For roughly five decades, if you were a wrestling fan you understood there was a reasonable chance Terry Funk was going to show up at some point. There was no set home for the legacy wrestler who spent his life between ages 21 and 74 inside (and often brawling outside) the squared circle.
In Japan he was a feared gaijin. In America’s regional promotions he was the foil to bigger names like Jerry “the King” Lawler and Ric Flair. And mid-1990s, liftoff-of-hardcore Paul Heyman’s ECW? There he was in striped tights, giving and receiving chair shots and trading on the fact this big, bruising Texan could look invincable one minute and vulnerable the next.
Hell, he even got to brawl with Patrick Swayze in Road House. Road House.
Funk, who passed away Wednesday, took every path his art allowed over the course of his 79 years. And if you take exception to me calling pro wrestling an art, here’s a clip of Funk threatening a horse that will either change your mind or ensure that you are, in fact, cold and empty inside.
Funk was 100 percent the man shown in the clip above. A fearless Texan perpetually willing to stretch his body beyond its physical limits for the sake of the show. The son of Dory Funk, a legendary wrestler in his own right, Funk began his career as a bruising brawler in a cowboy hat. In the decades that followed, he became a mat technician, a high flyer (sort of), a hardcore legend, a tuxedo-clad interviewer, chainsaw-wielding maniac and Screen Actors Guild member.
In that stretch he painted himself as one of the toughest S.O.B.s in a business filled with them. He constantly wrestled through injury in the name of a good show. He left multiple matches for medical attention only to return, taped up and ready to brawl once more. His promos bordered on, and occasionally ventured into, lunacy. Even so, you never once doubted that Funk didn’t fully believe every damn thing he was saying through gritted teeth.
Looks inside Funk’s actual life were few and far between. Barry Blaustein’s 1999 documentary Beyond the Mat suggested the veteran wrestler was more or less exactly who he portrayed in the ring. He was a 55-year-old man with knees so shot doctors couldn’t figure out how he was able to walk without howling in pain. He wrestled for more than a decade after that diagnosis, busting out a signature moonsault that looked equal parts ugly and devastating.
Funk’s appeal was widespread. He appeared on Monday Night Raw and Monday Nitro. He wrestled in All Japan Pro Wrestling and the NWA. He worked for Ring of Honor, Pro Wrestling Guerrilla and Juggalo Championship Wrestling. He retired and unretired with a regularity that Brett Favre would find excessive. The siren call of the ring lured him back, and the fans always wanted more.
No matter where he landed, he constantly popped crowds. He was a sigil for hardcore enthusiasts and casuals alike, a spectacle running head first toward an never-ending explosion all the while understanding only pain lay ahead. That he got to 79 years at all suggests there are supernatural forces at play in this world, and they like wrestling.
Rest in peace, Terry Funk. Pro wrestling is better because you were a part of it.
