Sweet Chin Music
Sweet chin music.
Translated literally, it meant "the sweet music that rings from the chin" — John Michaels' finisher back in his active days.
It wore a grandiose name, but in truth it was nothing more than a simple side kick aimed at the jaw. In other words, a superkick.
But Michaels added showmanship before and after the move, turning it into something uniquely his own. Layer on top of that his stature as a performer, and the lore was that Michaels' kick carried devastating, match-ending power — so much so that even the hottest rising star on the show could be knocked senseless by a single sneak attack.
Michaels, who had glared down at me as I lay flattened on the mat, soon climbed back out of the ring.
The crowd that had cheered his return saw what Greg did next and immediately showered him with boos instead. He raised the fallen referee to his feet and went straight for the cover on me.
[Booooooooooooooooo!!]
One...!
As the count rolled on amid the jeers, Greg spoke to me.
"Take this reaction with you."
Two...!
Right now, the belt was being stolen from me — but this was, if anything, the true starting point of our feud.
One of the biggest sporting events on the planet. Wrestle Imperium.
That was where I would reclaim my title — and retire Greg Hart for good.
Three...!
clang, clang, clang!
[Boooooooooooooooo!!]
When Greg's victory was made official, the crowd let loose a monster wave of boos.
A trucker — a man who hauled freight clear across the American continent for a living. Most of them spent the better part of the year living on the road, and come nightfall, they'd typically gravitate toward the nearest truck stop.
This man was no different. Oliver Thompson, thirty-five years old this year — he'd followed his father into trucking and was now a seasoned veteran of the trade.
He was leading his burly frame into the convenience store when he noticed something distinctly off about the atmosphere.
"Aw, damn it! What the hell is that?!"
"Screw you, Greg!!"
A cluster of men was venting their fury in front of the TV. He trotted over, eyes wide with curiosity.
"What happened?!"
"Greg won...! That goddamn old Canadian bastard!"
"Damn it! Sin LOST?!"
"Worse than that — Michaels ran in out of nowhere!"
"Michaels...?"
Oliver's eyes went saucer-wide as he squinted at the small TV screen. A retired legend he'd only learned about through a radio show not long ago. So that story had been true.
"Ohhh! Unbelievable! A result nobody saw coming!"
"MICHAELS! JOHN MICHAELS! He's back — and he's back as the rock-solid ally of his worst enemy, Greg Hart!"
"What on earth could have changed between those two men?!"
"There was that video of the two of them reconciling at Stanford Wrestling, remember."
"What?"
Oliver asked, startled.
"It was all over the news. Apparently WWF bought up the rights to the footage after that."
"So what's actually going on here?"
"Far as I can tell, Greg's now pulling Michaels in to cement his position inside the company."
That was a strange thing to say.
Company, position — none of that had anything to do with the script right now. But this feud had blown far past that kind of dimension long ago. So for a brief moment, Oliver simply couldn't make sense of it.
He was a casual fan, after all — someone who'd only started watching pro wrestling after getting interested in Sin recently.
"Uh, what do you mean, exactly, Greg is 'cementing his position'?"
At that, the truckers turned, momentarily puzzled — and all of them fell silent.
What they were watching had transcended a simple script, which meant certain parts were hard to explain. It was doubly difficult for a fan like Oliver, who'd only just started enjoying pro wrestling.
Right then, one man stepped forward.
"Let me handle that explanation."
With those words, a middle-aged white man pushed his way to the front. Nick Koss, forty-eight years old. Twenty-five years behind the wheel. Thirty-eight years watching pro wrestling.
He kindly walked Oliver — brand-new to the sport — through the current situation. Greg acquiring the belt through cowardly means was, in a sense, a metaphor for reality itself.
"The reaction's gone sour, so it looks like he's dragging his history with Michaels into it, trying to scrape together whatever cheers he can."
In his eyes, Greg was no longer the legend who commanded people's respect — just an ugly old man who'd missed his moment.
Mona Philson, twenty-seven, a café waitress who'd been watching the whole scene unfold, would later recall that moment like this: there was something genuinely surreal about a bunch of truckers averaging over a hundred kilos apiece getting completely swept up in pro wrestling and holding impassioned debates about it.
The reaction at Burning Kong the very next night was, truly, abysmal.
In the opening video, WWF first aired the reconciliation segment between Greg and John — cleverly edited to look like it had happened anywhere but Stanford Wrestling.
[I will beat Sin. And for that, I need your help.]
Then the screen cut to Michaels delivering Sweet Chin Music straight into my face.
[Greg Hart has had his victory stolen! A hero falls from grace!]
Greg covering me. The three-count bells.
The screen flipped with dramatic flair to reveal Greg hoisting the belt overhead.
[Greg Hart is a hero no longer! He has turned his back on the morning star and become the fallen Lucifer himself!]
On the show, Greg Hart was unmistakably being framed as a villain.
But the real problem was what came next.
[Booooooooooooooooo!!]
When the opening video ended, Greg walked out to the ring, held up the Intercontinental title, and started talking.
[I'm still standing, and that's a fact!!]
[Boooooooooooooooooo!!!]
A deafening wall of boos. The price of stealing the title from me was nothing short of brutal.
People no longer loved Greg. They genuinely despised the man who had won through cowardice and still had the gall to strut around like he was proud of it.
But Greg paid it no mind whatsoever and kept right on talking.
[Allow me to introduce someone! The rival of my past — and the friend of my present! The Heart Break Boy! John Michaels!]
Even at the sight of John Michaels returning to WWF after all these years, the crowd offered no welcome whatsoever.
Michaels — jeans, a button-down shirt, a cowboy hat pulled low — climbed onto the ring without a shred of intimidation. The two men shook hands and immediately started grinning and chatting away.
[Good to have you back, friend.]
[You haven't changed a bit, Greg. And that belt suits you something fierce.]
[This is only the beginning. I've still got plenty of active years left in me.]
The boos came pouring down.
[Please retire! Please retire! Please retire! Please retire!]
The worst chant in the business, over and over.
[Same Old Sh-t! Same Old Sh-t! Same Old Sh-t! Same Old Sh-t! Same Old Sh-t!]
A chant calling them stale, washed-up relics.
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!]
And finally, they were chanting my name.
But the two of them ignored all of it and kept talking.
[I'm telling you — I can still fight for every last one of you!]
[Boooooooooooooooo!!]
Delivering a scheduled promo under those conditions took nerves of absolute steel. To stand there and declare you'd keep fighting as the voice of the people while every single one of them hated your guts?
The negative reaction hit its peak, and the crowd tore into Greg with abandon.
But all of it — every bit of it — was exactly the reaction we had anticipated.
A face getting booed and a heel getting cheered — that's what we call an inverted reaction. And when it's deliberate, the immersion in the storyline only deepens.
We had decided not to deny the rumors that Greg was re-signing with the company, and to fold them straight into the script instead.
People believed the reason Greg had summoned John Michaels was to relive the glory of their past. And so Greg and John absorbed a torrent of boos, while I — standing against them — drew a torrent of cheers.
This was the greatest possible gift Greg could give me before his retirement.
Greg refused to engage the crowd at all and simply plowed through his lines. Watching him do it, one of the creative staff spoke with a trembling voice.
"The boundary just... collapsed."
"Because if the people's reaction doesn't go the way we want, it means we made a mistake."
I smiled bitterly.
"And if it does, then we have no choice but to use it, don't we?"
"I've learned something today."
"Don't mention it."
Though the credit wasn't entirely mine.
In truth, the idea itself had been Greg's from the start. He had projected his own ugly, stubborn self into the script — because only then, when I finally beat him, would the crowd send up an even bigger roar.
And the thinking worked to perfection; before long, the crowd's hatred of Greg hit a fever pitch.
We were watching the whole thing with bated breath from Gorilla Position when the head of the sound team caught the timing and shouted.
"Sin! Music's up!"
[Boooooooooooooo!!]
[And what we're going to do from here on...!]
It was the very moment Greg was stubbornly plowing through his lines under a mountain of boos.
Then my music hit, slicing through the arena's atmosphere like a blade.
[Yeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaahhhh!!]
The people rose from their seats.
I threw back the curtain and strode out. Passing through one pocket of darkness, the arena came into view — twenty thousand fans on their feet, cheering for me.
But my eyes went to the ring, where Greg and John were standing.
The moment I raised the mic to my lips, the music cut dead.
"Beautiful day, isn't it? Two old-timers huddled together reminiscing about the past, having themselves a grand old time."
[Yeeeeaaahhhh!!]
"Oh, I'm fine with it. I respect you both, I do. But I just can't stand the sound of dentures clacking!"
The crowd exploded with laughter.
Greg's face went red for a moment before he finally found his voice again.
"If you're bitter about having your belt snatched, why don't you come up here and prove it!"
"Oh, I know that feeling. Feels like you stole my woman. And what really burns me is watching you handle her however you please."
"Me? Handling her however I please?"
"A gorgeous woman I was having a great time with is now wrapped up in the arms of an old fossil — of course it makes my blood boil! Everyone here feels the same way, don't they?!"
[Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!]
"Greg Hart! I won't even call what you did cowardly! Because this isn't a ring where rules exist!"
I shouted with everything I had.
"If the ref doesn't see it, then it never happened! Using that is nothing less than a wrestler's right!"
"So what's your point—!"
"So let's run it back! Tonight! Right here! In Baltimore!"
The crowd's roar was enough to tear a hole clean through the ceiling. I kept going.
"Now that I know the Michaels card is sitting in your hand, there's no way in hell I lose to the likes of you again!"
And that was the point of it all.
Anyone in the industry would have recognized just how clever our booking was right there.
"Not tonight."
Greg backed down.
[Boooooooooooooooo!!]
"And you don't have the credentials! How about giving the other boys out there a chance for once!"
Greg was different now. He refused to accept the fight, hiding behind a string of pathetic excuses, trying to slip away.
And that — that was what set him apart from every version of Greg we'd seen so far.
He had turned heel completely, without the audience even noticing. And the cheers poured down on me for standing against him.
It was the kind of thing that showed exactly why Greg Hart was a legend.
Amid the boos, he tossed one final line my way.
"Then prove it! Prove you've earned the right to challenge me again!"
And there, I broke into a smile for all the world to see.
[SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN! SIN!]
The crowd chanted my name, drunk on anticipation.