East of Eden: Bret Hart vs Owen Hart at WrestleMania X

Have you ever heard the story of “Right Hand, Left Hand”? The eternal story of good and evil? Keep reading, and I’ll tell you. On each knuckle, a word is tattooed. H-A-T-E, and it was with this left hand that Cain dropped his brother Abel down for the 3-count. L-O-V-E, the right hand, the hand of love. This is the story of life, wrestling fans. Each finger, intertwined in a war within the squared circle. Old Left Hand, it swings, hitting Right Hand against the turnbuckle as it slides and slumps in the corner. Lefty could pull him in for the pinfall here, folks. But no, just a minute; Right is back on its feet, love’s fighting back. It hits, and it hits, and it hits. Right Hand delivers its hook, and Left is down for the count. Yessirree folks, Right Hand has won, love wins in the end. This is the story of Bret Hart versus Owen Hart at WrestleMania X.

 

The saga of Bret and Owen Hart is a storied one. Parts of a dynasty, performers forged in father Stu Hart’s infamous Hart Dungeon. The place where such tortures would only let screams escape. Canada’s Hart family prided itself on the wrestling business. While not all of its lineage made it to great heights, if any, none quite reached the levels of the dark-haired Bret and the blonde Owen. 

 

Bret had been with the company since 1984. He’d enjoyed many largely applauded rivalries, like Mr. Perfect, Razor Ramon, and Ric Flair. In the latter years of his career, his feuds with Shawn Michaels and “Stone Cold” Steve Austin further ensured his place in history that future generations of wrestling fans can revisit.

 

Owen briefly stayed from 1988 to 1989 before taking trips to Stu’s Stampede Wrestling while performing in New Japan Pro Wrestling and World Championship Wrestling, sometimes under a blue mask. As of 1991, he’d been in Bret’s corner until the 1993 Survivor Series, wherein he’d begin clashing with his brother.

 

Emerald with envy, he had mounting frustrations. To Owen, Bret was a glory hog. Always in the spotlight, almost effortlessly so. The crowd took to Bret, the cameras took to Bret, and only the shadows welcomed Owen. The sort of malicious kind, but it gave Owen a truth erudite to him.

 

And there’s a beauty to truth, even the most dreadful of it.

 

When a wrestler catches audiences’ true mindsets, when their grave heads that fans aren’t always behind them, aren’t really supporting them, their world falls into panic desolation. The cheers have fallen, and all motivation is gone. These cheers do not fall a little—they careen to the floor and shatter into tiny fragments, never to be built up again; shards always reveal the cracks. And the wrestler’s world is never quite whole again. It’s an aching sort of evolving.

 

This, too, followed his vision of Bret. All the flaws inherent in his brother. Oh, he’s propped up while Owen had to work, work, work, and for little fanfare. Those purple sunglasses, the glistening hair, the black and white gear made up for it. Bret was a superhero, and Owen was the errand boy. Seeing Bret struggle to tag him in at the 1994 Royal Rumble, well, what do they say about final straws? 

Owen brutalized his brother in front of the whole world and their judgment. But was he truly his brother’s keeper? The voices denounced him, and he would walk the rest of his years as a heel. That was fine, because he had no pressure to be perfect. All he needed was to be good.

 

Come time for the opener, Bret Hart versus Owen Hart at WrestleMania X, bitter Owen and mournful Bret came to a head. Confident and rageful, Owen steeled his blue eyes at his brother. Ready. Believing himself capable of surpassing the golden child.

 

Madison Square Garden dings with a bell to signal the start of this family dispute. They grappled to the floor, the stoic Bret coolly transitioned Owen’s Fireman Carry to a leg hold. Owen raced to the ropes to break his brother’s grasp around his waist. Focus dwindled. 

 

Briefly, he steeled himself to gain control of Bret’s hips, yet the technician maneuvered it to hurl him outside. Chopping Bret down with a drop toehold, Owen engaged a headlock. Swinging each other’s arms around, Owen yanked Bret’s flowing mane to drop him on the white canvas. Bret eludes a whip to the corner. Clutching at Bret’s hair again and again, Owen snarls at how unflinching he is, how the crowd calls his name. 

 

Flung outside, Owen teased an escape to the back, only for Bret to reintroduce him to the New York fans. Bret subverted a clothesline, dropping Owen with a falling crucifix pin. There’s a certain caution to his movements, restrained, just so. 

 

Striking a kicking blow that laid brother low, Owen taunted him, posturing him with the same pose fans clamored for.

 

Maintaining his dominance, Owen crushed Bret with a backbreaker. He wrenched his spine back, clutching Bret’s chin. Following an escape outside, Owen reunited with Bret within the ropes, his advances blocked by Bret and a surprise roll-up pin. Perched on the top rope, Owen soared as the wind blew his blonde locks back; Bret rolled out of his path. 

 

A retaliatory clothesline from Bret gave him hope, but only just. Another backbreaker, followed by an elbow drop. A miscommunication with Referee Earl Hebner permeated irritation with the Hitman. Over the top rope, Bret rocked Owen while tenderizing his own knee in the process. 

 

Smelling blood in the water, Owen stomps on the very leg Bret limped on, tweaking the left leg and unleashing a falling elbow on it. Tethering his brother to the ring post, he tormented the knee, slamming it. Again and again and again. Clipping the wings of everyone’s favorite angel. Locking in a figure-four leglock, Owen arrogantly yet cathartically raised his arms in preemptive celebration. 

 

Bret finally ruins Owen’s momentum with an enzuigiri. All caution has been cast aside. Flattened his brother with a bulldog and a piledriver. Superplexing Owen from the top turnbuckle, Bret lay in agony alongside the brother he shared laughs and sobs and screams with, all those memories as pink and black as a fading memory and deepening pain. 

 

Bret had Owen on the ropes, draining the life with a sleeper hold; a low blow, a mule kick breaks it. Gritting his teeth, Owen stole Bret’s Sharpshooter, sinking as low as he could. As though lost in the quiet of space, Bret’s screams of sweet, dear agony go unheard, but reversed his misfortunes with his patented, true Sharpshooter.

 

Carrying Bret atop his shoulders, Owen nearly succumbed to a Victory Roll pin attempt, but rolled it over in a snap. One, two, three. Bret’s shoulders on the mat, staring up at the lights.

 

 

Exhausted, Owen jubilantly tumbled away, Bret awash in disbelief amid the booming drums of his brother’s theme song. Spit whitened at the edges of Owen’s lips, counting those victorious mat-striking trilogy.

 

His brother slain before the eyes of New York and cameras broadcasting worldwide, Owen sowed jealousy and reaped vindication. Nothing is left tying him to the Excellence of Execution. The Blackheart, the King of Hearts, now reigns in the solace he’s overcome the prodigal, fortunate one.

 

This match did not end the night, however. Bret would face the enormous Yokozuna for the WWF Championship in a winning effort. The brothers only opened the show for audiences at home. Yet, it cemented one thing: Owen could stand on his own to succeed. No longer did he have to hold anyone above his shoulders, but he was above theirs.

 

Poetically enough, Bret ended his night as just that, hoisted on the shoulders of the locker room. He had to let go of Owen, an inhale and exhale because tonight, he didn’t have to be perfect,  so he could finally just be good. He didn’t take pride in his hurt; it didn’t make him seem large and tragic. Either way, he’d play on a grand stage with not just himself as the audience.

 

Hate may have won tonight, but love always wins; a few years later, Bret appealed to Owen against Americans he grew to despise. 

 

Bret Hart and Owen Hart’s WrestleMania X epic is one of my earliest memories of pro wrestling. It’s listed in WWE’s lists of great WrestleMania matches, and it has stamped its place in wrestling history simply by being a great match that told a compelling story with a captivating build. Fans will mirror this sentiment in videos, lists, and casual conversations. 

 

Each time I revisit this bout, I always sense an intensity that feels a little too real to be the silly wrestling we all know. I walk away with the notion that Bret and Owen’s rivalry had elements of reality to it, that it was built on actual conversations and annoyances with love still always at the center of things.

 

I’m but one of many writers who justifiably hype up this legendary match. Soap opera and sport coalesced into tragedy.

 

Stories like Bret Hart versus Owen Hart at WrestleMania X, an acclaimed brotherly feud, give us fans the moments with which to remember. Whether it references pop culture, relates to our sensibilities, or echoes biblical epics, pro wrestling resonates with that human element as our heroes and villains tangibly age beside us.

 

There is no other story.