The Match that Launched 1000 Matches in Texas
Ric Flair vs. Kerry Von Erich was a masterclass in wrestling booking
In wrestling, finding a consistent, dependable main eventer was one of the toughest tasks facing a local promoter. It was a cutthroat industry and, even though membership in the National Wrestling Alliance ostensibly prevented direct competition, there was constant bickering and backstabbing as various tinpot dictators battled for the top talent.
Nepotism, it turned out, was the best solution to this issue. If the promoter or his progeny were firmly in place as one of a region’s leading acts, they didn’t have to worry about which of the boys was about to drop the hammer and drive on to greener pastures. Verne Gagne, the Sheik, the Fuller-Welch clan, Jerry Lawler, Bill Watts, Eddie Graham and many others besides were more than happy to promote themselves as their own big stars. It was easier that way.
Nowhere was this truer than the great state of Texas. In Amarillo, Dory Funk Senior had two instant main eventers in his sons Terry and Dory, who just happened to be among the best wrestlers in the world right out of the gate. In Dallas, Fritz Von Erich was even more blessed—he had three young sons with a knack for the sport and two more still in the pipeline.
Wrestlers come and go. Family is forever.
The three Von Erich boys the old man built his territory around were all competent to great in the ring, astoundingly athletic, good looking and almost creepily popular. David, in the middle, was the savvy one, a veteran of territories around the world, and, all agreed, a future world’s champion. Kevin, the wild child, wrestled in bare feet, sometimes cracking opponents so hard it wasn’t entirely clear he knew the sport was a work. The youngest of the three was Kerry, a fun-loving space cadet who had trouble remembering the plan once he got in the ring and would default to the family’s patented claw hold when he got confused. He happened, however, to be built like a Greek god, which helped him connect with the audience (particularly the young ladies) in a way few have in wrestling history.
It’s no surprise then, that the greatest angle of 1982 was a family affair. Prodigies from day one, pushed hard since day one, the Von Erich boys seemed destined for success. In wrestling, the ultimate proof is in the pudding sport, that meant championship gold. And, when you reached a certain level, only one title belt would do—the hallowed National Wrestling Alliance World Heavyweight championship, at the time held by Ric Flair in his first of what would be nine (or 13 some say) runs with the strap.
While other stories and angles played out in Dallas, the quest for the big Gold belt was percolating under the surface. Always. One of the boys had to eventually take it home, bringing wrestling’s top prize to the Sportatorium, just across the river from the Bishop Arts District, where the ensuing party would no doubt last all night long.
It was Fritz’s life mission to bring the belt, one he never won despite a decorated career in the industry, home. And it was a cause the audience, too, embraced as their own.
“The fans saw these kids grow up. They lived vicariously through them,” Freebird Michael Hayes, one of the family’s top rivals, said. “These kids were over like rover. They went to Six Flags one time and they had to shut down the park. Because of the mob scene.”
Despite the promotion’s burgeoning popularity and increasing success on television, working the Dallas Territory could be difficult for the NWA champion. The issue, Flair wrote in his book To Be The Man, wasn’t the wrestlers across the ring. That might be a problem in smaller territories like Kansas City where you could find yourself forced to drag 45 minutes out of Rufus Jones. In Dallas? Without question, the matches in Texas would be stellar and the crowds would be wild for the wrestlers.
No, it was the old man who made things difficult. Protecting top talent was par for the course for many promoters. But Fritz took it to extremes—this top acts weren’t just “the boys.” They were the actual fruit of his loins and, in his mind, all future champions. They weren’t going down for the count, Flair wrote, under almost any circumstances:
“For most of his career, Fritz Von Erich played a Nazi. But by the early 1980s, he was a Bible-quoting born-again Christian who promoted in Dallas, using his sons—David, Kerry, and Kevin—as the territory’s top good guys. He’d been taking them to NWA conventions since they were teenagers, and describing them as future champions.”
…Fritz Von Erich didn’t want his kids losing in Dallas, or even in St. Louis because it was an NWA showcase. The more we caved in to these types of demands, the more diminished the credibility of the NWA title became.
Protecting the Von Erichs was paramount. And that meant the finishes had to be creative, unique and ever-evolving. Enter Gary Hart, a difficult genius, who brought a fertile mind filled with the wisdom of decades to the region. He had already managed The Great Kabuki in a number of compelling battles with the Von Erich boys and was soon running the whole show for Fritz.
Hart set the table perfectly for this match, held on Christmas day in the Reunion Arena, for maximum impact, an event the promotion was calling Christmas Star Wars. Kerry had failed in two previous attempts at the belt that year, in part because of Flair’s chicanery. It was clear, however, he had the champion’s number, with announcer Bill Mercer going to far as to call Kerry the “uncrowned champion.”
In a match that August, the two got so out of control in the final of three falls that they were both disqualified. Not only wasn’t “The Nature Boy” an honest broker, he had also put a bounty on Kerry’s head, which Hart and Kabuki were more than happy to go after, collecting a check for $12,500 to damage Kerry’s knee.
Proof in hand of Flair’s bad deeds, Fritz had the leeway to book another title match, picking the location and the rules. That meant the championship tilt was to be held inside a steel cage—for the wrestlers’ own protection and to protect the match. To further ensure the sanctity of the title bout, the promotion decided to include a special enforcer in the cage to make sure things played out fairly.
The fans got to choose this enforcer, mostly offered a collection of aged, faded legends like Duke Keomuka and Wild Bull Curry. The other option was a newcomer to the territory, the dynamic Michael Hayes. One of the most incredible performers in all of wrestling, Hayes, a natural heel, was coming off a rare babyface run on the SuperStation WTBS, just starting to gain national traction. He came into Texas with his Freebird buddies guns blazing. They were presented as close friends of David Von Erich and were immediately beloved.
Guess who the young people flocking to the Sportatorium chose to have Kerry’s back?
The angle was perfectly crafted by a booking mastermind. Hart established in previous weeks, in the minds of the fans, that there was no love lost between Hayes and Flair. Then, earlier on the show, he had David Von Erich replace Buddy Roberts as an honorary Freebird, with the trio even winning the six man straps. The deck was stacked—for once, not against the heroic Von Erichs. This, time, Hart wrote in his book My Life in Wrestling, the fans believed it was finally time for one of their own to take home the richest prize in the sport:
I very carefully set it up so that there was no possible way that Ric was walking out of the cage with the belt that night - and completely stacked the odds in Kerry’s favor. I built the match up so well that we brought in an astounding $102,000 that night – and it was all because the fans really thought they were going to see the world title change hands. They had no idea what we had in store for them.
…this got over beyond my wildest imagination. I’m very proud of that particular angle, and it makes me very happy to know that people still talk about it to this day. The legend of that night just spread like wildfire, and the following few weeks we did unbelievable business. Anywhere we went, business was gigantic.
Before the match, both wrestlers had their final say on the matter. Kerry delivered your standard “Aw shucks, I’m just going to do my best” white meat promo. Flair? He was just coming into his own and decided to flex his powers on the microphone.
“Of course I’m always concerned about a top contender like Kerry Von Erich,” Flair said. “But this time Von Erich has put himself in position—and now I’m talking about Kerry, I’m talking about the whole family, the old man included. Fritz himself. They’ve put themself in a position where it’s a do-or-die situation. I’m the world heavyweight champion. I’m the greatest wrestler alive. Tonight I’m in a cage match with Kerry Von Erich. One man’s gonna walk out of that ring, one man is gonna walk out of that cage the world heavyweight champion.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you remember one thing—diamonds are forever and so is Ric Flair. And that championship is gonna be mine until I take it off and put it on a shelf. Tonight, Kerry Von Erich, you are gonna pay the price of a wrestling lifetime for thinking that one day in your life you were half the man that Ric Flair is every day, brother.”
Flair, resplendent in a red, walked the aisle first, and waited on Kerry, who came out in a beautiful blue robe of his own. Hayes, the enforcer, was shirtless in blue jeans, ready to keep both men honest and help referee David Manning, so overwhelmed in the previous title fights, maintain control.
This isn’t, to be honest, a match remembered for its in-ring glory. There’s nothing wrong with it of course—Flair was peaking as a wrestler and Kerry was always game—but it was probably the worst match from an action perspective the two had that year.
No, it was the angle itself we recall with fondness.
Hayes eventually had enough of Flair and decked him, encouraging Kerry to jump on top of the fallen champion and take the title home by hook or crook. Raised in a Christian home, Von Erich wanted no part of that kind of tainted victory. Hayes, raising his hands in disgust, went to depart the cage as Kerry argued with him in the corner. Outside, Freebird Terry Gordy unlocked the door for his pal to hit the bricks, no doubt already thinking about which bars they would visit that night.
And that’s when it happened.
Flair plowed into Kerry with a knee to the back, in turn sending Kerry into Hayes, who plummeted out of the cage. His vision blocked, it appeared to Gordy that Kerry had just attacked Michael—and he responded in the only way he knew how, with furious violence. He sent the cage door crashing into Kerry’s head, eventually costing him the championship.
Flair was off to the airport. He’d wrestle two matches the very next day in Ohio and West Virginia as part of the champion’s insane schedule. But the Von Erichs and the Freebirds were stuck together in Texas, soon to become the region’s Hatfields and McCoys in a feud that would continue for years.
“Michael Hayes and the Freebirds, for their time, there was no one better,” Hart said. “…You had to have very strong guys to fight these kids. Because they wouldn’t give an inch. You know what I mean? They would emulsify you.”
The next couple of years, until David’s untimely death in 1984 and all the misery that followed, were glory years for the business. With the two factions battling in main events in front of packed houses, the promotion was attracting top stars from around the country and the shows were truly epic.
“Once you pop a territory, that’s when other people want to come,” Hayes said. “And that really helped out. We got ‘Gorgeous’ Jimmie Garvin and Sunshine coming. We’ve got ‘Gentleman’ Chris Adams. You’ve got ‘Iceman’ King Parsons. And now you don’t have to be the (sole) focus. Because some people might not like your schtick. But they like this and they like that. It’s great variety.”
As Vince McMahon prepared for a national run, Dallas seemed well-suited to play the role that would eventually fall to Jim Crockett in Charlotte—the loyal opposition. Instead, the region collapsed under the weight of tragedy neither the family or fans could bear. That’s the story for another day. Perhaps in a theater near you?
Jonathan Snowden is a long-time combat sports journalist. His books include Total MMA, Shooters and Shamrock: The World’s Most Dangerous Man. His work has appeared in USA Today, Bleacher Report, Fox Sports and The Ringer. Subscribe to this newsletter to keep up with his latest work.
I'm fascinated by the evolution of Flair's front teeth. I suppose it's a Berenstain Bears thing...at some point in the 2000s, I became aware of how messed-up they were (from the 80s until then, I seemingly just accepted the idea - though I have no idea why I did - that this was some handsome ladykiller). But clearly that wasn't the case in the early to mid 80s, was it? Here, on the embedded interview, he's speaking in a much more controlled (and effective) way, so you can't quite tell what's going on with those chompers.
Jonathan, man. Thank you, for brining joy to my life regularly.