Editor’s note: This story was originally published on Dec. 31, 2019.
Ross and Marshall Adkisson stood amid the twilight silhouettes of the Tokyo skyline, stunned by a discovery they weren’t even searching for.
The brothers had climbed to the roof of Korakuen Hall, looking for some pre-fight solitude. A time to pray for their safety. A time to pray for the enjoyment of those coming to see them perform.
That’s when they spotted the sketch in the brick — a message seemingly left for them, just feet away from where they were standing.
“David & Kevin, 1981.”
A marking undoubtedly left by their uncle and father when they were champions of the far east three decades earlier.
Back in those days, grueling nights under the hot arena lights were washed down with ice-cold beer and Japanese barbecue, drenched in sesame sauce and wrapped in crunchy lettuce leaves.
The authenticity of the sketched-signature was unquestionable. Ross and Marshall quickly recognized the tiny, jagged-toothed alligator cartoon their father draws to this day.
Up the blond-haired Marshall went, standing on Ross’ shoulders. High on the brick wall — like their family had done before — Marshall sketched their names, dated 2012.
And in that moment, the self-doubt they contended with during months of rigorous training was absolved.
“It felt like a higher power telling us that we were in the right place,” Marshall said.
A sign of the divine — or a sign from their uncles — that Ross and Marshall had chosen right in becoming professional wrestlers.
That they had chosen right in becoming the next Von Erichs.
The bigger they are ...
“Dad, we found your sketch!” Marshall exclaimed to his daddy over the phone.
Kevin, now 62 years old, had completely forgotten about it.
“I’m a father,” Kevin told The News. “I was kind of worried about them being over in Japan. Being on your own is a big shock to a kid.
“It was like God showing me that he was taking care of them. He was with me and my brothers when we were there.”
You would be hard-pressed to find a Dallasite of the 1980s that didn’t know the name Von Erich.
It was the decade that watched the sons of Jack Adkisson, better known for his in-ring persona Fritz Von Erich, grow up on television.
The boys — Kevin, David, Kerry, Mike and Chris — became the faces of their father’s promotion, World Class Championship Wrestling.
The Von Erichs took on all comers when they stepped through ring ropes at the Cotton Bowl, Texas Stadium, the old Dallas Sportatorium and venues across the region. Their rise in popularity coincided with WCCW’s peak, thereby making the Dallas-based territory a major player in the National Wrestling Alliance.
Though pro wrestling’s territories were slowly being dismantled and consolidated, changes in the industry barely affected the Von Erichs’ ravenous following in North Texas.
In an era when pro wrestling was becoming a product for children and families, the Von Erichs were the closest thing Texans had to real-life superheroes.
The Von Erich boys didn’t need the costumes or goofy gimmicks popularized at the time. David, Kevin and Kerry had the physiques, athleticism, strength, sex appeal and in-ring ability.
Maybe most importantly, they were portrayed as perfect, all-American, God-fearing men from Texas.
Other than the happenings on Southfork Ranch, the Von Erichs were local TV’s biggest attraction. World Class programming dominated Sunday mornings and was syndicated around the nation.
Being broadcast into countless homes, the Von Erichs felt like part of your family.
Nobody realized how beloved Fritz’s sons had become until they started dying.
A week after departing Texas for a solo tour of Japan, David, the third oldest brother, was found dead in his hotel room on Feb. 10, 1984. He was 25 years old.
He had been suffering from flu-like symptoms. The Japanese autopsy concluded that David succumbed to acute gastroenteritis. His large intestine had become infected by a virus or tainted food. The intestine swelled and ruptured, filling his body with blood, causing heart failure.
Thousands attended David’s funeral at First Baptist Church in Denton. Most watched the proceedings on a giant monitor outside. David’s memorial show attracted more than 30,000 fans to Texas Stadium, a modern world record for pro-wrestling attendance that would stand for nearly three years.
Due to the drug culture in wrestling at the time, some have suggested that David overdosed on painkillers. There is no hard evidence to suggest that drugs were involved.
Needing to fill the void left by their older brother on World Class cards, Mike and Chris embarked on wrestling careers too ambitious for their smaller statures.
Mike, the fifth oldest, miraculously survived going into toxic shock after he contracted staph during a 1985 shoulder surgery. But the 107 degree fever weakened him and caused brain damage. Unable to wrestle again, Mike committed suicide by overdosing on a mixture of sleeping aids and alcohol on April 12, 1987. He was 23.
Chris, the youngest, took asthma medication throughout his life, making his bones too brittle for wrestling. Despite his extreme passion for the business, his career was short and injury-riddled. Depressed by his perceived shortcomings, Chris shot himself in the head on Sept. 12, 1991. He was 21.
Kerry’s wrestling star shined the longest, though his personal life was a wreck.
The fourth oldest Von Erich lost his right foot in a 1986 motorcycle accident. He secretly wrestled with a prosthetic for the remainder of his career. Kerry became addicted to painkillers, and more. His wife divorced him and took the children.
After being indicted on a second drug-related charge, Kerry grabbed the .44 caliber pistol he had previously gifted his father Fritz.
He shot himself in the heart on Feb. 18, 1993. Kerry was 33.
Jack Jr. — Kevin’s childhood brother who never wrestled — also died horrendously. While walking home on March 7, 1959, the 6-year-old touched a mobile home undergoing electrical work. He was immediately electrocuted, and drowned in a puddle of melting snow.
Plenty has been spoken about the Von Erichs’ unspeakable tragedies. This is not that story.
The Von Erich story you haven’t heard is currently being written by Ross and Marshall, who will compete in Dallas on Jan. 11 with their promotion, Major League Wrestling (MLW). As wrestling enters another boom period, one of the industry’s greatest dynasties is back in the game.
Kevin and his sons have learned that joy can result from even the saddest moments in our lives.
Joy they have found by wrestling with future plans, and not with their past.
A rumble in the jungle
As early morning storm clouds break, the fireball rising in the east bathes Hawaii’s northern isle in a heavenly sunburst.
Ross and Marshall have already fed the sheep, prepped the oxygen tanks for an afternoon of spearfishing, and begun taming the flora on the family’s massive 27-acre compound.
The entire Von Erich clan moved to Kauai in 2007, just before Ross graduated from high school. Kevin’s children, and his children’s children, make for 21 people on the homestead.
“My dad saw a lot of tragedy in Texas,” Marshall said. “Everything there was reminding him of his brothers.”
“I needed this ocean,” Kevin says.
Raindrops cling to the orchids, azaleas, eggfruits and elephant ears. Turkeys and Hawaiian waterbirds roam about. Skinks and geckos rustle the brush. Crimson dragonflies buzz through the air.
The Akulikuli Stream that divides the property sends white water over “Mermaid Falls.” Gobies and massive freshwater prawns live at its base, along with the mermaid who — according to local legend — pulls under habitual liars that dare to swim nearby.
Ross off the top. pic.twitter.com/z2qghKJ3t5
— Kevin Von Erich (@KevinVonErich) June 17, 2019
Down on the beach, Ross, 31, and Marshall, 27, grapple each other as tanning monk seals look on.
Because the island serves as a giant playground, the brothers don’t train in a ring. They don’t even own one.
The warm sand or the loamy soil under the shady Albizia tree canopy is perfect for wrestling.
Ross and Marshall have adopted a holistic lifestyle, having learned from mistakes of the previous generation.
“We keep the athlete’s perspective,” Ross said.
“Our bodies are investments,” Marshall added. We really are trying to take complete care of ourselves and hold each other accountable.”
The brothers don’t “go out with the boys” after a wrestling event. When they need an adrenaline rush, they’ll climb trees, jump off the waterfall or snorkel with sharks, rather than turning to vices.
Their diet is clean. The brothers help grow bananas, coconuts, coffee and multiple varieties of avocado. They also grow lychees — pink, ping-pong ball size fruits that are incredibly sweet. Moi comes from the ocean. Tilapia comes from the pond out back.
“We’re country boys from Texas,” Ross said. “Fishing, hunting, surfing — that’s what country boys do here. It’s the same lifestyle for us, just a different environment.”
Their father made the Denton County boys earn everything. Caring for cattle and digging postholes for fence lines were regular activities.
Some evenings were spent wrestling each other while World Class tapes played on television.
Though their father and uncles were never pressured to wrestle, it was the family business. The pressure came from being universally adored and growing up in the public eye.
Ross and Marshall avoided that. Wrestling was something they liked, not something they did. For that matter, wrestling was never something they seriously considered doing.
“Honestly, it’s the only door that hasn’t shut,” Marshall remarked.
They lived their high school days on the track and football field.
“Both of us were like the Happy Gilmore of our teams,” Ross said. “We were the most passionate guys.”
Good athletes, but not elite.
Ross earned an offer to play football for New Mexico, but decided to walk-on where his father had played at North Texas. Nothing much ever came of it.
Marshall found an aptitude for discus throwing in high school. He held the Hawaii state record for a time, but his best throw was his final.
Just trying to enjoy my jog at the beach and some turkey wants to start trouble with me. @RossVonErich pic.twitter.com/36fTukPiG5
— Marshall Von Erich (@MarshallVonEric) June 5, 2018
“We’re kind of good at everything, but not great at anything,” Marshall thought. “What is God doing with this athletic ability?”
The answer had already been imprinted on them.
“I kind of knew subconsciously that this wrestling thing would be there one day,” Ross said.
Becoming pro-wrestlers, it turns out, was all part of God’s plan.
Hardcore isolation
As he watches Ross and Marshall flip on the beach, Kevin can’t help but see his brothers.
Ross was gifted Kerry’s upper-body strength, suave style of movement and clever sense of humor. His facial expressions and way of using his hands are also similar. He carries himself with Kerry’s intoxicating charisma.
Marshall was gifted David’s size and Kevin’s athleticism, which proves to be an interesting combination. Few expect the 6-foot-4, 250-pounder to be doing backflips off the top rope. Marshall is the mild-mannered type, who according to Dad, always knows what to say. David was like that, too.
But many of those similarities wouldn’t fully reveal themselves until Ross and Marshall began wrestling. What started out as “something to try” became a six-month gantlet of overseas training.
The brothers began their careers at the school of pro-wrestling legend Harley Race in Missouri.
One day, scouts from the Japanese promotion Pro Wrestling NOAH came searching for American talent.
“We were the newest guys, so we figured there was no way we’d get picked up,” Ross said.
They figured wrong.
“You look like Fritz Von Erich,” one of the scouts told Marshall.
“He was my grandfather!” Marshall replied.
Ross and Marshall thought they knew each other well. Now signed to consecutive three-month tours in a country where few speak English, their relationship strengthened like never before.
“Our phones didn’t work,” Marshall said. “We had to have each other’s backs.”
The training was insanity — something a person would only put themselves through if they truly loved what they were doing.
In Japan, puroresu (pro-wrestling) is still treated like legitimate sport. The craft is taken very seriously and treated like an art form.
The brothers didn’t perform on their first tour. They cleaned the weight room and tallied thousands of pushups and squats. They also took hundreds of bumps on the wrestling canvas daily.
Japanese wrestlers practice “strong style,” a brutal, stiff form of pro-wrestling that mimics mixed-martial arts in many respects.
Ross and Marshall would spar veteran wrestlers up to 10 times in a row, until their arms felt like noodles. They would absorb one blow, then another, as sweaty mist flew from their bodies with each strike.
“I see my brother in the ring and there’s this fiercely protective feeling I get deep down,” Ross explained.
He told Marshall: “Let’s pour ourselves into this and see where it takes us.”
“I won’t quit if you won’t,” Marshall replied.
The brothers’ frantic, kinetic energy showed itself as they began performing in front of live audiences. Instinct led Ross and Marshall to an in-ring muscle-memory that was somehow already there.
Many young wrestlers need to plan matches ahead of time, but Ross and Marshall can call the contest while it happens. Their ability to execute on the fly and in response to the crowd is highly respected in the industry.
“The people can tell,” Ross said. “If you plan lots of things before your match, it looks fully choreographed. There’s no struggle. There’s no art.”
“I’d rather feel what the people are feeling in the moment,” Marshall continued.
Before wrestling, Ross and Marshall were Kevin’s sons. Now, Kevin feels like his brothers are back when he watches them compete.
“My dad told us in the beginning to trust our guts,” Marshall said. “It took me years to finally listen to Dad’s voice.
"Other wrestlers would call us ‘ducks in water.’ They would say, ‘This is in your genetics. Your uncles, your dad, your grandfather all did this.
“‘This is natural to you.’”
No ‘cheap heat’
After leaving Japan, the brothers worked indie promotions from Oklahoma to the United Kingdom to Israel.
When the time came for Ross and Marshall to sign with a promotion, Major League Wrestling founder Court Bauer already had the vision.
Bauer spent two years writing for World Wrestling Entertainment chairman Vince McMahon in the mid-2000s. McMahon, a pro-wrestling innovator and on-screen villain, is an undisputed industry titan.
Bauer has worked the majority of his professional life in the business, mentoring second- and third-generation superstars along the way. He has ushered multiple legacy wrestlers through their creative process, and the same principle has applied to them all.
“Ross and Marshall must have their own identities,” Bauer explained. “They must be their own men. If they become replicas … we’ll just be doing a karaoke version of the Von Erichs.”
Of course, subtle nods to the family’s past are fun when done appropriately.
Marshall wrestles barefoot like his father and occasionally wears a cowboy hat like David.
The brothers enter arenas to a cover of Ted Nugent’s “Stranglehold” — a song used by their uncles at marquee events.
Both use the “Iron Claw” as their finishing maneuver — a violent palming of the skull Fritz coined in the 1950s.
Ross and Marshall also find themselves being “betrayed” in the ring.
Whenever the Von Erichs of World Class needed a new rival, other wrestling characters they had previously befriended would turn without fail. A plot device that kept the action compelling, and butts in seats.
The brothers are currently feuding with “Filthy” Tom Lawlor in MLW — a former storyline buddy who betrayed Ross during a recent title match.
Steel chairs to the head ruin friendships, if you didn’t know.
Beyond those “tips of the hat,” Bauer keeps the brothers rooted in the present as wrestling characters. Constantly reminding the audience of family tragedy won’t do them any favors.
“I can’t tell you how many times [a wrestler would] bring up the drug past, dead uncles, and all this stuff we really can’t do anything about,” Marshall said.
“Our dad would call that cheap heat,” Ross added.
“Heat” is an industry term for how the crowd reacts to conflict between wrestlers, or the emotional, often audible response to the story unfolding.
Insulting local sports teams, calling the crowd a bunch of morons or bringing up death isn’t viewed as favorably as it was 30 years ago. Though it sounds like an oxymoron, Bauer says wrestling fans today are as sophisticated as they’ve ever been.
Modern wrestling fans have the internet and know the inner workings of the business. Wrestling has become a type of voyeuristic fiction, and opinions are strong. Some fans are more interested in how storylines are executed than the wrestling itself. Cheap heat has become a worn-out trope of pro-wrestling that fans see right through.
“We will never exploit or try to get heat with the family’s past,” Bauer said. “I would never do that. That’s lowbrow stuff.”
An unbendable, ironclad policy that helped attract the brothers to MLW. Ross and Marshall, who currently wear the company’s tag-team championships, enjoy their unique work-life balance as well.
MLW Fusion, which currently airs Saturday nights on beIN Sports, films multiple tape-delayed episodes over a single weekend. This allows Ross and Marshall to live away from the contiguous United States and travel infrequently.
The format has helped pump the brakes on careers that could have started moving too fast.
Their uncles overworked themselves in World Class. Drug use, injury and death ultimately followed.
MLW’s television structure not only allows time for recovery, but also keeps their characters from being overexposed.
While the outcomes of wrestling matches are predetermined, wrestling storylines must follow their own intrinsic logic — just like any good narrative.
Bauer produces 60 minutes of wrestling TV each week, whereas the WWE produces upwards of seven hours. The more content that needs to be produced, the more likely young talents lose their way in nonsensical match finishes and rushed, poorly planned wrestling soap operas.
MLW gives itself permission to do long-form storytelling, taking eight months to a year if necessary. Ross and Marshall enjoy open collaboration with their boss.
The result? A sports-centric program that doesn’t insult the fans’ intelligence. A showcase of different pro-wrestling styles that doesn’t feel like a variety show.
“We don’t want to be disposed to the understanding that it’s scripted,” Bauer said. “We want to suspend disbelief.”
“We have performers who can almost cause a riot. It’s very much like the old days of World Class back in Dallas where every wrestler was larger than life.”
‘Is wrestling for us?'
Ross and Marshall could have chosen to wrestle anywhere. Their name equity hasn’t become a crutch, but is still an undeniably good selling point.
It’s not like WWE didn’t want them. The industry-leader invited the brothers to a tryout with hopes of signing them to a developmental contract.
They would have relocated to Orlando — the home of WWE’s Performance Center — where approximately 200 wrestling hopefuls are currently training.
“It’s state-of-the-art, beautiful,” Bauer said, “but the odds decline significantly that you’re going to be developed and nurtured [to make contributions on WWE TV].”
“If I’m recruiting you, you have my word that we’re going to get you cooking.”
“Is wrestling for us?" Marshall once thought. “If WWE is the only place to go, then it’s not for us.”
“MLW and Court were like a blessing in disguise for us. We just love the guy.”
No other promotion could promise Ross and Marshall creative freedom and their Hawaiian sanctuary.
No other promotion could guarantee respectful use of the Von Erich name, either. The brothers admit to some apprehension in that regard.
“Uncle Kerry worked for WWE for awhile,” Ross said.
But not as a Von Erich.
“It didn’t turn out so great.”
Kerry was repackaged as “The Texas Tornado” upon arrival in 1990.
Whether it was a creative difference, or an effort to separate Kerry from deaths in the family, the pro-wrestling sanctity of the Von Erich name didn’t interest Vince McMahon.
“We weren’t really sure what direction they wanted to go with us, and our name,” Ross said.
“We’re going to do what we’re told by the boss,” Marshall insisted, “but if he wants us to change our names and we’re under contract… we get into legal issues. We just didn’t want to worry about that stuff.
“We’re honored to be Von Erichs and we never want that to change.”
Make them kings
Do you believe in family curses?
Kevin doesn’t, though nobody would blame him if he did. He has grieved enough for a hundred lifetimes, but still considers himself a lucky man.
“I’ve had a lot of bad news. A lot of bad things happen. A lot of people have had it worse than I, but they weren’t on TV.”
Ross and Marshall were literally raised in a shadow of death, but they don’t feel cursed. If they were cursed, they wouldn’t be surrounded by family in their own personal paradise. They wouldn’t speak with such grace and serenity. They wouldn’t be blessed with such an enviable work ethic and mental clarity.
They wouldn’t have learned from the sins of their uncles.
They wouldn’t work for a company so unwilling to compromise their futures.
And they wouldn't share their father’s providential optimism.
“If it would not have been for the disaster I did have, I wouldn’t regard life the way I do now,” Kevin said. “My sons, my daughters, my family, God — the things that I treasure — I barely regarded them before. When I see how transient we are, how this life is fleeting so fast, we should enjoy every second and every minute. Love each other and don’t fight with each other. Life is way too short.
“I wouldn’t have learned that, if I hadn’t been so crushed. What some people call a curse, I’ll call a blessing.”
When Ross and Marshall’s mother Pam tucked her boys in at night, she prayed that the Lord would make them kings like their father.
It’s a prayer that Marshall may soon repeat. He and his wife Coral just welcomed their first child — a 4-month-old boy named Solomon.
These are the keepers of the next Von Erich parable. Kings of their legacy, and kings of their destiny.
Whether Ross and Marshall become wrestling’s next big thing, or family men like their father, Kevin will be smiling from ear to ear.
“Without a doubt, they’re No. 1,” Kevin said. “The best thing I ever did in my life. Everything they do, I’m their biggest fan. I’m completely captivated.”
He’ll be watching peacefully from ringside, knowing God moves in mysterious ways.
Reece Kelley Graham is a digital producer, staff writer and pro-wrestling contributor for The Dallas Morning News.
Details
MLW: ZERO HOUR 2020 — Featuring Ross and Marshall Von Erich (“Fusion” TV taping)
When: Saturday, Jan. 11, 7 p.m. Bell Time
Where: NYTEX Sports Centre, North Richland Hills
Matches include:
— Grudge Match: Ross Von Erich vs. “Filthy” Tom Lawlor
— Marshall Von Erich vs. Maxwell Jacob Friedman (If MJF wins, he and partner Richard Holliday will receive a future rematch for the Von Erichs’ MLW tag-team titles)
Tickets: Tickets start at $15, and can be purchased online at MLWTickets.com.
MLW Fusion airs Saturday nights at 8 p.m. CT on beIN Sports, and can also be seen on YouTube.
