Ray Candy didn’t just wrestle—he loomed. Whether clad in camouflage as Kareem Muhammad or stomping around Florida rings with an extra hundred pounds of disdain, Candy was a superheavyweight of seismic proportions. More than just another “big man” on the territory trail, he was a statement—a 6’5″, 410-pound rolling thundercloud of aggression and charisma that Southern crowds couldn’t boo fast enough.
Ray Candy wasn’t just part of wrestling history. For a brief, brilliant time in the early ’80s, he was the whole damn narrative.
Early Days: Ray Candy Gets His Sugar Rush
Trained by Dory Funk Jr.—a man who could make a cactus tap out—Ray Candy entered the squared circle in 1973 and immediately did what most rookies couldn’t: survive. In the wild world of regional promotions, where a handshake meant you’d be body-slammed six times by Wednesday, Candy began dominating the Southeast like a heavyweight hurricane with an afro.
He made early splashes in the All-South Wrestling Alliance and Funk’s own Western States territory, picking up tag gold with Dory himself. When your trainer decides to tag with you, you’re either incredibly talented or he’s really short on options. With Candy, it was the former.
And like any self-respecting rising star of the ‘70s, he took his talents to Japan, where he and Abdullah the Butcher beat Baba and Tsuruta for the NWA International Tag belts. For one glorious week, the Gaijin Nightmare came true. Then Baba took the belts back, as was tradition.
Zambuie Express: The Tag Team That Gave the South an Ulcer
In 1983, wrestling decided to push every button in the deep-fried Bible Belt at once. Enter: The Zambuie Express, a tag team that came dressed like militarized Black Panthers, spoke like angry revolutionaries, and wrestled like angry refrigerators. Candy became Kareem Muhammad, and his partner, Leroy Brown, transformed into Elijah Akeem. Together, they were like an armed protest wrapped in camouflage.
Their gimmick? Take one part Nation of Islam, two parts riot squad, and add just enough legitimate ass-kicking to make them terrifying. They were booed, threatened, chased, and in some towns, nearly lynched. But they drew crowds. Big ones.
In the ring, the Express flattened everyone—from babyfaces to logic. They feuded with Dusty Rhodes, The Fabulous Ones, and Mike Graham like men on a mission. Managed by Sir Oliver Humperdink and backed by “House of Humperdink,” the Express terrorized Florida, Memphis, and Jim Crockett Promotions.
They even worked Starrcade 1984, the NWA’s version of WrestleMania, losing to Buzz Tyler and The Masked Assassin. It wasn’t a match so much as a demolition derby with headlocks.
Shock Troops and Super Mario Man: The Odd Years
After the Express fizzled, Candy didn’t stop—he just reinvented. He became part of the Shock Troops, teaming with Ed Gantner, and later the hilariously misbranded Super Mario Man in Japan—because what better way to repackage a 410-pound African American man than naming him after an Italian plumber?
Some gimmicks age poorly. That one was born old.
But when he wasn’t jumping between awkward aliases, Candy was winning titles. He briefly held the Florida Heavyweight Championship, beating a young Barry Windham (yes, that Barry Windham), and the Puerto Rico Heavyweight Title in WWC, during the Island’s golden era of blood feuds and broken chairs.
He was also half of The Commandos, teaming with Commando Boone to cause regional havoc under Skandor Akbar’s Devastation Inc.—an organization that basically specialized in hiring guys with a cholesterol count higher than their win percentage.
Trainer of Terror: Giving Birth to Violence
Ray Candy didn’t just influence the ring—he helped birth chaos incarnate. He was one of the trainers responsible for introducing New Jack to professional wrestling. Yes, that New Jack. The one who made ECW look tame and once tried to murder a man with a scalpel on live television.
Let it never be said that Candy didn’t leave a mark.
He also helped train Glenn Jacobs, better known as Kane—a mayor-sized demon who set rings on fire and once “married” Lita after electrocuting Shane McMahon’s testicles.
So yes, Candy had an eye for unique talent.
Death and Legacy: A Quiet End for a Loud Life
Ray Candy passed away from a heart attack in 1994 at just 42 years old—an end far too early for a man who once felt unstoppable. After retiring in 1990, he returned to Decatur, Georgia, living a modest life as a dispatcher and transport supervisor, a far cry from the riotous heat of his ring persona.
But Ray Candy’s legacy is bigger than any belt. He was a pioneer of character-driven, politically volatile wrestling. His Zambuie gimmick laid the groundwork for future radical factions, from the Nation of Domination to the Truth Commission, to even The Shield’s paramilitary aesthetic. He showed that the ring could be a soapbox, even if you were just there to drop elbows and collect paychecks.
Final Bell: The Revolutionary Nobody Dared Copy
Ray Candy was never the guy with the six-pack abs or the corporate smile. He didn’t have a catchphrase or a titantron. But he had presence, rage, and the kind of authenticity you can’t bottle. He was a tank in wrestling boots, a time bomb with a side of commentary, and one of the most underappreciated big men of his generation.
There are legends, there are gimmicks, and then there are warnings. Ray Candy was all three.