By the Numbers and Under the Radar
In an industry where neon tights often outshine actual talent, Brad Armstrong was the wrestling equivalent of a Rolex in a room full of knockoff Casios. Born Robert Bradley James on June 15, 1962, into the wrestling-rich Armstrong clan, Brad came out of the womb bumping and selling. The son of “Bullet” Bob Armstrong and brother to Steve, Scott, and Brian, Brad had enough familial kayfabe cred to co-headline Thanksgiving dinner. Yet somehow, despite talent that bordered on divine, he became the most criminally underappreciated worker to lace a pair of boots and get buried by the booking team.
His tragic superpower? Being too good at making everyone else look great.
Lightning Express and the Curse of the Tag Team Glue Guy
Brad debuted at 18, a time when most teens are figuring out how to chug beer without puking. By 1984, he was already tangled in angles with the likes of Tommy Rich and Ted DiBiase, the latter of whom Brad duped in a glorious Mr. R swerve that resulted in a short but shiny reign as NWA National Heavyweight Champion.
He and Tim Horner formed The Lightning Express—two guys who wrestled like angels but had all the charisma of a library field trip. They were booked like diet Rock ‘n’ Roll Express and jobbed out accordingly. Still, Brad’s footwork was so precise it could’ve been choreographed by NASA. The man floated in the ring, an artist with a mullet and a dropkick that could split atoms.
Gimmicks: The Costume Roulette of Wrestling Hell
Brad Armstrong wrestled under more names than a con man with five burner phones. The Candyman handed out sugar to kids and sugarcoated jobberdom to audiences. Then there was Badstreet—an all-black, feather-covered masked man who somehow managed to be the least flamboyant member of The Fabulous Freebirds.
Next came Arachnaman, a Spider-Man clone so blatant Marvel threatened WCW with legal headlocks. In three months, Arachnaman spun his last web—and it got cut with copyright scissors. Brad was so good he could’ve gotten “Over” as an IRS agent in Alabama, but WCW had him cosplaying like he lost a bet.
It didn’t stop there. He became “Buzzkill,” a tie-dyed knockoff of his brother Brian’s Road Dogg character. WCW, already spiraling into its Vince Russo-induced fever dream, told Brad to basically LARP as his more famous sibling. If there was a gimmick graveyard, Brad Armstrong had frequent flyer miles there.
The Curse of Being Better Than the Bookers
Brad’s in-ring style was butter on ice. Smooth, seamless, and a little too slippery for the political grease-pit of the ’90s wrestling world. The Armstrong Curse—a running joke Brad himself leaned into—wasn’t so much a hex as it was an industry that didn’t know what to do with talent that didn’t scream or bleed every promo.
At SuperBrawl VIII, he was fed to Goldberg. That’s not shade—it was an honor at the time. Everyone got a turn on the Meat Grinder Express. Brad bumped like a man possessed, making Goldberg look like a Marvel character on Red Bull.
Later, WCW stuffed him into The No Limit Soldiers, a faction more 1999 than dial-up internet. As “B.A.,” he was essentially a warm body in camo. Then they made him feud with Berlyn, which is like making Shakespeare write dialogue for a reality show.
Indies, ECW Dust, and WWE Purgatory
After WCW folded and his knees were finally held together with duct tape and prayer, Brad bounced around the indies like a ghost of what could’ve been. He trained newbies, showed up at ECW house shows, and at one point had to feud with Chris Hamrick—which is like watching two starving artists perform Hamlet in a gas station.
By 2006, WWE signed him—not to wrestle, but to be the guy who explained to greenhorns what a wristlock was. He did occasional commentary, and rumor has it Vince McMahon once asked him if he was “one of the Road Dogg’s cousins.” Classic.
A Life in the Shadows of Legends
Brad Armstrong died on November 1, 2012, at just 50 years old. It was a heart attack, the kind of quiet, grim exit that mirrored the subtlety of his career. His former partner Tim Horner called it a tragic surprise. Jim Ross called him “one of the most underrated all-time greats ever in the business.”
And that might be the greatest tragedy of all—Brad Armstrong had Hall of Fame skill, but his career was booked like a guy who forgot to shake the promoter’s hand backstage. He was a technician’s technician. A seller so gifted he made average guys look like gods. And for it, he paid in anonymity.
The Eulogy Vince Forgot to Air
Brad Armstrong was never a headliner. He was never the t-shirt mover or the talk show guest. But he was the match that guys asked for when they wanted to look good. The guy who did the job, then quietly changed backstage and went home.
He wasn’t a character. He was a craftsman. Wrestling needed him—but it never truly deserved him.
In a just universe, Brad Armstrong would’ve been a Bret Hart with a southern drawl. Instead, he was a trivia question, a cult favorite, a cautionary tale. A man too damn good to get noticed in a business that rewards volume over value.
Rest in peace, Candyman. You never got the push—but you always gave us the match.
