"Dick Murdoch would be rolling in his grave."-CM Punk in a 2005 shoot interview.
Dick Murdoch: now that’s a name. A name that brings to mind the best part of the A-Team with a throbbing addition of virility. A name that conjures up a mountain of expectations and immediately crashes them down as soon as you see the man. Even with a sudden onset of Alzheimer’s, there are three names I’ll never forget: David Duchovny, Kurt Russell and Dick Fucking Murdoch.
1995 was a good year, but not because of Dick Murdoch. It was a good year because I was too busy rollerblading in short shorts and listening to the Backstreet Boys on a second-hand cassette player to notice the world around me. 2010 was actually the year of Dick Murdoch, for me at least. Something was sparked in me that night as I stared at this half naked man through a drunken stupor that could only arise from weighing half as much as anyone else my age compounded by sucking down shot after shot of beer for a game that I barely understood at this point. Everyone remembers their first Rumble.
What Dick Murdoch sparked in me that night was a memory. A memory of my childhood. While this sounds trivial, I’m pretty sure I have a short and long term memory problem. Every morning, I will assuredly not remember neither the name of the hot blonde roommate of whichever improv friend that I was creeping on the night before, nor the events of the last twenty years of my life with the exception of recognizing my name for the first time, my first blowjob and 9/11 (Not in that order). Dick Murdoch sparked the realization that the guy running away from the other wrestlers in the ring was one pair of rollerblades away from myself at the age of six. That big Dick was not only my past, but probably my future as well. I’m already realizing the merits of form over fashion. What starts with a pair of jorts every once in a while will soon evolve into dollar shorts from Goodwill that hardly cover my thighs. I know this because I’ve already seen it. Dick Murdoch showed me in the 1995 Rumble.
More importantly, though, my first encounter with Dick Murdoch inspired a feeling of love. I can openly admit to loving Dick Murdoch because I am Dick Murdoch and there’s nobody I love more than myself. A man of Dick Murdoch’s stature can only survive by a careful balance of self loathing and narcissism. There’s a look to a man who has achieved this balance and it’s easily recognizable for someone who strives to one day reach it. The road is paved in bricks of self-medication, an utter disregard for the opinions of others and a hefty diet with little to no exercise. From the looks of it, Dick Murdoch’s done all of the above and more.
When I look at his withered body, I am constantly disgusted by myself and the world around me. Had Dick Murdoch seen himself as he was the night of the 1995 Rumble, I doubt he would have taken a career in wrestling. In fact, I know this. He would have taken a career in regenerative aging and biochemistry. He would have ruled this world as corporations crumbled under the stress of having their clients live hundreds, maybe even thousands, of years without looking a day over twenty five. Dick Murdoch could have ruled this world. It’s only by the kindness of some higher power that he was not granted this foresight. Unfortunately, Dick Murdoch was my foresight. So, if you remember one thing from my alcohol driven awakening, it’s this: Nothing opens your eyes like being shown a little Dick.