It was an ugly scene, with that cigarette. If Robert hadn’t been in agony before, he certainly was now. The woman had stubbed it out on his back—no, not stubbed it; ruthlessly ground it in—while Robert lay prone on the floor. Of course, he deserved it. He was the bad guy, she was incensed by Robert’s treatment of her hero; and when the hero had finally got the upper-hand and had thrown Robert from the ring into the crowd she had exacted revenge.
Those were the days when you could smoke in the Auckland Town Hall while watching the wrestling (or just about anything else). It was also the days when Robert Bruce reigned supreme as the predominant bad guy of Steve Rickard’s professional touring troupe. Robert was the man wrestling fans loved to hate. He was also one of the nicest guys I ever met.
I never met him back then, but I did later when Robert started his Ugly talent agency for “real” people and I was looking for such people for television commercials I was producing. The first time I met him, in his dusty photo-laden office in K Road, I was in awe of him, slightly frightened and respectful. But I liked him. I wasn’t alone. Everybody liked him. Unusually for his businesses—both as a wrestler and as a talent agent—everybody trusted him. He was honest.
Robert died this week at the age of 65. I am told about 100 or so friends turned up at his funeral. And about as many cats and dogs (Robert was vice-patron of the SPCA). I wasn’t there; Robert and I lost touch years ago but he was here in my thoughts for much of this week. The big man had taken his final fall. And this time there would be nobody stubbing out cigarettes, just genuine warmth for a hard man with a soft side.
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