I’ll Never Forget The Night The Iron Sheik, High On ‘Shrooms, Caused A Parking Lot Riot At A Wrestling Show

Wrestling legend the Iron Sheik is currently enjoying a second career as a walking meme whose profane, drug-fueled tirades have become the stuff of Internet legend.

But before he became a human sound bite, there was a period where independent wrestling promotions would book the Iron Sheik expecting some semblance of the foreign badass he once was. The night I met him, however, was the tail end of his badass phase and the inception of his viral stardom. It was like the birth of Beatlemania – if Paul McCartney was a toothless Iranian.

For those who need a refresher, the Iron Sheik was the guy who Hulk Hogan beat for his first WWF Championship, kicking off the ‘80s wrestling boom.  Beyond that, Sheik was an Olympic-level amateur wrestler with an insane training regimen that gave him a gut that looked like abs so he commanded a certain level of respect – especially from a rookie like me who only knew him in action figure form.

I was scheduled to have an altercation with Sheik.  After my scheduled match, the Iron Sheik would emerge from the backstage area, we’d exchange a few words and he’d put me in his adorably racist submission, the Camel Clutch.  I was ecstatic and nervous to work with a legend. The Iron Sheik was in my personal Field Of Dreams. He was Shoeless Joe Jackson – if Shoeless Joe Jackson was a toothless Iranian.

I showed up two hours before show time and there was no Sheik in sight.  The promoter told me not to worry, the Sheik was on his way, and then he regaled me with how many cases of beer Sheik drank the previous night.  “No big deal,” I thought, “everyone knows wrestlers from the 80s pump blood that’s 40% alcohol at all times. I’m sure Sheik knows his schtick like the back of his (swollen) hand.”

It’s was an hour before my match, I have my gear on, my opponent and I are putting together my match and – of course – no Sheik.  The promoter assured me that Sheik was on his way and then mentioned how many drugs he had to buy to keep Sheik content.  Armed with an innocent mentality of a wrestling rookie, I thought to myself “of course he’s gonna need a few drugs to counteract the alcohol, he wants to be focused for the show.”

Ten minutes before my match and you know what I’m about to say — no where in the building.  Just when I think all is lost, a ’98 Ford Windstar pulls up to the backstage door with the man of the hour in the passenger seat – mustache waxed, ready for business.  “Perfect,” I thought, “what a pro!  He’s done this routine a thousand times before, I’m sure he can do it with his (bloodshot) eyes closed.”  But there’s a slight hiccup – the Iron Sheik won’t get out of the van until “Sheiky gets his medicine!”

At this point I’d like to dispense a little advice; when an Ayatollah-praising, club-swinging maniac, who is 20 years past his prime and waddles like a walrus, asks for his “medicine”, it might be wise to avoid his coded plea for drugs and give him some actual medicine – a vitamin C, some Echinacea, maybe a little Vick’s Vapor Rub – anything thing other than what he’s actually asking for.

To keep the Iron Sheik happy, he was provided with enough mushrooms to turn him into Super Mario.  When he arrived, the Iron Sheik couldn’t get out of the car. In just a matter of minutes, the Sheik couldn’t get out of his own psyche. He was off the wall.

I made my ring entrance completely dejected. The promoter told me to get in the ring, get on the mic, and tell the fans that they guy they paid to see — the legendary Iron Sheik — wouldn’t be showing up.  My match went on as scheduled, minus the parts where I was supposed to mock the guy now tripping balls in the parking lot.  During the match, I noticed that fans were leaving their seats and running out the door. I know my matches aren’t always the most entertaining but I couldn’t be that bad. I finished the match, anticlimactically, and headed backstage…to find no one there.

I peeked out the back door to find all the wrestlers and the entire audience rioting around the Iron Sheik who was sitting alone in his van. The torch-wielding mob had found their Frankenstein and they weren’t leaving without a show. They were taunting Sheikenstein like an animal in a cage and he responded by spitting at them, banging his beer bottle against the window and launching into a diatribe against every minority imaginable. The legend was certainly giving the fans more than their money’s worth.

I’m a wrestler first and writer second so perhaps I’m not painting the best picture. Luckily there’s video of the evening:

The Iron Sheik Starts A Riot By Never Leaving His Car

The promoter, sick of babysitting the world’s highest toddler, decided to call the cops and give Sheiky Baby a taste of his own medicine (that analogy doesn’t really work in this context).  The cops show up, clear the crowd, recognize the Iron Sheik, take pictures with him, ask for his autograph and drive him back to the hotel. When you’re famous in the ‘80s, you’re famous for life.

This entire episode may seem like a depressing tale of faded celebrity and substance abuse, but the next week he was on Howard Stern. I prefer to think of the Iron Sheik as a savvy, multi-media mogul – if Rupert Murdoch was a toothless Iranian.

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