While there were more expensive items on my Christmas wish list in December 1984, the one gift I anticipated most was THE CROWNING OF A KING, a picture book of sorts focusing on the life of my lone hometown sports hero, Jerry Lawler. Released in the days of kayfabe, Lawler’s first book detailed his many victories and heartbreaking setbacks as if longtime announcer Lance Russell (or former WRESTLING NEWS scribe Jim Cornette) were writing the accounts.

Case in point: When Lawler’s bid for the NWA World championship against Harley Race abruptly ended when “Handsome” Jimmy Valiant interfered and crowned the King with a Coke bottle during a title bout in the late ’70s, the mark-friendly book described the aftermath something like this: “Lawler spent the next few days in the hospital wondering if he’d ever see out of his right eye again.” I think author Jim Barrom—a buddy of Lawler’s since high school—wrote something very similar to describe the “injury” Terry Funk suffered in the infamous empty-arena bout at the Mid-South Coliseum in Memphis. You get the idea.

Of course, though, it was a huge thrill when Lawler autographed my copy of this published tripe at the Mall of Memphis (aptly nicknamed by the locals as “the Mall of Murder,” given the nature of the area): “To my pal, Scott. Best wishes.” I was certain that he’d written “pal” because I had brought along one my Apter-mag-published accounts (INSIDE WRESTLING) of one of his matches. Then I noticed that he wrote the same damn thing in my friend Mike DeGeorge’s book. (Actually, that’s the real reason I kicked Lawler in the head with my Doc Marten boot on that fateful Memphis night in 1994. But I digress.)

While Lawler’s latest literary effort—IT’S GOOD TO BE THE KING….SOMETIMES—offers a more honest look at his fascinating career, the end result is much like I expected when I first heard about the project: a somewhat-scattered, often-vague recollection that is more entertaining than informative. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing in a sense, given that he has to please not only the loyal marks who knew him when he was a mere prince—the heir apparent to Jackie Fargo’s Memphis rasslin’ throne—but also today’s short-attention-span WWE marks.

That said, the book reminds me of my first road trip with the King, a seven-hour trip to Louisville in a snowstorm that I volunteered to make just so I could pick his brain about the business. Instead, during most of that ride in January 1996, Lawler read from a book of cheesy pick-up lines that featured such gems as: “If I could do the alphabet over, I’d put U and I together.” And he wonders why he had difficulty meeting a woman after his wife, Stacy Carter, well…fuck’Dupp and left him. If Lawler had only known that Carter had, uh, allegedly been sneaking around for months with WWE developmental wrestler Mike Howell (Jack Dupp). Hmmm…or did Lawler know about the (alleged) affair all along? Yeah, well, maybe, but that’s not in the book, thank Gotch. Carter, who owes just about everything she has in life to Lawler, eventually sunk so low as to run off with her job-boy toy to a Florida condo that her husband paid for, and then promptly changed the locks. Want to know more? Probably not. But it’s in the book anyway.

Yes, like a bad wrestling angle playing out, Carter left Lawler once he walked away from the WWE spotlight after Vince McMahon fired her. Despite the fact that it was probably the King’s first legit act of chivalry in decades, Carter apparently didn’t see the glamour in working in front of 300 fans on independent shows in New Jersey. When I first heard about McMahon putting the Kat character to sleep, I assumed that it was because of Carter’s bad attitude. So, I wasn’t surprised when the official reason surfaced later in the next day or so: her attitude. (Her lack of talent was probably a factor as well.)

Instead of faulting her, from the book you get the idea that Lawler to this day is pissed that Vince fired her unjustly. Lawler, however, does shoulder some of the blame himself; he once told me that father-figure Jackie Fargo warned him against ever getting her into the business to begin with. Cue sitcom music or even the theme from 2001: FARGO KNOWS BEST. Truth be known, that would’ve been one hell of a program back in the day, with Fargo playing wrestling’s answer to Jackie Gleason’s Ralph Cramden character from THE HONEYMOONERS. Hard to say who would’ve played the equivalent of his sidekick, Norton, though announcer Russell (or perhaps former area-ref Jerry Calhoun or stooge-eternal Mr. Guy Coffee) would not have been a bad choice. Lawler’s respect for Fargo has always been evident, often referring to him off-camera as “Pop.” As much I know about Lawler, I’ve never fully grasped how influential Fargo was on his life until I read the book. With the possible exception of the somewhat touching chapter concerning the death of former manager Sam Bass, the Fargo stories are the best reads.

Lawler’s longtime fans will be disappointed that the most thorough chapters in the book don’t concern longtime business partner Jerry Jarrett or his relationship/memorable feud with Jimmy Hart—or even guys like Eddie Gilbert and Dutch Mantel, both of whom barely receive mention. Instead we get plenty about Carter’s departure and Lawler’s subsequent ill-fated (a given since con-man Larry Burton was involved) search for her replacement. But again, it’s a WWE book release, so I’m sure plenty of Memphis stuff was cut. On the bright side, former USWA booker Randy Hales is barely mentioned, so….

Admittedly, part of my dislike for the Carter portion of the new book is that I never hit it off with the former Mrs. Lawler—uh, Stacy, that is. She complained about everything, and I can’t recall her saying anything remotely funny or charming. But she laughed at Lawler’s jokes and fawned over him like he was the quarterback of the football team, and that was probably enough for him. In the past, I’ve compared driving somewhere with Lawler to hanging out with a friend in high school: incessant talking about girls, music, comics, football and horror films. The basis for their relationship may have been that Lawler had the popularity in wrestling that was never his in high school, and Carter certainly looked the part of the head (ahem) cheerleader. Besides, she’s got a great ass.

Noticeably absent (at least to me) in Lawler’s stories of life on the road: Once, back when I was managing the King, I was traveling with Lawler, Carter and Tony Williams to Louisville. After we had eaten our fish n’ chips from Captain D’s, Carter neatly tied up the boat-shaped containers in a plastic bag and promptly tossed them from the windows of Lawler’s Cadillac as we flew down the freeway. Judging from my companions’ laughter-filled reactions to my objections, this was common practice. Classy.

Lawler’s two other ex-wives, Kay and Paula, were always really nice to me. In fact, my mother, Carole, became friends with Paula years later, post-Lawler, through church. One day my mom noticed Paula and Lawler having lunch in a Chinese restaurant and approached the already-divorced couple. Thankfully, Lawler spoke very highly of me in front of my mom, or it would have killed her (or more likely, she would’ve killed him). Lawler relates a similar story in the book regarding a recent meeting between his mother and Hulk Hogan.

One day, during my initial referee stint, Paula asked me: “Scott, what are you doing mixed up in this stuff? You’re too smart for this.” Given that I was only making $40 payoffs, sometimes for eight-hour road trips, I had no answer for her —- and still don’t to this day. Ah, hell, who I am kidding. I loved it. Bless her heart -— and Bellevue Baptist pastor Adrian Rodgers undoubtedly did -— Paula was so innocent. I remember waiting in line to see PULP FICTION on its opening night in Memphis. Paula saw me as she exited the theater, said, “Oh, Scott, whatever you do, don’t go see that movie. I wanted to see it because I used to love John Travolta, but it’s awful. Violent. Filthy language. And the plot kept jumping around so much that I couldn’t follow it.” After she walked away, I nudged my girlfriend and said, “Oh, my God…we’re going to love it.”

And poor Kay, Lawler’s first wife, the mother of Brian (Christopher) and Kevin (Christian). With the King long gone in the early ’90s, she put up with many an NWA (Neighborhood Wrestling Alliance) bout in the living room of her modest Memphis home involving the likes of her sons and guys like “Radical” Robbie Thomas, “Mr. Sunshine” Jeremy Williams, future USWA/WWF jobber Tony Williams and me. Kay’s always been as sweet as could be to me, but little did I realize what a nice-looking teenager she was when she met Lawler while still in high school. Judging from her picture in Lawler’s book, she looked a lot like Marsha Brady back in the late ’60s. Groovy.

Here’s what Kay said when I interviewed her in 1993 as a junior at The University of Memphis (the former Memphis State—the same college Lawler, and later, son Brian, briefly attended) for the magazine article that would indirectly start my wrestling career: “I never thought Brian would get into wrestling. His becoming a wrestler is his way of getting his dad’s attention. ‘Hey, dad, see how well I’m doing? I exist.’”

To an extent, Lawler acknowledges this dysfunctional-family aspect in the book, writing that he looks at Brian as just another one of the boys in the business. Honest? Sure. But it’s a little sad, really. Though Jerry and Brian would never admit that. A quote from Brian in that same article I wrote nearly 10 years ago: “Not having a father around might’ve bothered some kids, but not me.” Still, Kay’s theory holds up. By the time he was a junior in high school, Brian was wrestling in backyards with his brother. His senior year, he was working with Williams on outlaw shows in Memphis gymnasiums. When Jerry got wind of it, he was pissed. But after seeing a tape of a bout involving Brian and Williams, a sound exhibition that brought down the house, Jerry realized the promise the two had. He gave them a bunch of old tights and masks and dubbed them The Twilight Zone; two weeks later, they were job boys on Memphis TV.

They’re interesting, these Lawler boys. When reading IT’S GOOD TO BE THE KING…SOMETIMES, I was reminded of a theory I’d first considered when writing that article (a journalism-class assignment) back in ’93. In my opinion, Lawler considers Brian to be the cool kid he always wanted to be: the then-teenaged, high-school personification of the King of Memphis Wrestling. Indeed, Brian was the most popular kid at Craigmont High School, doing everything from starring on the football team to writing the best poetry in his English class. (Growing a mustache, apparently, was also a prerequisite for being the King of Craigmont.)

Meanwhile, Kevin, an admitted daydreamer/loner growing up, represents the apparent social outcast that Lawler was at Treadwell High School. Like his father, Kevin is a tremendous artist, specializing in comic-book-style drawings. And like Jerry, Kevin also has never taken a drink of alcohol, smoked a cigarette or consumed any recreational drugs, a definite hindrance in meeting girls in Memphis. And Brian? Well, let’s just say that he has “a friend in Staten Island” who perhaps corrupted him a bit along the way and leave it at that.

In many ways, it’s hard to believe that Jerry isn’t closer to Kevin. That could be because Kevin won’t talk about anything but wrestling, and Jerry really has no interest in discussing it much. Brian shares a love of NFL football with his father, with Jerry being a mark for the Cleveland Browns, while his son marks out for the Pittsburgh Steelers. (I can only imagine the ribbing that took place back and forth between the two via cell phones last weekend.) It’s ironic, really. There’s always been this disdain for the adoring rasslin’ marks who follow the Memphis boys from town to town, buy their merchandise and request photos. Meanwhile, Lawler and Brian are always dressed head to toe in NFL gear. According to the Lawler book, his greatest perk as an entertainer is meeting Browns coaches and players. The book even features pics of Lawler posing with guys like Tim Couch and Bernie Kosar (who, oddly enough, looks like a bizarro version of Vince McMahon). I’ve often wondered if NFL players look at their fans with this same contempt.

Kay once told me that she thought between her two sons, that her youngest would go further in the business because Kevin wanted it more. Similar to how a young Eddie Gilbert would do when his father, Tommy, was working Memphis (and feuding with Lawler over the NWA Southern title), Kevin would lay out elaborate imaginary cards, complete with illustrations of all the WWF-style characters involved. But despite Kevin’s best efforts—working as a jobber in a padded bodysuit as the Masked Yellowjacket and working his ass off to promote Mid-South towns even Buddy Wayne wouldn’t venture into—he never made it.

Sad part is, Kevin (with my assistance, of course) could write squared circles around any writer in the WWE right now, but he’ll never get the shot. Kevin will concede that part of that is his fault. You see, he grew up with his dad’s philosophy of the wrestling business: Everything’s a con. As a result, Kevin for years viewed life in general that way: What’s the con? Where’s the angle? In wrestling, at least years back, that was accepted, even expected. The real world, and, really, the wrestling business today, doesn’t work that way. Sure, ribs (pranks) will forever be a part of the business, but back-stabbing and conning seem to be a thing of the past. (Unless, of course, your name is Triple H.) Speaking of ribs, the Lawler book thankfully gives us a glimpse of life in Tennessee dressing rooms in the ’70s, with stories involving Fargo, Tojo and Don and Al Greene that are hilarious.

Kevin’s learned a lot of lessons over the years and did so like many a young worker juicing (bleeding) for the first time—the hard way. More than Brian, Kevin was hurt most by his dad’s absence over the years. But despite having a strained relationship with his father for as long as I’ve known him (12 years and counting), Kevin to this day keeps a framed publicity photo of Jerry “the King” Lawler in his bedroom. Really, I’m not even sure if Kevin loves him. But goddamn, he sure as hell likes him so much. Whenever he tells me that he spoke to his dad, he immediately starts giggling. Perhaps that’s all they need. I do know that it bothered Kevin a bit to be described in the book as a guy who’s had jobs like “pizza delivering.” Actually, Brian and Kevin both delivered pizza for years. It was quite a sight to see Brian delivering Godfather Pizzas in his dad’s old Lincoln Continental. Brian went on to WWE stardom before his drug-related firing a couple of years ago. Kevin nowadays operates Jerry Lawler’s Carpet Cleaning Service, a profitable venture that kicks back a small portion of the profits to the King in exchange for the name.

I do realize that when writing the book that Lawler couldn’t—and probably shouldn’t have—focused too much on family. I empathize to an extent. When I first started writing this column, many a 15-year-old mark would plead with me to stick to today’s WWE product instead of talking about my experiences as a manager in arguably the most fascinating territory in the history of the business. Sorry, but I’d rather please 30- and 40-something Funkers than little fuckers who discovered wrestling months ago through PlayStation 2. On that note, enough with these e-mails asking me things like, “What’s the Big Show’s height?” or “Is that the real Kane?” My response, of course, is always the same: “I dunno. Ask Dave Meltzer. Here’s his e-mail address.”

During that aforementioned 1996 road trip, when I was finally able to get Lawler to talk about the business—and my performances as a heel manager in particular—he told me that while he found me amusing on TV, I wasn’t conducting the right kind of heel interview. Apparently, he felt there was something missing in my would-be heel psychology…but he didn’t elaborate. Shortly after, much to my chagrin, he fell asleep for more than three hours. SIDENOTE: Reminds me of one of those classic Lawler heel interviews from 1979, during which he claimed that Bill Dundee used to always want to drive Lawler’s Cadillac to the town while the King slept in the backseat. “He’d wait till I was slumped down in the backseat, and then he’d raise the seat up as high as it could go—just to where he could finally see over the dashboard. Then he’d put on those Elvis Presley-glasses of his and try to make everybody think that was his Cadillac.”

Overall, the book details some of Lawler’s early days and eventual successes as a top heel/babyface and booker in the Memphis territory but stops short of providing true insight into what made him incredibly successful at both. Lawler admits to having a terrible memory, and mentions this almost as a disclaimer of sorts early in the book. I recall asking him about various angles from the ’70s and ’80s and being disappointed that he couldn’t recall half of them.

While Lawler has never been the baby-faced Citizen King many Memphians perceive him to be, his love for the city is not a work. Of course, for some strange reason I find myself actually concerned (he was my childhood hero, too, after all) that more than a few fans will change their perception of Lawler after reading of his embarrassing downfall with Carter and the aftermath. Still, though, he is forthright about his shortcomings as a father, husband, and really, as a human being in general. I’m hesitant to give him too much credit for that, though, because part of me thinks Lawler believes that acknowledging these failures in print somehow makes amends. In reality, there a few times that his “Aw, shucks” printed admissions come off like many a babyface promo he’s cut before on channel 5.

But then I’m reminded of something my father, Travis—who I think always resented that Lawler was my sports idol growing up—told me once as he tried to teach me a lesson about forgiving myself: “Son, how good do you have to be?”

If anything, IT’S GOOD TO BE THE KING…SOMETIMES is one of the better wrestling books out there, as the King’s stories of Andy Kaufman, Terry Funk, Elvis Presley and Lawler’s introduction into the business are tremendous. Still, though, I can’t help but think of the book he could’ve written.

Hell, maybe I should just cut Lawler some slack and be thankful of the years of entertainment—not to mention the chance to work in the business—he provided me. After all, even his (circa-1982) song WORLD’S GREATEST WRESTLER—a blatant rip-off of Handsome Jimmy’s hilarious late-’70s tune SON OF A GYPSY—only claimed that he was “a fighter and a lover and a King” and nothing more. Wouldn’t that be a fitting epitaph for Lawler: “Fighter. Lover. King.” I think he’d like that.

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