As an ex-wrestler said not long after Dusty Rhodes shuffled off this mortal coil, “You can tell who the real stars are. When Ultimate Warrior died, it was a big story on WWE TV, and that was it. Dusty died, and it’s a story EVERYWHERE.”
With all due respect to the late Jim Hellwig and his family, you got that right.
Dusty Rhodes was an international superstar and celebrity. He lit up territory after territory, and then made his mark when the business went national.
Dusty had his ups and downs: Wrestling Observer Newsletter readers voted him best babyface, best booker and most charismatic. They also voted him most overrated, worst gimmick and most embarrassing. When Dusty finally got to WWE in 1989, Vince McMahon revenge-dressed him in unflattering polka dots, made an unattractive black woman his valet and had him snake his hand down a toilet.
But that didn’t matter. None of the bad mattered. Dusty Rhodes was a STAR.
Dusty had the white-guy jive-rap down to a science, he was cool, and he really was everyman: “If that guy can do it, so can I.” Same principle as C.M. Punk and Daniel Bryan, only much bigger, much badder and much longer.
Dusty was so much larger than life. He was the American Dream 24/7. He was a perfect foil for Ric Flair, who never dials back being the Nature Boy.
I worked with Dusty in WCW. It was an honor. My main memories of Dusty involve listening. When Dusty talked, I listened.
Before I worked for WCW, I wrote for Pro Wrestling Torch. I could be tough on Dusty, and not without reason. When he booked, he mostly trusted himself. He gave his son a mighty shove not long after Dustin’s entry into the business. Dusty’s on-camera martyrdom often went a bit far for my liking, and I said so.
So, I find myself sharing a ride to San Francisco’s Cow Palace with the Dream not long after gaining employment. “Baby, you were a little hard on me in that dirt sheet. You beat me up pretty good.” Uh-oh. But, then… “That’s OK, daddy. We on the same team now.” Exhale. Dusty always treated me great. So did Dustin.
