ThE 1sT ChApTeR oF ThE RoCk'S BooK - ChEcK iT oUt!!! - Wrestling - http://maxpages.com/paulwwfwebsite/THE_ROCKS

The Rock Says - Chapter 1
Royal Rumbler
I was eight years old when my family moved to the island of Hawaii. This really wasn't all that big a deal to me, since I was accustomed to being uprooted on a regular basis. My father, Rocky Johnson, was a professional wrestler, and life in "the business" in those days was nomadic, to say the least. Professional wrestling in my dad's era-he started in the mid-1960s-was not the well-oiled international entertainment machine that it is today. There was no dominant organization, like the World Wrestling Federation, watching over the game and its participants. There were no multimillion-dollar television contracts or Pay-Per-View specials. There was little or no merchandising to fatten the wallets of the wrestlers themselves- no video games or action figures or lunch boxes. Instead, professional wrestling was a gloriously gritty and splintered business consisting of dozens of self-sufficient, and self-governing, territories: Florida, Tennessee, North Carolina, and Georgia, just to name a few. Generally, at that time, guys would work a territory for six months to a year, two years at the most. They'd move in, get acclimated, make a name for themselves, and before long they'd wear out their welcome and have to move on. That's just the way it worked. Everyone who wrestled accepted the life-in fact, most loved it.

I was raised in this environment. It was all I knew, all I can remember. There was never a time when wrestling wasn't part of my life. And so, like a child of the circus, I was a road warrior from the very beginning, bouncing from one part of the country to another, from one apartment to another. By the time I started kindergarten I had already lived in five states. I don't recall ever being bothered by the constant movement - to tell you the truth, I found it exciting. And I sure as hell never lacked for attention or love. I went to shows with my mother, Ata, and together we cheered every one of Rocky's sensational, athletic moves. My mom was the real rock of the family. Having grown up in the business, she understood the sacrifices that were necessary for success. And so she did what she had to do to keep the family together. When it was time to pack up the van and move to another town, she made it feel like an adventure.

It was in Hawaii that I got to know my grandparents real well, and I think that's part of the reason I fell in love with the place, and why I still consider it my home away from home. It represents so much of my heritage and my past and all that's important to me. My grandfather, Peter Maivia, was a legend in this business, and not just because he was a terrific wrestler, although he certainly was that: heavyweight champion of Texas and U.S. Tag Team champion were just two of the titles he held. Peter Maivia was known for being one of the toughest guys around. Not in a mean or antagonistic or showy way, but in an honest way. He was just a tough son of a bitch, and if you were smart, you didn't mess with him.

Other wrestlers sometimes discovered this characteristic the hard way. Then, as now, the boys in the business sometimes hung out together when they traveled. And one night, in a hotel restaurant, another wrestler began making fun of my grandfather. Peter Maivia was Samoan and, as was the custom of his people, he often liked to eat with his hands. We call it fa-a-Samoan-the Samoan way or custom. To this other wrestler, though, it was not a custom. It was something to mock. So the boys were all sitting at a table, surrounded by food, and he was really giving it to my grandfather, insulting him, trying to get a laugh out of something that was actually quite honorable. Eventually, my grandfather, who was a very dignified man, told him to back off and show a little respect.

"Don't make fun of me," he said. "This is my culture."

The other wrestler just laughed and kept at it. Eventually my grandfather stood up, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the lobby and proceeded to beat the living crap out of him. My grandfather was an immense man-about five foot ten, 320 pounds- and so the fight, if you could call it that, didn't last long. It ended when my grandfather lifted the other guy off his feet and tossed him through a window. Then, after his point had been clearly made, my grandfather walked over, helped him up, and said, "You okay?" The man nodded and my grandfather smiled. "Good," he said. "Now… just don't make fun of me anymore."

That was just one of the stories I had heard about Peter Maivia. But I had heard other stories, too, and I came to see that they were largely true. Even though my grandfather was the toughest man alive, he was also the sweetest guy you'd ever want to meet. He was gentle and kind, especially to my mother and me. If he was capable of knocking the piss out of you, he was also capable of charming you with a song or a smile. He and my grandmother, Leah, loved each other intensely, but they fought all the time. They bickered constantly, and sometimes their arguments erupted into violence. My grandmother would flail away at my grandfather, and he'd stand there absorbing every blow with his massive arms and chest, until she grew so tired that she'd collapse into him, completely spent. Then they'd kiss and make up, and my grandfather would serenade her with a song on his ukulele. Their relationship was wonderful and crazy and full of passion: fa-a-Samoan! It made for some interesting family gatherings. I'll tell you that.

Wrestling is in my blood. I'm a third-generation worker and part of one of the most famous wrestling families in the business. Interestingly enough, it was wrestling that nearly tore my family apart.

In the early 1970s my grandfather was wrestling on the West Coast. Peter Maivia and Rocky Johnson knew of each other back then, but they weren't exactly friends. Their paths crosses periodically, and they even teamed up for tag-team matches on a couple of occasions. Well, one night Rocky flew in from Japan to take part in a show and found out that his partner was Peter Maivia. Afterward, exhausted and suffering from jet lag, Rocky started to walk out the door in search of a hotel. Peter, gentleman that he was, intercepted Rocky.

"You're only in town for one night," he said. "Why not come back and stay with us?"

Rocky accepted the invitation, and within a few hours had been introduced to the woman who would become his wife and my mother, Ata Maivia. My mom didn't like Rocky at first. Oh, he was sharp looking and all, very chiseled and athletic and handsome, but he was also a big-time chewer and snuff-dipper, which completely disgusted my mother. She had never seen anything like that before. But Rocky could be a charmer, and it wasn't long before he and my mother fell in love and decided to get married.

There was one small problem: Peter Maivia was vehemently opposed to his daughter marrying Rocky Johnson. And so was my grandmother. Now, you might think this had something to do with the fact that Rocky is African American. But it didn't. Hell, Samoans are people of color too. If the KKK comes to visit, they're as likely to go after me as they are my dad. (Incidentally, there is nothing The Rock finds more offensive than racism… but more on that later.) Ironically, the reason Peter and Leah Maivia wanted to shield their daughter from Rocky Johnson had nothing to do with his ethnicity and everything to do with his chosen profession. They disapproved of my dad because he was in the business, and my grandparents-especially my grandfather- knew all about the demons of the business. He understood a few things that my mother did not, like the fact that… the boys are the boys. He knew from personal experience the lifestyle that was typical of an entertainer, of a professional athlete or showman, or anyone who travels for a living. He knew the temptations of the road, and the way that separation had of making the heart grow colder and sadder rather than fonder. And he didn't want that lifestyle for his daughter. Who could blame him? Not that he had heard bad stories about Rocky or anything, but the mere fact that Rocky was a professional wrestler was sufficient reason for my grandfather to disapprove of the union. His daughter may have been born into that world, but she didn't have to marry into it as well.

Ultimately, there was nothing they could do to stop Rocky and Ata, of course. When the young couple failed to receive the blessing of Ata's parents, they ran off together and got married, and for a time the family was fractured. Fortunately, my grandparents weren't unreasonable people, and they eventually came to accept the relationship. For them, it came down to a simple choice: We have one daughter and one daughter only, and she's happy, then we'll be happy for her. This development didn't occur overnight, obviously. It evolved over the course of a year and became concrete with the announcement that a baby was on the way. That child was me, Dwayne Johnson.

A Chip off the Old Block

I was born May 2, 1972, in Hayward, California. My earliest memories are of wrestling-going to shows with my mom, watching my dad fly off the top rope, practicing my dropkicks in the living room when no one was watching. I was always kept extremely close to the business by my parents. They never tried to shield me from it, never pretended that it was something it wasn't. My dad was a gifted athlete and showman, and he made a very good loving as a wrestler. He was proud of his accomplishments, and he wanted his son to be proud of them, too.

Rocky Johnson was different from most black wrestlers in the '60s and '70s. First of all, his athletic credentials were impeccable. He was an accomplished boxer who worked for a while as a sparring partner with George Foreman. He was a good swimmer and a natural gymnast. That he wounded up in wrestling was mostly a matter of luck. When he was about eighteen years old, while training at a gym in Halifax, Nova Scotia (where he grew up), my dad was approached by a wrestling promoter. At first Rocky wasn't interested, but soon he changed his mind. He began training. Because of his athleticism, he caught on quickly. And because he had a nice look to him- he was a handsome guy with sharp features and well-defined muscles- his career took off. At a time when this country was still reluctant to embrace strong black men, my father was a groundbreaker. He was the first African American champion in both Georgia and Texas. He won tag-team titles in Canada and in the National Wrestling Alliance. Near the end of his career, in the early 1980s, he became the first African American to win the World Wrestling Federation Intercontinental title. He also teamed up with Tony Atlas to become the first black tag-team champions in Federation history.

In other words, my dad was one hell of a wrestler, and while he understood the simple truth about his business- that it was indeed a business, and that you had to give the people a damn good-show- he managed to succeed on his own terms. When my dad broke in, all of the top black wrestlers- not to knock them or anything, but they were all jive-talking caricatures. They'd come out to cut their promos and you'd swear they'd just stepped off the set of Shaft or Superfly. It would be like, "Hey, brother, I'm gonna kick me some serious ass tonight." They'd eat watermelon on camera and do all sorts of degrading things, because that's what was expected of them. My father wouldn't do that. He was the first black wrestler to insist on being very intelligent in front of the camera. When he cut his promos, there would be no jive in his voice. He took pride in cutting promos that were clean and articulate, promos that were smart!" And when he stepped through the ropes, there was no bullshit funky strut or anything like that. Rocky Johnson was one of the first guys in our business to have a complete package: a great, muscular body, tremendous athleticism, real wrestling talent, and a strong personality. When people saw him perform, it was an awakening. He was a fearless man, a man who welcomed the chance to breakdown barriers.

I loved watching my dad wrestle. I loved playing with his championship belts. That was a big thing for me, to hold his belt over my head, or strap it around my chest. But I also understood from a very early age that wrestling was hard work. Did I know whether the carnage on display was "real" or not? That's hard to say. I remember sitting in the front row at the Tampa Armory when I was about five years old, wolfing down fistfuls of popcorn as my father entered the ring. I remember seeing him getting pummeled and feeling, instinctively, that I should jump into the ring to help him: Who is this man, and why is he trying to hurt my father?! But my father would do little things to reassure me. And so would my mom. If my father was on the mat, grimacing in pain, really selling, my mom would say, "Look, Dwayne, Daddy's smiling at you."

It wasn't like it is now. We'd usually sit in the first seats next to the aisle, and when my father walked down the aisle as he approached the ring, he'd grab my hand, kiss my mom, wave to the crowd. Try that today and the crowd will boo the hell out of you. It's a sign of weakness. I understand that, too, because I always liked the bad guys, the heels, when I was growing up.

Bad guys are more fun. One of my favorite television shows was The Little Rascals, and I always liked Butch, the kid who would break up the party and start trouble. The mean kid. The kid nobody wanted around. I loved him, even though he was a big pain in the ass. I guess that's because I was a pain-in-the-ass little kid, too, or so my parents have told me. I was the kind of baby you couldn't take to a restaurant because I would always be dumping the food on my head. I was always climbing out of my crib and running around the house. When I started going to wrestling shows with my mom, I'd try to sneak away and explore the armory. I'd run all over the place. When my mother would finally find me, she'd be furious and relieved at the same time. Mom handled the discipline in our family, and I felt her belt across my backside on more than one occasion. Deserved it, too.

My father provided a nice living for our family. He made good money because he was on top almost everywhere he went. Regardless of the territory, Rocky Johnson would quickly become a top contender or challenger and one of the most popular guys in the business. He was different, which obviously made him marketable. He was an African American wrestler with great fire and emotion, more charismatic than most babyfaces. And my dad was a babyface-a good guy-his entire career, which spanned more than twenty years. He had tremendous ambition, as well as great ring psychology. And he was always good to the people, to the paying customer, the backbone of the industry. Endorsements were virtually nonexistent back then, but he still made good money. He'd get a percentage of the house every night, and since people liked to watch Rocky Johnson wrestle, he could always count on a respectable paycheck.

I was fascinated by the business. I loved everything about it: the violence, the theatricality, the athleticism, the volume… everything! By the time I was six years old I was practicing dropkicks and head locks on our dog. By the time I was eight I was trying to have serious discussions about the business with my father. For the most part he reacted like any parent would: Aw, he's just a kid, rough-housing, dreaming, having a good time. He'll grow out of it. But he was wrong. I never did grow out of it. And I'm not sure I ever will.

Like Father…Like Son

In every territory, the wrestlers enjoyed a healthy dose of celebrity. Barnstorming was an important part of their contractual obligation, so they performed all over the region, usually three or four times a week. They also were featured on weekly television shows. Each territory had its own show specifically tailored to its audience and region so that people could follow the story lines. As a result, everywhere we went - Tennessee, Georgia, Florida, California … it didn't matter - people got to know my father pretty quickly. And, subsequently, they got to know me. I was one of those kids you either liked or didn't like. There was no between. I was too outgoing and confident (and big) to simply blend into the scenery. I always sensed that my father's name affected the way people treated me. Sometimes positively, sometimes negatively. A kid might say to me, "Hey, I saw your dad on TV last night. He was great." Or, he might say, "I saw your dad on TV last night. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway?!" It could work either way.

I do know that I was about eight years old when I started to defend professional wrestling. This business, from the early 1900s up until at least the mid-1980s, was shrouded in secrecy. There was a code that bound everyone in the business to uphold the image of legitimacy. This was sacred. If a fan asked a wrestle, "Is this real?" the wrestler would say, without hesitation, "Yes, it is. In fact, I want to out there and hurt that guy. I want to kill him!" So, at the time, it was important to me to protect the business. Sure, I protect it now, too, but at the same time I would never play anybody for being a fool. I don't want to insult our fans or pull the wool over anybody's eyes. I think my mom and dad almost died the first time they heard me say in an interview, "Oh, yeah, things are predetermined. We have scripts and everything." But when my dad was wrestling, things were a lot different, so when some kid said to me, "That stuff is all fake, it's all bullshit!" my reply would always be, "Is wrestling fake? Well, I can show you better than I can tell you."

"Oh, really" How?"

"Like this!" WHAM! Right cross!

I was constantly getting into fights, which wasn't a good thing because I was almost always the biggest kid in the class. I specifically remember being eleven years old, in fifth grade, sitting in gym class in Hamden, Connecticut, waiting for the teacher to arrive. By this time my dad was in the World Wrestling Federation, competing against guys like Sergeant Slaughter, Don Muraco, and Roddy Piper when the whole business was starting to go national. Vince McMahon had taken over all the territories and put the whole sport under one umbrella, and now wrestling was getting tremendous exposure. I was having a discussion about the validity of wrestling with Randy Ellis, a nice kid who remains a friend of mine to this day, when the question came up again.

So Dwayne, is it fake or not?"

"Well, Randy, let me show you. Let me piledrive you."

I knew all the moves; even then I was so close to the business that I picked up everything. When you're that deeply involved, you can't help it.

The pile driver can be a dangerous move if you're not careful. But there's a way to do it safely: You just lodge the head tightly between your legs so that it's not protruding at all. I made sure that Randy's head was protruding, which made it extremely dangerous. I could have broken his neck. As it was, he hurt his head real bad when he hit the floor, and he started crying loudly, really wailing. I got a charge out of it at first, because it was exciting to execute a move properly, but then I got embarrassed because I realized I had hurt my friend. All the other kids were there, and they started yelling at me: "What's wrong with you, man? Why did you make Randy cry?" In a matter of just a few seconds I went from being the biggest babyface to being the biggest heel. I wound up getting suspended from school for a few days, and my mom put a good beating on my ass - didn't even chew me out, just let her belt do the talking.

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