Dory Funk Jr.—pro wrestling champion, trainer, and international icon—died earlier this month at 85. Although less famous here, perhaps, than some of his colleagues, Funk’s life provided an object lesson in the power of sport and spectacle to win hearts around the world. And for those who knew him personally, as I did, the news of his passing landed with the sudden finality of one of his famous spinning toe holds. He was the last of a breed that understood how to make another man look like a million bucks without diminishing himself—never flashy, never loud, only precise, relentless, and kind in a way that already feels foreign.
During the ’70s and ’80s, Dory and his brother Terry performed a kind of cowboy diplomacy that no State Department briefing could have engineered. As postwar resentment still lingered in Japanese memory, American wrestlers were routinely booked as villainous heels. Crowds could safely vent their frustrations by jeering at imperious Yankees and watch as these characters finally received their just desserts in the ring. It was a societally contained, ironically nonviolent ritual; the old sacrificial pattern, now done up in colorful spandex.
Yet something unprecedented occurred with the Funks. They charmed their audiences—so much so, in fact, that they were among the first American wrestlers whom the Japanese refused to boo. Dory and his brother transcended their assigned roles, inspiring a devotion and love among their Japanese fanbase that has now endured for nearly six decades. Japanese audiences admired the Funks’ commitment to craft, family lineage, and the stubborn refusal to quit. “Never quit!” and “Fight forever!” were the brothers’ slogans. Those 55-minute matches of pure form and endurance became a shared language. A notoriously inward-looking society found much to admire in these outsiders who seemed to so completely embody many of Japan’s most cherished values.
Dory and Terry complemented each other perfectly. Dory was the methodical technician—scientific, precise, almost architectural in the ring, the living embodiment of wrestling as a disciplined craft. Terry was the wilder force—intense, hardcore, charismatic, willing to spill blood and blur the line between performance and reality. Together they formed a complete picture of athletic excellence that Japanese fans could both admire and claim as their own.
It was during Dory’s historic run as National Wrestling Alliance World Heavyweight Champion that this excellence was most perfectly embodied. From February 1969 until May 1973, he held wrestling’s most prestigious title, making his reign one of the longest in the sport’s history. As champion, he was not merely the best wrestler in the industry; he was the living embodiment of all that it could be, the respected representative of a vanishing American type. Texas grit without the swagger. Soft-spoken wisdom edged with dry wit. Methodical precision that turned athletic performance into something almost sacred. The quiet decision, night after night, to elevate the man across from him. Steadfastness. Consistency. Humble confidence. Competence that needed no announcement. Courage that did not perform. And a deep, almost old-world reverence for family and the tradition their father had handed down.
Others helped open doors between the two cultures. The Funks did this, of course, but more deeply and profoundly than almost anyone else in their industry. The rock-star madness that greeted them in Japan proved it. Japanese fans loved the message because it was lived rather than marketed. America, watching that love, began to see something of itself reflected back—craftsmanship, loyalty to local community, family as the true center of gravity. The admiration still travels both ways (consider our mania for anime and Japanese food). Exploding tourism shows the relationship continues to grow deeper.
I got close enough to see the craft. I apprenticed at the Funking Conservatory, the school the family had set up to perpetuate its legacy, and ended up part of the show. During my time with the Funks, I got to know Marti, Dory’s wife of more than forty years and the deeply loyal, hard-working partner through every passion he pursued. She filmed him across decades and continents, capturing the history as it unfolded, even traveling with him to Tokyo for his final match at the age of 83. Their quiet partnership sustained the industry’s living memory and the tight community of performers that stretched from Andre the Giant—whom Dory battled across continents—to modern Hall of Famers and family friends like Dwayne Johnson, the late Hulk Hogan, Ric Flair, and his student, Olympic gold medalist Kurt Angle. Dory’s final book was titled The Last of a Great Breed. It was not merely about professional wrestling or his tough-as-nails, unflashy commitment to kicking ass and entertaining. It was about the last of an American generation of public heroes whose toughness and kindness sit almost outside our culture’s easy cynicism and self-absorption.
I worked with him producing shows, and I brought my singing into the promotions. Dory and Marti, selfless as always, channeled this into helping others. They directed the crowd-pleasing performances honoring a longtime friend, Osamu Nishimura—a champion wrestler and longtime Japanese collaborator who was battling cancer. That was the house style. Help the other guy. Elevate the brother. Serve the community.
My short time with the Funks taught me more about living than I can put in one column. I sought the conservatory experience partly to honor the recent passing of my own father, who grew up watching Florida Championship Wrestling in the years when Dory was a central figure. Coach helped me transmute loss into a year of purpose and joy. So I sang while Dory danced and occasionally threw men from high spots… because we could. He told me the secret to success was simple: do your best to make another person look good. That not only makes for a good show; it happens to be the Golden Rule—and the world could use reminding of this, now more than ever.
Rest in peace, Coach.
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