Nick Roberts Part Two

When I left you last ... I was in Lubbock, Texas, and had signed for a match involving Terry Funk against The Patriot (Bobby Hart), with me handcuffed to Nick Roberts, the promoter.

The evening, thus far, had been a star-studded event for Lubbock and was just getting ready for a very exciting match. Terry Funk had met The Patriot in a couple of other matches in Lubbock, and neither he nor us had scored a clean, clear-cut decision over the other. As a matter of fact, we had left Terry in a bloody heap the last time we were here, two weeks earlier. Terry had asked for a Texas Death match, but promoter Nick Roberts had other ideas about the pairing.

The bell rang for the main event to come to the arena floor. We left the dressing room and proceeded to the ring under special extra guard by the local police and the sheriff's office. One fan tried to make a lunge for me, and the biggest of the cops picked him up and gave him a heave-ho, and the guy ended up about three rows back and on top of some other fans. They weren't too happy with him landing on them and dumped him onto the floor.

We made it to the ring, and I was never so happy to see ring ropes as I was that night. The fans of Lubbock and the surrounding areas are not the nicest people in the state of Texas. They would just as soon lynch you as to look at you. They didn't like me, and I could never understand why; I was a gentleman at ringside and minded my own business.

Terry Funk started up the aisle from his dressing room and practically had to fight his way to the ring, as fans were at near-riot stage trying to applaud him. Nick Roberts was at Terry's side coming up to the ring. The announcements were made, and I went to step out of the ring onto the arena floor. Nick reached out and grabbed my hand, pulling my briefcase away from me. The hinge gave way, and it popped open and dropped the brick I had in the one end for balance out on the mat. Nick picked up the brick and threw it to a fan at ringside and said, "Hold on to that; I will deal with that later." I was thrown from the ring and dumped on my backside and then was handcuffed to this goat roper.

Bobby Hart tried to intervene, but Terry Funk kept him busy with big left punches all over his body. I tried to lend moral support to Bobby, but Nick pulled me back to the seat and bent it in half with the impact from my body. I was able to shout ideas to The Patriot, but he could not pull them off, as Funk had a counter for every hold I came up with.

Finally, in a desperate move, Bobby grabbed Terry in our Watergate Roll and proceeded to break the West Texas hero's legs. Terry finally gave his all and grabbed the ropes, breaking the hold. He was very lucky that his early days of football training had strengthened him to a point that the hold didn't break his legs.

Back and forth the match progressed, with neither man getting an advantage. The 60-minute time limit had expired, and the bell rang. Terry Funk grabbed the microphone and was asking for more time. I had gotten away from Nick Roberts and grabbed Bobby and made it back to the dressing room. I figured that there would be another time these two would meet, and we could show Funk that we were better men than he was.

We showered and left the building under a blanket of security and quietly exited town by a few back roads. We were north bound towards Amarillo when this huge Buick Riviera came blasting by us doing about 100 miles per hour. It was Terry Funk behind the wheel, and he was hell bent for leather heading for Canyon, Texas, his home. I told Bobby to try and keep up with him and see what he does after the matches.

About half an hour later in Tulia, Texas, a small town of mostly goat ropers and Mexican immigrants, there was a little drive-in. It was your typical small town hangout, with hot rods, pickups, and plenty of things to do (the big thing in Tulia was sitting on the back gate of a pickup drinking Coors and playing the juke box after work in the fields).

Terry had gotten some kind of drink, backed his Riviera out of the stall and started doing donuts (circles) in the gravel and aggravating the locals. Some of the gravel his car threw out hit the local yokels (Police) car, and the chase was on. Out the driveway and onto the super highway of the Lone Star State (two lanes undivided) and northbound they went. Three other cars, loaded with Mexicans and Cowboys, were in the chase, too. We got into the race ourselves, and as I looked over at the speedometer, we were doing 110, and they were pulling away from us and were clean out of sight as we went over a hill. We backed off after trying for about five miles to keep up with them.

The next night in Amarillo, I asked one of the guys who was a friend of Terry's if he had gotten caught. In Texas, you have to get caught doing something behind the wheel to get a ticket. The guy said, "The cops never got Terry; he made it to his house and jumped out of the car, and it was still running in the garage when the cop got there." Terry never answered the door. I couldn't hardly blame him; I wouldn't, either.

Just another night on the road in the old Amarillo territory.

Percival A. Friend, Retired
The Epitome of Wrestling Managers

2003 BWC Hall of Fame Inductee
2004 CAC Hall of Fame Inductee
2006 LWA Hall of Fame Inductee
2007 TCCW Hall of Fame Honoree