If professional wrestling ever needed a spokesman for clean living, a goofy grin, and the terrifying unpredictability of the human psyche, Bob Backlund was it. In an industry built on steroids, flamboyance, and psychological breakdowns in front of live audiences, Backlund was the anomaly—a man whose wholesome image screamed “substitute teacher,” yet who could snap like a rattlesnake during a civics lesson.
This is the story of Robert Louis Backlund: Division II wrestling champion, wholesome face of the World Wide Wrestling Federation, and eventual unhinged political candidate who once threatened to make Darren Young “great again” with little more than a bowtie and a crossface chickenwing.
CHAPTER ONE: HOWDY DOODY TAKES MINNEAPOLIS
Born in the corn-fed plains of Princeton, Minnesota in 1949, Bob Backlund was the kind of Midwestern boy who said “please” and “thank you” while suplexing you into unconsciousness. He was a high school wrestling standout, an All-American at Waldorf College, and eventually a national champion at North Dakota State. Basically, if there was a mat, Backlund was on it, sweating honor and wiping the floor with you in the name of clean sportsmanship.
He trained under Eddie Sharkey—yes, the same guy who also trained the Road Warriors and Jesse Ventura. But where those men oozed charisma and chaos, Backlund radiated the safe, clinical energy of a dentist’s waiting room. Still, it worked. In a business obsessed with spectacle, Vince McMahon Sr. looked at this college-educated, polite Midwestern boy and said: “That’s the man who will sell out Madison Square Garden.” And sell it out he did.
CHAPTER TWO: THE LONGEST REIGN THAT NO ONE TALKS ABOUT
From 1978 to 1983, Bob Backlund was the World Wide Wrestling Federation Champion. That’s over 2,135 days of near-daily moral lectures in spandex. In a pre-Hogan, pre-attitude era world, Backlund was your squeaky-clean champion. The man didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, and probably cried during Old Yeller. He was Norman Rockwell with a gutwrench suplex.
But let’s be honest: Backlund’s title reign is the answer to a trivia question, not a moment burned into collective wrestling memory. It’s not that he was boring—okay, it is that he was boring—but he was reliable. He beat Graham, Koloff, Steele, Patera, Snuka, Valentine, and every other 70s villain who looked like they moonlighted as repo men or Eastern Bloc mercenaries.
He even survived a match with a prime Jimmy Snuka, dodging a Superfly splash that would’ve turned most men into mulch. Backlund rolled out of the way, jogged to freedom, and probably apologized for the inconvenience on the way out.
CHAPTER THREE: IRON SHEIK, THROW IN THE TOWEL, AND THE DEATH OF THE AMERICAN DREAM
In December 1983, Backlund’s virtuous world crumbled in front of 20,000 screaming fans at Madison Square Garden. With his arm wrenched backwards in the Iron Sheik’s camel clutch, his manager, Arnold Skaaland, did the unthinkable: he threw in the towel.
Backlund never tapped. Never submitted. He was technically undefeated—if you count losing consciousness as a moral victory. Fans were stunned. So was Backlund, whose thousand-yard stare could melt glass. Hulk Hogan would take over just weeks later, ushering in a new era of neon, oil, and steroid biceps. Backlund, suddenly outdated, took his briefcase of morals and hit the road.
CHAPTER FOUR: THE RETURN OF MR. BACKLUND (A.K.A. AMERICA’S UNCLE SNAPS ON LIVE TV)
Backlund returned in the early 90s, somehow still looking like a 1970s wrestling doll come to life. Except now, he was different. Angrier. Stranger. He was yelling at people to name all the U.S. Presidents. He was threatening to run for office. He wore three-piece suits and scolded announcers like a man seconds away from flipping over a deli counter.
And then came Survivor Series 1994.
Backlund locked WWF Champion Bret Hart in a crossface chickenwing so long, so passionately, so insanely, that even Mother Hart—poor Helen—threw in the towel. Bret didn’t tap. Didn’t quit. But the visual of Backlund, eyes bugging out, shrieking into the void while choking the life out of the Hitman is burned into wrestling history. He had snapped. And he loved it.
Then, just like that, he lost the belt three days later to Diesel in eight seconds. Let us be clear: the man who once held the title for nearly six years lost it in less time than it takes to microwave a burrito.
CHAPTER FIVE: PRESIDENTIAL POLITICS, MAN MOUNTAIN ROCK, AND THE RISE OF DEMENTIA-CHIC
After his brief reign, Backlund went full supervillain. He ran for President of the United States—at least in WWF storylines—and campaigned against rock music, laziness, and presumably, fun. He screamed at fans to better themselves. He assaulted Jim Ross for saying “butt.” He challenged people to recite the Presidents. He even found himself in a feud with Man Mountain Rock, a man with a guitar gimmick and no discernible job description.
By the late 90s, Backlund had faded again, resurfacing to manage The Sultan (later Rikishi), and turning chickenwing therapy into a lifestyle.
CHAPTER SIX: BOB BACKLUND IS IMMORTAL
Backlund would resurface now and again—winning a battle royal here, locking in a chickenwing there. In 2013, he was inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame by Maria Menounos, which honestly feels like the most absurd pairing since Kane became mayor.
In 2016, he was paired with Darren Young in the “Make Darren Young Great Again” gimmick. This was clearly the work of a madman. And it ruled.
CHAPTER SEVEN: LEGACY OF A MADMAN IN A BOWTIE
Bob Backlund’s career is one of contradictions. He was a bland superhero who went completely off the rails. A clean-cut babyface who became a gibbering maniac and somehow, it all worked. He was the last of the old-school champions and the accidental prophet of what would become wrestling’s most chaotic era.
He never smoked, drank, or did drugs. But he did scream “I feel like GOD!” after winning the title via towel throw. Honestly? That’s more hardcore than anything Jake “The Snake” ever whispered into a microphone.
So here’s to Bob Backlund: the man, the myth, the walking moral code who could—and often did—snap like a coiled viper in corduroys. May his chickenwings forever tighten.
