The American Dream Dusty Rhodes: A Father's Day Tribute

Dusty Rhodes is my dad.

Well, not my real dad, more like my adopted father. Maybe I should start at the beginning.

I was never a baseball fan as a kid.

Growing up here in North Carolina, we do not have a major league team, the closest one to us are the Atlanta Braves.

My family didn’t exactly have the money or transportation to go that far when I was growing up, and to tell the truth, my dad was never a baseball fan himself. In fact, he wasn’t a sports fan at all.

So, I have no great childhood memories of going to a big league park with my dad.

But, while Dad was not much of a sports fan, he was a pro wrestling fan.

I have vivid memories of watching NWA on Saturdays, me sitting in the floor, my dad kicked back on the couch. I couldn’t tell you what exactly was happening, but I’m sure it involved Ric Flair, Wahoo McDaniel, Blackjack Mulligan, and other Mid-Atlantic legends of the business.

I also remember when the little people had their go in the ring. In those days we weren’t very PC, so it was called midget wrestling. There was never any offense meant, at least not on our part. That’s just what we called them.

I would sit on his lap for those matches, mostly because, to be honest, the little guys kind of freaked me out as a kid. You have to realize, I grew up in the late 70’s south, and I didn’t really have what you might call a diverse cross section of people to associate with.

“They’re going to get you, Tommy, they’re going to get you,” he would growl as he tickled me until I thought I would puke.

I also have memories of going to see the NWA when it came to town. I remember Flair’s robe, and Wahoo’s headdress.

That was 34 years ago, and I have been a fan ever since.

Now, back to The American Dream being my second father.

Dusty was a big man, like my dad, and while he didn’t really resemble him in any other way, that was enough for me to relate to him.

I myself was a big kid, and when I looked at Dusty I saw a normal guy who looked like he could be my neighbor.

He didn’t look like a pro wrestling legend in the making, or a future Hall of Famer. To me, he was just The Dream. Tough as nails, larger than life, and full of fire and heart. He truly epitomized the American fighting spirit, reborn in a 302-pound frame from Austin Texas.

Dusty became more than just a wrestler to me, he became that second father that I instantly felt a kinship to. When he stared into the camera and cut a promo, it was as if he was talking indirectly to me, telling me “I need you on this one, Tommy. I can’t do this alone.”

So, when Dusty Rhodes went to war with Ric Flair and The Four Horsemen, he didn’t go by himself. I was there, in the floor, eyes glued to the TV, heart racing, doing my part to cheer the Dream to victory.

I would yell at the ref, usually NWA senior official Tommy Young, because I knew that he was secretly in Flair’s back pocket. Hey, the Horsemen had all the money in the world to make anyone turn their head, it made sense that Young was on the take.

Then I would yell at Flair, Arn Anderson, Tully Blanchard, Ole Anderson, and JJ Dillon. They had to hear me. They knew I would be watching. How? Well, because Dusty couldn’t do it without me, remember?

The night the Horsemen broke Dusty’s leg in the ring, I cried. It wasn’t right. Dusty was actually there to help Ric, to do the right thing. And they attacked him for it.

When Dusty beat Ric for the NWA World Heavyweight Championship in 1986, I was on my feet screaming my head off. It was a big moment for Dusty, an even bigger moment for me. Hey, I was his biggest fan.

Dusty never gave up. It did not matter how badly the odds were stacked against him, or how many times he was beat down. He always got back up. Always.

Dusty Rhodes had become the central father figure in my life, and he was the best example I could have to look up to at that time.

Why was there a need to have Dusty as a second dad? Because six days before my fifth birthday, my father was killed by a drunk driver.

I spent the rest of my youth growing up without him, and I suppose I projected some of that love to a man I had never met, and who would never even know.

My dad was a regular guy, a blue-collar man who worked hard, loved his family and didn’t deserve what happened to him. He was more like Dusty than I ever realized until much later in life.

Now I watch the sport of professional wrestling with my son. To be honest, I watch, he sits in the floor and plays. He’s only two right now, but one day he will be old enough to understand what he’s seeing.

And when he is, his old man will tell him about the days when he and his grandfather, who he unfortunately will never meet, watched together also.

On this Father’s Day, to any fan who has those great memories with a dad who is no longer here, this one’s for you. And to those fans who still have their fathers, give them a call today.

Invite them over to watch some wrestling on TV this week. Even better, go to a show live. Make some memories, and one day, pass them on. I know I will.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Wesley says hey.