Finding the von Erichs
by Shaun Jex
The action figure sat propped against an empty milk jug serving as a vase. Its feet just touched the edge of the headstone with the name Adkisson engraved on it in large, block letters. Below that were the names “Kerry Gene” and “Jack B. Sr.,” more commonly known as Kerry and Fritz Von Erich.
The action figure was identical to one I owned as a kid. It was Kerry Von Erich during his days with the World Wrestling Federation, now known as World Wrestling Entertainment. At that point, he was known as the “Texas Tornado,” but for most of his life he’d been called “The Modern Day Warrior.” He’d also wrestled as the second masked member of the Cosmic Cowboys, a duo that featured his brother Kevin. Curiously, I had my copy of the action figure in my pocket. I’d planned to take a picture of it standing next to the grave.
It seemed someone else had come with the same idea.
A few feet away from Kerry and Fritz’s final resting place sat the graves of Chris, David, and Michael Von Erich. An entire wrestling empire was contained in that small plot of land. The story of the Von Erich family has the air of a Biblical tragedy, like the rise and fall of King David. Kerry died of a self inflicted gunshot wound. Mike Von Erich deliberately overdosed on tranquilizers. Like Kerry, Chris Von Erich shot himself. David Von Erich’s cause of death was listed as “acute enteritis,” though rumors persist that the true cause was the consumption of narcotics. All were professional wrestlers, following in the footsteps of the family patriarch known to the world as Fritz. They were Texas legends, venerated across the Lone Star State as the first and greatest family of professional wrestling.
The heyday for the family had been the 1980s, when the Von Erich boys wrestled in the World Class Championship Wrestling league owned by their father. During that time they feuded with some of the most recognizable names in the industry: The Fabulous Freebirds, Ric Flair, and Gentleman Chris Adams to name a few. Wrestling fans would pack venues like Reunion Arena and the Sportatorium to worship at the altar of Von Erich.
The epoch began with Fritz. Born Jack Barton Adkisson in 1929, he attended Southern Methodist University where he played football. He was signed by the Dallas Texans in 1952, but was cut. A year later he made his professional wrestling debut. By the end of the year, he adopted the Fritz Von Erich persona, wrestling as a Nazi-esque heel alongside Waldo Von Erich (born Walter Paul Sieber).
Tragedy struck the Von Erich family early, with Fritz’s first born son Jack dying in 1959 at the age of six. He was accidentally electrocuted and then drown in a pool of water. Despite the loss, Fritz continued to pursue his career in wrestling, winning the AWA World Title in 1963 and the NWA Tag Team Championship in 1967. He then travelled to Japan where he feuded with wrestling luminaries like Giant Baba and Antonio Inoki.
While wrestling in Japan, Fritz developed the move known as the “Iron Claw.” It was a punishing attack that involved gripping the opponent’s face and squeezing the skull with vice like pressure. A particularly gruesome picture exists of Fritz applying the Iron Claw. His fingers seem sunk into the flesh of his opponent, puncturing it like wet dough. Blood streams down the unfortunate victim’s forehead and over Von Erich’s hand. The Iron Claw would become a family trademark. As his sons followed Fritz into wrestling they all employed it in the ring.
A treasure trove of Von Erich family matches can be found on YouTube. Curious viewers can watch Kevin Von Erich take a chair to the head of Chris Adams or relive the moment an old, grizzled Fritz Von Erich got into an argument and eventually a fist fight with the Fabulous Freebirds. There is a video of Chris Von Erich teaming with Chris Adams to battle a young Steve Austin (later known as Stone Cold Steve Austin) and Percy Pringle III (more commonly known for his Paul Bearer schtick with the Undertaker). Fans can even witness Kerry Von Erich’s legendary 1984 NWA title match against Ric Flair, a wrestling spectacular which took place in front of 45,000 fans at Texas Stadium.
That was all ancient history by the time I discovered Kerry Von Erich. It was 1991, and I was 9 years old. David and Mike were long dead (their deaths coming in 1984 and 1987 respectively). Chris shoot himself the same year I learned the Von Erich name. He died 18 days before his 22nd birthday. Only Kerry and Kevin remained. Kevin was slowly fading into the background, wrestling sporadically on the independent circuit. By 1995, he would leave the sport altogether. I wouldn’t even learn his name until years later.
The only Von Erich that mattered to me was Kerry. He was one of my idols and one of the wrestlers I tried to emulate when I held wrestling matches with my friends in the front yard. I had no idea that he had lost his foot to a motorcycle accident in 1986, or that he’d become addicted to painkillers. Of course, very few people knew about the foot. He went to extreme lengths to hide it from his fellow wrestlers and fans. The story goes that he would even shower with his boots on. It was, I suspect, an unnecessary caution. Had I known about it then, it would have only increased my admiration for him.
I had no way of knowing that he was past his prime. Contrary to some opinions I’ve read, I never viewed him as a “jobber” in the WWF. He remained electric to watch. In 1990, he defeated Mr. Perfect to claim the Intercontinental Championship. He fought in multiple Royal Rumbles and in the Survivor Series, where he teamed with Sgt. Slaughter, Tito Santana, and “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan. He fought alongside the British Bulldog and Ricky Steamboat at SummerSlam and defeated Dino Bravo at WrestleMania VII.
It’s hard to pin what it was about Kerry Von Erich that so captured my imagination. I was completely sold on wrestling. I had never heard the term “kayfabe” and if you suggested that the sport was staged, you were likely to face my scrawny wrath. The line between reality and fantasy blurred in my young mind. I felt nothing but loathing for the heels of the sport and adored the wrestlers who played face.
The fact that he was from Texas amplified my enthusiasm. I was a Texas transplant, but quickly took to my adopted state. Not only was he a Texan, but he was from Denton, a mere 20 minutes from my home. I dreamed of making my way into the ranks of wrestling immortals, and this tenuous geographical link helped me believe it might be possible.
I also loved his finishing move: the Tornado Punch. The attack, also known as a discus punch, involved spinning the body 360 degrees before slamming the fist into face of the unfortunate opponent.
A mere two years after I began my love affair with wrestling, Kerry Von Erich committed suicide. Addicted to drugs, recently divorced and facing jail time for his second arrest, he shot himself on his father’s ranch. I was crushed by his death, but I didn’t learn the scope of his family’s tragedy until years later.
Kerry’s death left Kevin Von Erich as the only surviving child of Fritz. In the ESPN mini-documentary “Wrestling The Curse,” Kevin described his devastation after his brothers’ deaths. Describing his life, he once said, “I used to have five brothers. Now, I’m not even a brother.” At one point, he decided that the only course left for him was to get thrown in prison. He wandered into a gun store in Lubbock and stuck a .22 rifle in his pants with the intention of getting arrested for theft. As he walked out of the store, the owner casually said, “Love you, Kev.” He walked outside, but the moment of kindness and support broke through the fog of depression, and he went back inside and returned the weapon.
Within a year or two of Kerry Von Erich’s death, I moved on to other dreams. I began playing city league football and was convinced that I was destined to become a Dallas Cowboy. I even told one of their coaches (Dave Campo) to save me a locker. I gradually drifted away from wrestling altogether, filing it away as in the cabinets of my memory.
It wasn’t until I was grown that I began to revisit those old memories. I could still picture myself decked out in black spandex, shirt off, wrestling in the front yard with my friends. I could feel the excitement I felt every Saturday morning when I could watch Von Erich and others battle it out on television. I remembered attending a WWF event at Reunion Arena, where I got to see wrestlers like Jake “The Snake” Roberts, Bam Bam Bigelow, The Undertaker, and the Ultimate Warrior fight. Above all, I remembered being completely caught up in the operatic sweep of the various storylines, the feelings of elation when a “good guy” won, and the despair and anger when they lost. At the swirling center of this storm of memories stood Kerry Von Erich, the Texas Tornado.
I decided it was time to pay my respects. With a little research, I found where he and the rest of his family were buried: Grove Hill Memorial Park in Dallas. I set out on a gray Saturday morning to find the spot. Grove Hill is an enormous cemetery, stretching 160 acres. Narrow streets wind their way between the various “gardens” which dot the grounds. The Von Erichs were buried in the “Hilltop” garden.
I drove until I found the area and then parked the car. Outside, the weather was unseasonably cold. A biting wind buffeted my face, turning my cheeks and nose a bright red as I wandered between the headstones. I had no idea where in the Hilltop garden they were buried, so I meandered between rows of graves, examining each headstone for the proper names.
I wasn’t quite certain what to do or say when I finally came upon the Von Erichs’ resting place. I felt a simultaneous sense of melancholy and gratitude. Reading the birth and death dates of each of the Von Erich brothers, I felt a profound sadness. Standing over Fritz Von Erich’s grave, I realized that he had outlived all of his son’s but Kevin. He was like a mighty monarch who built an empire which crumbled before his eyes.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel thankful for those days of wonder Kerry provided me with, the Saturday mornings and summer afternoons when I dreamt of following in his footsteps to become a champion and an icon. I looked at the little action figure left behind by a stranger. I couldn’t count the number of days that I had played with my own version of the toy. Seeing it on the grave of one my childhood heroes was like seeing a segment of my childhood laid to rest. I stared at it quietly and whispered a few words of thanks. After a few minutes, I turned around and started the long trek back to my car.
Shaun Jex is the publisher and editor of the Citizens’ Advocate newspaper in Coppell, Texas. He is the author of the book Legendary Locals of Coppell, and has contributed to publications such as Texas Heritage Magazine, Celebrations Magazine, and Old School Gamer Magazine.
by Shaun Jex
The action figure sat propped against an empty milk jug serving as a vase. Its feet just touched the edge of the headstone with the name Adkisson engraved on it in large, block letters. Below that were the names “Kerry Gene” and “Jack B. Sr.,” more commonly known as Kerry and Fritz Von Erich.
The action figure was identical to one I owned as a kid. It was Kerry Von Erich during his days with the World Wrestling Federation, now known as World Wrestling Entertainment. At that point, he was known as the “Texas Tornado,” but for most of his life he’d been called “The Modern Day Warrior.” He’d also wrestled as the second masked member of the Cosmic Cowboys, a duo that featured his brother Kevin. Curiously, I had my copy of the action figure in my pocket. I’d planned to take a picture of it standing next to the grave.
It seemed someone else had come with the same idea.
A few feet away from Kerry and Fritz’s final resting place sat the graves of Chris, David, and Michael Von Erich. An entire wrestling empire was contained in that small plot of land. The story of the Von Erich family has the air of a Biblical tragedy, like the rise and fall of King David. Kerry died of a self inflicted gunshot wound. Mike Von Erich deliberately overdosed on tranquilizers. Like Kerry, Chris Von Erich shot himself. David Von Erich’s cause of death was listed as “acute enteritis,” though rumors persist that the true cause was the consumption of narcotics. All were professional wrestlers, following in the footsteps of the family patriarch known to the world as Fritz. They were Texas legends, venerated across the Lone Star State as the first and greatest family of professional wrestling.
The heyday for the family had been the 1980s, when the Von Erich boys wrestled in the World Class Championship Wrestling league owned by their father. During that time they feuded with some of the most recognizable names in the industry: The Fabulous Freebirds, Ric Flair, and Gentleman Chris Adams to name a few. Wrestling fans would pack venues like Reunion Arena and the Sportatorium to worship at the altar of Von Erich.
The epoch began with Fritz. Born Jack Barton Adkisson in 1929, he attended Southern Methodist University where he played football. He was signed by the Dallas Texans in 1952, but was cut. A year later he made his professional wrestling debut. By the end of the year, he adopted the Fritz Von Erich persona, wrestling as a Nazi-esque heel alongside Waldo Von Erich (born Walter Paul Sieber).
Tragedy struck the Von Erich family early, with Fritz’s first born son Jack dying in 1959 at the age of six. He was accidentally electrocuted and then drown in a pool of water. Despite the loss, Fritz continued to pursue his career in wrestling, winning the AWA World Title in 1963 and the NWA Tag Team Championship in 1967. He then travelled to Japan where he feuded with wrestling luminaries like Giant Baba and Antonio Inoki.
While wrestling in Japan, Fritz developed the move known as the “Iron Claw.” It was a punishing attack that involved gripping the opponent’s face and squeezing the skull with vice like pressure. A particularly gruesome picture exists of Fritz applying the Iron Claw. His fingers seem sunk into the flesh of his opponent, puncturing it like wet dough. Blood streams down the unfortunate victim’s forehead and over Von Erich’s hand. The Iron Claw would become a family trademark. As his sons followed Fritz into wrestling they all employed it in the ring.
A treasure trove of Von Erich family matches can be found on YouTube. Curious viewers can watch Kevin Von Erich take a chair to the head of Chris Adams or relive the moment an old, grizzled Fritz Von Erich got into an argument and eventually a fist fight with the Fabulous Freebirds. There is a video of Chris Von Erich teaming with Chris Adams to battle a young Steve Austin (later known as Stone Cold Steve Austin) and Percy Pringle III (more commonly known for his Paul Bearer schtick with the Undertaker). Fans can even witness Kerry Von Erich’s legendary 1984 NWA title match against Ric Flair, a wrestling spectacular which took place in front of 45,000 fans at Texas Stadium.
That was all ancient history by the time I discovered Kerry Von Erich. It was 1991, and I was 9 years old. David and Mike were long dead (their deaths coming in 1984 and 1987 respectively). Chris shoot himself the same year I learned the Von Erich name. He died 18 days before his 22nd birthday. Only Kerry and Kevin remained. Kevin was slowly fading into the background, wrestling sporadically on the independent circuit. By 1995, he would leave the sport altogether. I wouldn’t even learn his name until years later.
The only Von Erich that mattered to me was Kerry. He was one of my idols and one of the wrestlers I tried to emulate when I held wrestling matches with my friends in the front yard. I had no idea that he had lost his foot to a motorcycle accident in 1986, or that he’d become addicted to painkillers. Of course, very few people knew about the foot. He went to extreme lengths to hide it from his fellow wrestlers and fans. The story goes that he would even shower with his boots on. It was, I suspect, an unnecessary caution. Had I known about it then, it would have only increased my admiration for him.
I had no way of knowing that he was past his prime. Contrary to some opinions I’ve read, I never viewed him as a “jobber” in the WWF. He remained electric to watch. In 1990, he defeated Mr. Perfect to claim the Intercontinental Championship. He fought in multiple Royal Rumbles and in the Survivor Series, where he teamed with Sgt. Slaughter, Tito Santana, and “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan. He fought alongside the British Bulldog and Ricky Steamboat at SummerSlam and defeated Dino Bravo at WrestleMania VII.
It’s hard to pin what it was about Kerry Von Erich that so captured my imagination. I was completely sold on wrestling. I had never heard the term “kayfabe” and if you suggested that the sport was staged, you were likely to face my scrawny wrath. The line between reality and fantasy blurred in my young mind. I felt nothing but loathing for the heels of the sport and adored the wrestlers who played face.
The fact that he was from Texas amplified my enthusiasm. I was a Texas transplant, but quickly took to my adopted state. Not only was he a Texan, but he was from Denton, a mere 20 minutes from my home. I dreamed of making my way into the ranks of wrestling immortals, and this tenuous geographical link helped me believe it might be possible.
I also loved his finishing move: the Tornado Punch. The attack, also known as a discus punch, involved spinning the body 360 degrees before slamming the fist into face of the unfortunate opponent.
A mere two years after I began my love affair with wrestling, Kerry Von Erich committed suicide. Addicted to drugs, recently divorced and facing jail time for his second arrest, he shot himself on his father’s ranch. I was crushed by his death, but I didn’t learn the scope of his family’s tragedy until years later.
Kerry’s death left Kevin Von Erich as the only surviving child of Fritz. In the ESPN mini-documentary “Wrestling The Curse,” Kevin described his devastation after his brothers’ deaths. Describing his life, he once said, “I used to have five brothers. Now, I’m not even a brother.” At one point, he decided that the only course left for him was to get thrown in prison. He wandered into a gun store in Lubbock and stuck a .22 rifle in his pants with the intention of getting arrested for theft. As he walked out of the store, the owner casually said, “Love you, Kev.” He walked outside, but the moment of kindness and support broke through the fog of depression, and he went back inside and returned the weapon.
Within a year or two of Kerry Von Erich’s death, I moved on to other dreams. I began playing city league football and was convinced that I was destined to become a Dallas Cowboy. I even told one of their coaches (Dave Campo) to save me a locker. I gradually drifted away from wrestling altogether, filing it away as in the cabinets of my memory.
It wasn’t until I was grown that I began to revisit those old memories. I could still picture myself decked out in black spandex, shirt off, wrestling in the front yard with my friends. I could feel the excitement I felt every Saturday morning when I could watch Von Erich and others battle it out on television. I remembered attending a WWF event at Reunion Arena, where I got to see wrestlers like Jake “The Snake” Roberts, Bam Bam Bigelow, The Undertaker, and the Ultimate Warrior fight. Above all, I remembered being completely caught up in the operatic sweep of the various storylines, the feelings of elation when a “good guy” won, and the despair and anger when they lost. At the swirling center of this storm of memories stood Kerry Von Erich, the Texas Tornado.
I decided it was time to pay my respects. With a little research, I found where he and the rest of his family were buried: Grove Hill Memorial Park in Dallas. I set out on a gray Saturday morning to find the spot. Grove Hill is an enormous cemetery, stretching 160 acres. Narrow streets wind their way between the various “gardens” which dot the grounds. The Von Erichs were buried in the “Hilltop” garden.
I drove until I found the area and then parked the car. Outside, the weather was unseasonably cold. A biting wind buffeted my face, turning my cheeks and nose a bright red as I wandered between the headstones. I had no idea where in the Hilltop garden they were buried, so I meandered between rows of graves, examining each headstone for the proper names.
I wasn’t quite certain what to do or say when I finally came upon the Von Erichs’ resting place. I felt a simultaneous sense of melancholy and gratitude. Reading the birth and death dates of each of the Von Erich brothers, I felt a profound sadness. Standing over Fritz Von Erich’s grave, I realized that he had outlived all of his son’s but Kevin. He was like a mighty monarch who built an empire which crumbled before his eyes.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel thankful for those days of wonder Kerry provided me with, the Saturday mornings and summer afternoons when I dreamt of following in his footsteps to become a champion and an icon. I looked at the little action figure left behind by a stranger. I couldn’t count the number of days that I had played with my own version of the toy. Seeing it on the grave of one my childhood heroes was like seeing a segment of my childhood laid to rest. I stared at it quietly and whispered a few words of thanks. After a few minutes, I turned around and started the long trek back to my car.
Shaun Jex is the publisher and editor of the Citizens’ Advocate newspaper in Coppell, Texas. He is the author of the book Legendary Locals of Coppell, and has contributed to publications such as Texas Heritage Magazine, Celebrations Magazine, and Old School Gamer Magazine.