In a business where the glitter mattered more than the grind, Velvet McIntyre was too busy wrestling to worry about the spotlight. She didn’t just march to the beat of her own drum—she moonsaulted off the top rope and stomped it barefoot into the mat.
A fiery redhead with Irish roots and Canadian grit, McIntyre wasn’t just a wrestler. She was a whisper of rebellion wrapped in a leotard, a blur of limbs and lunges who made every ring from Idaho to Istanbul her own. With a toothy grin and a high-flying arsenal, she carved out a career the hard way—against legends, egos, bad booking, and at least one referee who apparently didn’t understand the basic physics of rope breaks.
THE BOOTS THAT WALKED AWAY
Born in Dublin in 1962, Velvet wrestled with her three brothers as a kid, which probably explains why she later treated Judy Martin like one of the lads. After finishing high school, she made the curious decision to move to Oregon to train with Sandy Barr—a man best known for running shows in towns where the local entertainment competition was limited to tractor pulls and demolition derbies.
There she met Princess Victoria, a fellow future tag partner, occasional opponent, and the sort of woman who made GLOW girls look like background dancers at a nursing home. McIntyre made her pro debut in 1980, and within three months, was already working full-time. In an era when “working full-time” meant driving 400 miles through snow just to get paid $50 and a soggy hot dog.
She wrestled in boots for four years. Then someone—likely a rib by a fellow worker or a sadistic janitor—stole one of them before a match. With no time to find a replacement, Velvet went out barefoot. She never looked back. The boots were gone, but the legend of the “barefoot babyface” was born. She turned an equipment malfunction into a trademark. That’s wrestling, folks.
TAG TEAMS, TITLES, AND TAG-OUTS
McIntyre didn’t come up through the company system. She came up the hard way—through Stampede, through Don Owen’s Pacific Northwest, through Verne Gagne’s AWA. If there was a town with a ring and a payday, McIntyre was there.
She teamed with Princess Victoria in the early ’80s, and together they battled with the likes of Joyce Grable and Wendi Richter in a series of matches that made “the girls” more than just a popcorn break between Hulk Hogan’s poses and Jimmy Snuka’s flying headbutts.
In May of 1983, Velvet and Victoria won the NWA Women’s World Tag Team titles in Calgary. Then the WWF split from the NWA and—like most corporate divorces—just kept what they wanted and slapped their own label on it. Suddenly, Velvet and Victoria were the WWF Women’s Tag Team Champions. No new tournament. No press conference. Just: “Yep, they’re ours now.”
When Victoria’s neck said “I’m out,” Desiree Petersen stepped in, and the team carried on until 1985, when the Glamour Girls—Judy Martin and Leilani Kai—snatched the belts in Egypt. Why Egypt? Maybe Vince figured the pyramids needed a tag title defense. Maybe he just liked camels.
THE MOO-LAW OF THE LAND
Then came the singles run. And that meant running straight into the gravelly-voiced, iron-clawed clutches of The Fabulous Moolah.
At WrestleMania 2, McIntyre had Moolah beat—until her top rope splash turned into a wardrobe malfunction, which turned into a fast count, which turned into a screwjob that even Bret Hart would’ve raised an eyebrow at. Her strap snapped, the pin was counted with her leg draped over the rope, and Moolah walked out with the belt.
Some say Velvet was promised the title if she worked the match. Others say Moolah pulled her usual strings—those same strings she’d been yanking since the Eisenhower administration. Either way, Velvet got hosed. And then iced out of a Syria tour for good measure. You couldn’t even make this stuff up unless you were booking Mid-South.
But Velvet got her revenge—sort of. On July 3, 1986, in Brisbane, Australia, Velvet beat Moolah fair and square. One, two, three. Clean. In front of a stunned crowd that didn’t realize they were witnessing a little wrestling history in the land of koalas and kangaroos.
Six days later in Sydney, Moolah got the belt back. And WWF, in classic “nothing to see here” fashion, never acknowledged either title change. No video, no announcement, no nothing. Velvet McIntyre was champ for six days… but you’d never know it unless you were in the building or friends with someone who was.
Still, years later, Moolah herself admitted Velvet was the best female wrestler in Canada. That’s like Vince McMahon saying the Montreal Screwjob was “maybe a little over the line.”
THE SURVIVOR
Velvet wasn’t a big promo. She wasn’t a showboat. She didn’t strut. She just wrestled. And she had a knack for making the impossible look graceful—diving crossbodies, monkey flips, and dropkicks that could knock the bleach out of your hair.
At the first-ever Survivor Series in 1987, Velvet teamed with Moolah (which must’ve felt like rooming with your ex-wife) and managed to eliminate both Donna Christanello and Sherri Martel before being taken out by Leilani Kai. She looked like she belonged in that match. The WWF, meanwhile, was preparing to mothball the women’s division like it was a broken VCR.
By 1990, the curtain fell on the division. But McIntyre didn’t quit. She just went back to Canada, went back to the indies, and kept wrestling. Iron Maiden became her foil, and they brawled across promotions with more acronyms than a tax form—CWA, ECCW, ICW. They traded belts, traded strap matches, and gave Canada the kind of women’s wrestling that the big companies forgot how to promote.
In 1997, Velvet beat Bertha Faye—WWF’s former comedy relief—and won the WWWA title. One last run before calling it a career in 1998.
CRAFTS, TWINS, AND A CLEAN EXIT
She retired when she found out she was pregnant. Gave birth to twins. Settled into a quiet life of crafts and creativity. Didn’t chase legends contracts. Didn’t beg for one last run. Just walked away like a professional. The way champions should.
She was never Moose Morowski’s daughter, despite the rumor. But she was one of the best wrestlers Canada ever produced. Period.
Velvet McIntyre never needed the fanfare. She let her feet—and her fists—do the talking. And if you’re ever in a match with her, keep an eye on your boots. You might not leave with them.
And that, folks, is how a barefoot Irish-Canadian dropkicked her way into history.
