If wrestling were the Wild West, “The Outlaw” Ron Bass would’ve been its whiskey-soaked sheriff, judge, and executioner rolled into one sweaty, spur-stomping behemoth. With his handlebar mustache, bullwhip named “Miss Betsy,” and a face weathered like Texas sandstone, Bass rode roughshod through the territories like a cattle drive gone off the rails. He wasn’t just a cowboy; he was a cowboy cosplayer with a body count, and he made damn sure you remembered it.
Born Ronald Heard in 1948 in the land of sunstroke and swampland (that’d be Florida), Bass didn’t start with a silver horseshoe up his keister. He broke in with the National Wrestling Alliance in 1971, at a time when you earned your pay in broken fingers and bar brawls, not Twitter likes and novelty entrance music. For more than a decade, he swaggered through NWA’s regional hellholes under aliases like “Cowboy” Ron Bass, “Outlaw” Ron Bass, and even Sam Oliver Bass, just in case someone needed a reminder that this man could rustle cattle or beat your ass depending on which hat he wore.
From Sidekick to Saddle-Kicking Psycho
Bass wasn’t content playing second fiddle to someone else’s six-string shootout. In the early ‘80s, he rode with Black Bartas The Long Riders, a tag team that sounded like a John Ford western and hit like a swinging saloon door. Together, they brought spurs and spine-cracking to promotions like Championship Wrestling from Florida and Jim Crockett Promotions. Bass looked like he’d been aged in a whiskey barrel and barbecued in Dusty Rhodes’ armpit—and that was before he turned heel.
Ah yes, the heel turn: that glorious cowboy betrayal. Bass cost Dusty Rhodes the NWA World Title in his role as “special referee,” which in wrestling translates to “plot twist waiting to happen.” That kicked off a feud with Barry Windhaminvolving a prized saddle—a storyline so southern you could smell the mesquite. Windham eventually lost a loser-leaves-town match and came back as the masked Dirty Yellow Dog, which was either poetic justice or a Nickelodeon villain depending on your blood alcohol level.
Welcome to the WWF: Where the Bullwhip Meets Big Hair
In 1987, Bass saddled up for Vince McMahon’s World Wrestling Federation, just in time to get swallowed by the neon tidal wave of Hulkamania, cocaine, and exploding ring entrances. The Outlaw traded barbed-wire bingo halls for glittery ropes and steroid-shaped cartoons. Still, Bass stood tall—well, wide—among a circus of peacocks.
He carried his bullwhip “Miss Betsy” like a Texan Excalibur, though he used it less like a lasso and more like a felony in progress. He immediately called out Hulk Hogan, which in WWF terms is like a new janitor challenging the CEO to a cage match. Predictably, Bass got shunted to the midcard, where he feuded with Hillbilly Jim, Sam Houston, and Lanny Poffo—the poetic gymnast who could read a sonnet while getting DDT’d into next week.
Bass was part of the original Survivor Series in 1987, captained by The Honky Tonk Man in a heel stable that included half the Federation’s hair gel inventory. Bass also took part in the very first Royal Rumble and WrestleMania IV’s underwhelming 20-man Battle Royal, where he got tossed like expired brisket by Junkyard Dog. But the best part? That feud escalated when Bass lassoed the Dog on national television, dragging him around like a rodeo clown who owed him money.
That same year, he picked a fight with the emerging pretty-boy, Brutus “The Barber” Beefcake—a man whose gimmick was cutting hair with all the subtlety of a wood chipper. Bass introduced his spurs “Bret” and “Bart” to Beefcake’s face, slicing him open like a rodeo pig and costing him an Intercontinental Title match at SummerSlam 1988. The move was so vile, so blood-soaked, that the screen went black-and-white for television—WWF’s version of a parental advisory label.
Haircuts, Has-Beens, and the Exit Stampede
Revenge came full circle in 1989 at Saturday Night’s Main Event XIX, where Bass lost to Beefcake in a hair vs. hair match. In a scene more humiliating than karaoke night at a biker bar, Bass was put to sleep and given the Edward Scissorhands treatment on live TV. There’s nothing more tragic than seeing a grown man have his cowboy pride scalped by a stripper-themed hairdresser. It was the beginning of the end for The Outlaw.
By March 1989, Ron Bass had slipped into jobber status—wrestling’s equivalent of being put out to pasture. He rode off the WWF range with dignity, if not all his follicles, and hit the independent circuit. After a brief ride through the regional territories, he retired in 1991, beaten down by the kind of injuries that only 20 years of turnbuckles and table shots can give a man.
Retirement: From Ropes to Religious Redemption
After wrestling, Bass took the kind of unexpected path most wrestlers wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot bullrope. He got religious, earned a bachelor’s degree from Arkansas State University, and started selling Amway in Tampa, which is like going from shootfighting to selling essential oils to your cousin. He also did sales work in the Florida construction market—because where else can you go after breaking noses for a living?
He even returned briefly in 2005 to WrestleReunion, teaming with Larry Zbyszko to defeat Barry Windham and Mike Rotunda—a nostalgia match if there ever was one. Then came the final act: Ron Bass, Movie Star. In 2018, Bass made a posthumous film debut in Silent Times as a 1920s football coach. Why? Because even in death, the Outlaw needed one last close-up.
Death, Lawsuits, and CTE: The Sad Sunset
In 2016, Bass joined a class-action lawsuit against WWE over traumatic brain injuries—part of the growing chorus of CTE-related claims from wrestlers who’d seen more concussions than paychecks. The case was dismissed in 2018, but a postmortem report confirmed Bass had indeed suffered from chronic traumatic encephalopathy—a grim footnote for a career built on pain.
In March 2017, Bass suffered a burst appendix, and after complications from surgery, he passed away on March 7. He was 68, survived by his son, Joe, who now wrestles as Ron Bass Jr., carrying on the legacy—hopefully with less brain trauma and fewer bullwhips.
Legacy: A Man, a Whip, and a Wild Damn Ride
Ron Bass may never have worn the heavyweight title or headlined WrestleMania, but he embodied the raw essence of wrestling’s territorial roots—stiff punches, louder boots, and a character so brash he made Dusty Rhodes look like a librarian.
He was a cowboy from a time when cowboys weren’t ironic. His whip cracked, his spurs bloodied, and his mustache sneered through the federation circus. In the carnival of wrestling, Bass wasn’t a clown or a lion. He was the guy who broke the tent poles, whipped the ringmaster, and rode off into the sunset on a glue factory-bound horse named “Kayfabe.”
Rest in peace, Outlaw. May you forever haunt Gorilla Monsoon’s dreams, whipping referees and slicing jobbers under the merciless Texas moon.