond. So, I started doing some research to track him down. I found him in the end — but too late. He died in 2008. I wish I’d reached out sooner. Despite his not being there for me when I was a kid, I do regret not getting to know him.

  A few years after my parents separated, Mom
met a guy named Gary through my aunt Elaine, and he ended up becoming my stepdad. Gary was a racing enthusiast who helped my uncle Don work on his race car, so that was how he knew my aunt. He was basically a workaholic. During the week, he worked in maintenance for the county school district. On the weekends, he was a janitor at a wood mill. He was a hard worker, I’ll give him that, but he was a horrible male role model. He wasn’t a father figure to me; he was just a guy my mom was married to. I know why she did it. She was struggling to keep a roof over our heads and could barely feed us, so when she found somebody that she could tolerate, they got married. We moved from Glendale to Ventura, California, to live with him, so at least we had a roof over our heads and food on the table. They’re not together anymore — right after I graduated high school, they divorced. I don’t know if that was her plan all along or if it was because there had been some infidelity on his part.

  He wasn’t bad to us but he wasn’t good. He was very strict. When my brother and I got home from school, we weren’t allowed to play, watch TV, or eat; we were given work to do around the house and that’s all we did. I don’t want to say Gary was like a drill sergeant because that would be too much of a compliment to him. He was always on us for no reason. For example, every weekend we had to cut the grass. If he felt we hadn’t cut the grass correctly, he’d make us cut the entire yard again until we’d done it the way he wanted it. If we missed one weed when we were pulling them, we had to start over. It felt like we’d been put on the earth to serve him. Every Saturday morning: “get up, cut the grass, rake the leaves, chop the wood” . . . and whatever else he could find for us to do. Even during school vacations, it was the same. I had a summer job, but since that didn’t start until 3 p.m., I had to get up at 7 to start working around the house.

  If we wanted to play high school sports, we had to buy our own gear. We got no help financially. We got no support of any kind. Our mountain of chores came first and then we had to get ourselves to and from practice. As far as I’m concerned, parents should help their kids to succeed, whether in sports or education. You push them, but you support them and say, “Whatever you need, I’m here for you. All you have to do is ask.” I didn’t have that. If I wanted to succeed, everything was on me. My mother tried, but you need the whole team behind you. Gary had the financial means to help, and without his support it was damn near impossible for me to do anything in high school. The only things Gary taught me were how to cut grass, chop wood, pull weeds, and wash dishes — stuff like that. I learned everything else on my own.