The Death Of Dory Funk Jr.: Why Wrestling’s Unsung Heroes Matter More Than You Think
Let me ask you something: Why do we obsess over wrestling’s flashy superstars while the architects of their success remain in the shadows? The passing of Dory Funk Jr. at 85—a man who trained icons like Kurt Angle and Edge—should force us to confront this uncomfortable truth. Jim Ross’s heartfelt tribute on his podcast isn’t just mourning a colleague; it’s exposing the hidden machinery behind wrestling’s glitz. Personally, I think this disconnect reveals why the industry struggles to honor its own legacy.
The Referee Who Learned From a Legend
Ross’s anecdote about his first main-event refereeing gig—a 60-minute draw between Dory and Harley Race—feels like a masterclass in wrestling’s unspoken rules. The term "Broadway" (wrestling jargon for a timed draw) meant nothing to a young JR until Dory explained it mid-match. Here’s the thing: That moment wasn’t just about terminology. It symbolized how wisdom gets passed down in this business. Dory didn’t just teach moves; he taught survival. What many people don’t realize is that these timed draws were lifelines in an era where promoters feared creating definitive losers. Dory understood that sometimes, preserving careers matters more than crowning champions.
The Forgotten Architects of Wrestling Greatness
Let’s unpack Dory’s coaching legacy. Yes, he trained Angle and Edge, but why does that matter? Because wrestling’s assembly line of talent relies on these unsung mentors. Ross points out Dory’s "coach’s mentality"—a blend of discipline and empathy. From my perspective, this explains why modern stars like Edge became storytellers, not just athletes. Dory didn’t just teach them to body slam; he taught them when to sell a punch, when to let an opponent shine, and how to leave the crowd wanting more. Compare that to today’s cookie-cutter talent factories, and you see why the Golden Era’s graduates feel irreplaceable.
The Paradox of Wrestling Immortality
Here’s a paradox: Wrestlers achieve immortality through their students, yet the industry rarely acknowledges the teachers. Dory’s clean living—no drugs, always in shape—contrasts with the burnout we see in modern stars. If you take a step back and think about it, his longevity wasn’t just physical; it was professional. He outlasted trends by investing in people. Meanwhile, today’s "superstars" often burn bright, then fade, leaving no disciples. What this really suggests is that wrestling’s future depends less on viral moments and more on cultivating mentors who can shape the next generation’s soul, not just their suplexes.
The Deeper Loss: A Bridge to Wrestling’s Soul
Ross’s uncertainty about attending the funeral due to his health adds a bittersweet layer. This raises a deeper question: When the last of these legends fade, what connects wrestling’s past to its future? The danger isn’t just losing history—it’s losing the human thread that made the business feel like a family. Dory Funk Jr. wasn’t just a trainer; he was a living archive of respect, a counterbalance to the ego-driven chaos of the industry. His death isn’t just a loss of knowledge; it’s the fraying of a lifeline between eras.
Final Reflection: Who Will Teach the Teachers?
The real takeaway? Celebrate the Dory Funk Jr.s while they’re here. Demand that wrestling promotions institutionalize mentorship, not just contracts. Otherwise, we’ll keep producing stars who dazzle but never truly matter. Personally, I’d trade 10 Royal Rumble winners for one more coach who can turn raw ambition into timeless artistry. What’s the point of building monuments if no one’s around to teach the next generation how to maintain them?
