I was seven and a half years old when the Rock ’n’ Roll Express came crashing into my world like a double dropkick to the soul. It was 1985, and I was already knee-deep in Mid-Atlantic wrestling…watching every Saturday, buying every wrestling magazines I could find, and “doing interviews” in the bathroom mirror with a hairbrush for a microphone. My heroes were the good guys: Dusty Rhodes with his bionic elbow, Ronnie Garvin and his hands of stone, Jimmy Valiant dancing around the ring, Manny Fernandez and his flying burrito, and Magnum T.A. with that mustache that meant business. But when Ricky Morton and Robert Gibson showed up, everything changed.
They weren’t just wrestlers, they were rock stars. And they were instant superstars.
I remember the first time I saw them on TV. They had energy. They had swagger. And their theme music of “Rock and Roll is King” that made you want to jump off the couch and start dancing around the living room. They were fast, they were fearless, and they flew around the ring like they were made of rubber and adrenaline.
And the crowd? The crowd lost its mind every damn time their music played and they came to the ring.
Girls screamed like it was a Beatles concert. Dads nodded in approval. Kids like me bounced in place, fists clenched, ready to defend Ricky and Robert against any bad guy who dared step in their way. They were instant favorites, not just in my house, but across the entire Mid-Atlantic territory. From Richmond to Raleigh, Charleston to Charlotte, the Rock ’n’ Roll Express weren’t just over, they were everywhere, and they were the kings of the Carolinas.
On their first night in the territory, they defeated the evil Russians to win the World Tag Team titles. They’d go on to battle the Andersons and the Four Horsemen. They battled Paul Jones’ army team of The Barbarian and Tehjo Khan. But it was their feud with the Midnight Express that lit the territory on fire. Mama’s boy Jim Cornette, with his tennis racket and big mouth, was the perfect villain. Every time Ricky Morton got isolated, beaten down, crawling toward the corner for the hot tag, we were right there with him…yelling at the screen, begging him to reach Robert. And when he finally did? The roof blew off the building.
They weren’t the biggest guys. They didn’t have the flashiest moves. But they had heart. And in the Mid-Atlantic area, heart mattered. They won the NWA World Tag Team Titles four times in Jim Crockett Promotions, and every time they did, it felt like a victory for all of us. Like the good guys really could win. Like friendship and loyalty and rock ’n’ roll could beat the odds.
I saw them live once, at a show in Johnson City, TN. My dad and uncle took me and my cousin Tim, and we sat in the bleachers wearing our Rock & Roll Express bandanas. When the Rock ’n’ Roll Express came out, the place shook. Ricky slapped hands all the way to the ring. Robert pointed at the crowd like we were part of the team. I screamed so loud I lost my voice for two days. It was worth it.
They were more than just wrestlers. They were symbols of a time when wrestling felt raw and real. When tag teams mattered. When the Mid-Atlantic territory was the center of the wrestling universe. And for a seven-year-old kid with a dream and a pile of bandanas, they were everything. Tim and I performed many double dropkicks on the scarecrow in the field behind my house. We wanted to be the Rock & Roll Express.
Even now, when I hear their name or see an old clip online, I’m right back there, in front of the TV, cheering for the hot tag, believing in the power of rock ’n’ roll and dropkicks.
Because once you were a fan of the Rock ’n’ Roll Express, you were a fan for life. And I’m still a fan.
Be the first to comment