By Request...
The Past, The Present, and "The Future" Tom Hardy – An autobiography
Introduction (written by Jeff Hardy)
When I lost my Tommy, I was surprised by the number of people who asked me if I would ever consider writing his life story. I always, and still do, believe that I could never do it any justice simply because we weren't a part of each others lives for the majority of it.
What I didn't count on was Tommy doing just that. While going through Tommy's personal papers, I found the key to a storage unit. Inside it was this. This it Tommy is his own words. Nothing has been changed, not even his Canadian spellings. I had the good fortune to know him as a brother, a lover, and a husband and even I learned a few things.
I hope you do too.
Chapter One – The Early Years
For anyone who has ever read an autobiography, this is where we get the basics out of the way. I was born on such-and-such a day, at such-and-such a time, et cetera. Unfortunately, I don't know a lot of that myself.
Before you start assuming that I've taken a few too many head shots, let me explain. I was born in North Carolina on March 25, 1972 to Gilbert and Ruby Hardy. Other than that, It's all a mystery. Hell, I can't even tell you what name I was born with.
At ten days old, Teresa and Robert Baker, a very nice Canadian couple, adopted me and I was given the Christian names Andrew Thomas. Like a lot of things in my early life, I think my names were a compromise. My mom always called me 'Andy' or "Andrew' unless she was pissed at me. To my Dad, I was 'Tom' or "Thomas' unless he was angry. That's when I got slapped across the face by whatever the old man could get his hands on. I developed a real pain tolerance by the time I started school, let me tell you.
Other than being my Dad's personal punching bad, I had a pretty normal early childhood, although I wasn't what anyone would call normal. My IQ at age 5 was certified at 141, which was considered genius. About that time, I also discovered game shows. By the time I started Kindergarten, I could solve the puzzles on Wheel Of Fortune faster than the contestants. The Price is Right honed my math skills to the point where I was doing grade 4 multiplication and division in grade ½. (I was in grade one for all of one month before being promoted to grade 2.) According to my report cards, my principal wanted me to do the same for grades ¾ and 5/6. That would've meant graduating grade school at ten, high school at fourteen, and University before I was legally able to drink. (That being 19 in Canada.) Not surprising, my mother shot that idea down real fast.
As a result, and I'm almost ashamed to admit this, I never learned to write longhand. That was part of the grade one curriculum I skipped over. What's even funnier is I can write all the upper-case letters... only because that was taught in grade 3.
That might beg the question... if I can't write, how do I sign my cheques? Remind me to tell you that story some time.
Anyway, despite the fact that I was an only child; at least as far as I had no Baker siblings, I didn't make a lot of friends growing up. Honestly, people around town will say that I didn't try, but my answer is I didn't care. I would have more fun reading in my bedroom. Ironically, the first books I owned were volumes of "The Hardy Boys" mysteries.
Between books, game shows, and youth bowling, that was my social life until age 12... when my world fell apart. Not having much of a support system to begin with, I wasn't able to cope. People ask how I survived my teenage years. My reply: luck.
Anyway, age 12. My parents separated. The divorce finalized the day before I started high school. They got back together a few years later. Yeah, after the floozie my Dad left my mom for left him for another woman. If you want to laugh, go ahead. I found it kind of funny when I heard about it many years later.
By this point, I was long gone. The moment I got accepted to Harvard School of Business, I packed my shit and left Canada for good. I didn't go back until after my Dad dropped dead of a heart attack. I don't know if my mom every forgave me for that. I wish I'd asked her before she left way too soon herself.
It was at Harvard where I started getting comfortable in my skin. Being smart, being a loner, and everything else that got me tormented during my high school days was actually normal for a change. That, and wrestling. I got into it right after 'Mania III. Back when squash matches were the norm. (Anyone else remember Scott Casey and Iron Mike Sharpe?) A match between recognizable names was a thing to remember.
November 12, 1987. Strike Force defeats the Hart Foundation to win the WWF tag-team titles. The day I knew I was hooked and the day I also knew that was I wanted to do.
But back to Uni. Back to a time before the Monday Night Wars, monthly pay-per-views, and PG. Every three months (give or take), a group of us would scrape together some cash and either hit a local restaurant, or when one of us actually had his own place, to watch Wrestlemania, or one of the other 'big four'. Afterwards, depending upon if any alcohol had been consumed, we'd fuck around and imitate what we'd just seen. I don't know how many coffee tables we destroyed over the years, but eventually it became part of the budget. That, and bail money, but that's for later on.
Post-grad, we went our separate ways. Last I heard, a couple of them were trying their luck in TNA. Wrestling, as a profession, would take the back burner for a couple of years while I pretended to be an adult. I got a job, bought my first house, and almost got married.
It was the summer of 1996 when everything changed. Got piledriven on its head, if you will. By that, I mean it was time for me to stop doing what everyone else said I should do. I was time to start living my life and my life was to become a professional wrestler.