by Mick Foley
“Shane, I’m not sure you understand,” I shot back. “This isn’t exactly what I want to do for the rest of my life-I want to wrestle.”
I would have jumped at any chance to wrestle full-time. Sadly, most of the full-time regional territories had dried up, and the openings that were available were often taken by local boys who were already known entities even if their presence was stale and unmarketable. I never did quite understand why Eddie didn’t bring me in-I could have contributed to his CWF (Continental Wrestling Federation), and his guidance would have benefited me greatly. As for Shane, thankfully, I’d already learned that although he was an exceptionally bright guy, career guidance was not a strong point for him. I can honestly say that if I had ever listened to Shane’s advice, including his later World Wrestling Federation warnings, I would be out of wrestling and probably cutting grass instead of kicking ass.
When I first showed up at the Tendler house, I almost immediately made the transition from trainee to trainer. Mark Tendler was a lot of things, but a polished wrestling technician was not one of them. Once I stepped inside the Tendler ring, which was really just amateur mats on the floor and jerryrigged ropes running along three sides of his basement walls, I was pretty much the teacher. For two hours I would show holds and reversals, while Mark answered the phone and ate sandwiches of astonishing size.
I will admit to being fairly rough on the new guys, but I never took liberties with them. They might have left with a couple of bruises, but at least they were still walking and they still had both eyes. Training the guys also had the added benefit of helping me, as the repetition of teaching reinforced many of the scientific skills I had stopped using. Now, I know a lot of people are probably saying, “What scientific skills?” and I will freely admit to not displaying a wide array of holds and picture-perfect pinning predicaments. But you’ve got to understand one thing-I noticed a direct correlation between how many nice moves I did and how many peanut butter sandwiches I had to eat. More skills-more peanut butter. Punching, kicking, and throwing chairs-less peanut butter. So, I more or less decided to dance with the one that brought me, and scientific wrestling became a thing of the past. Still, it’s comforting to know that I have it, and unlike the petrified prophylactic I pulled out in the Caribbean, I’m hoping my old skills will still work.
Guess what, I even got a girlfriend at Mark’s house-an older veteran of the ladies’ circuit. I’ll leave it up to you fans to figure out who it was, but I’ll give you a hint-Adrian Street wrote a song about her called “Mighty Big Girl.” Unfortunately, when we weren’t throwing each other around Tendler’s basement, we didn’t have a whole lot to say, which made me pretty miserable in the relationship, and the whole thing fizzled out about as quickly as an Al Snow entrance pop. Tragically, Mark Tendler’s life would end less than two years later. I had kept in touch with Mark, and had even been to see him at the small nightclub he had just bought. On that night he had told me, “You know, Cactus, it’s impossible to open up a club around here without the right connections.” A week later, my dad told me that Mark had been gunned down outside his club in what appeared to be a professional hit. Whenever I stop to remember Mark, I am always reminded of those last words he said to me.
I was at Brian Hildebrand’s in the early summer of ‘88, when I saw him reading a strange publication called the Wrestling Observer. I had heard about these “dirtsheets” (inside newsletters) that “exposed” wrestling to its readers, but had never actually seen one. At the time, these sheets were probably read by fewer than a thousand people, but nonetheless carried a lot of weight in the business. Men as important as Bill Watts were known to change the company’s direction if the sheets didn’t like what was going on, while many others swore they’d kill the guy who wrote it if they ever found him. In 1990, the guy, Dave Meltzer, introduced himself to me in Greensboro, North Carolina, and I was shocked that he actually appeared in public. I thought he was like Salman Rushdie of The Satanic Verses fame.
“Hey, Brian,” I said, “could I take a look at that thing when you’re done?”
“Sure,” he replied, “you’re in it.”
“I am?” I asked in disbelief. “For what?” Before he could answer, I changed my mind. “Never mind, I’ll read it myself.” When Brian handed me the sheet, I took it to a place where I could concentrate, and it was there, on the bowl of the Hildebrand house in Pittsburgh while squeezing out a solid Snow, that I read the biggest compliment of my young career. “Cactus Jack, who many consider to be the best no-name independent in the country.”
I couldn’t believe it-as much as the Observer was maligned by people in the business, a wrestler getting a favorable write-up was like an actor getting a good review in the New York Times. Whether it was coincidence or not, I’ll never know, but interest in Cactus Jack picked up immediately.
A phone call came in minutes later, which Brian answered. I could tell right away he was excited. “Yes, yes sir. I sure would, Tommy. Thank you very much.” Brian then smiled at me, and continued talking briefly. “Yes, Tommy, as a matter of a fact he’s right here. Would you like to talk to him?”
He handed me the phone, and without a clue as to what was going on, I said, “Hello.”
“Cactus, this is Tommy Gilbert,” the voice informed me. Tommy was Eddie’s dad-a former wrestler himself, and also the referee for my big blunder match with Sam Houston. I didn’t know what to expect.
“Hi, Tommy, how are you?” I asked.
Tommy got right to the point. “Look, I’m going to open up a small territory in Kansas City, and I’d like you and Brian to come. I can’t promise you a lot of money, but you’ll be working full-time. What do you think?” I didn’t need any time to think it over or discuss it with Brian. We both knew the answer. We were going to Kansas City! I hung up the phone, and we jumped around Brian’s living room with our fists pumping in the air.
A few days later, I received a call from Capital Sports in Puerto Rico, also offering me a full-time job. My blood ran cold. A short time earlier, Bruiser Brody had been stabbed to death by a fellow wrestler in the locker room. Apparently Brody, who was one of my heroes, and whose tapes from Japan I had studied for hours, had been stabbed in the stomach by booker Jose Gonzalez. Brody died on the locker room floor an hour later, poisoned by the bile from his own wounded kidney, while waiting for an ambulance that never arrived.
Gonzalez was not only cleared of all charges in a trial because it was ruled to be self-defense, but he was also received as a hero by the Puerto Rican fans, who believed that Gonzalez was like a heroic David slaying the bully Brody.
I vowed never to work for Capital Sports, but ended up spending a weekend there in 1994 at the request of Eddie Gilbert. I will never forget the feeling in my gut when I shook hands with the man who killed Brody. It was a feeling of shame.
I was glad to be able to inform Puerto Rico in 1988 that I wasn’t interested in coming to their island.
Two weeks went by and I hadn’t heard anything from Tommy Gilbert, so when I answered the phone and I was given a starting date in Memphis by booker Randy Hales, I jumped at the opportunity. I never did hear anything else about Kansas City.
The Championship Wrestling Association, or CWA, was better known simply as Memphis. Memphis was the city the entire territory worked around, with the MidSouth Coliseum being the site of weekly Monday night cards for a few decades. In addition, the Channel 5 TV studio hosted a Saturday morning wrestling TV show that was a local institution. The show aired live every Saturday in Memphis, and then played a week later in the rest of the towns. The territory was run completely off the angles and story lines on television, and shows were run on a weekly basis in Nashville, Louisville, and Evansville. Other shows, called spot shows, were run on off days in various locations throughout Mississippi, Kentucky, Tennessee, and parts of Arkansas.
At one time, Memphis had been a hotbed of wrestling, with the alumni reading like a Who’s Who of the mat game. Many were the times t
hat a green wrestler came into the territory with nothing to offer but potential, and left as a polished performer. The rapid pace of the television show-made necessary by the weekly shows in the towns-enabled a young wrestler to become immersed in angles and interviews, and most of the time, a wrestler couldn’t help but improve.
For years, the territory was also a great place to make money, as the MidSouth Coliseum was a sellout much of the time, but fate hadn’t been kind to the company in the past few years. Gone were the days of $1,500 paychecks, and it was common knowledge that most of the young guys had to get by on $300 a week or less. Many of the guys established a network of girls to feed them, house them, and physically take care of them just to make ends meet. Still, even with all the drawbacks, landing a full-time job in Memphis was a matter of prestige for a young wrestler, and I was filled with excitement on my 1,000-mile trip.
I pulled into the Channel 5 studio with five hours to spare, so I curled up in the back of the Fairmont for a typical night’s sleep. Unfortunately, the oppressive August heat made it hell to sleep, so I ended up lying in the parking lot until the studio was opening. When I walked into that studio, I might well have been walking into a whole new world, as much of what I had learned was no longer needed and much of what I didn’t know would quickly become exploited.
The show began and aired a replay of Robert Fuller, the leader of the Stud’s Stable, firing Brickhouse Brown. I had never seen anything quite like Robert Fuller (later known as Colonel Parker and Tennessee Lee) and come to think of it, I still haven’t. He was an unbelievable talker, an animated wrestler, and the most avid crazy eights player I have ever seen. During that show I was brought out as the newest member of the “Stable” with very little hoopla.
Later in the show, I was brought back out for my first TV match, against Surfer Ray Odyssey. I ran into a big problem that day because in all my training at DeNucci’s and all my matches around the globe, I had never once been put in a position of having to make myself look good. It had always been about helping the other guy. With Ray Odyssey, this weakness was so obvious that I later learned they were going to let me go because of it. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a bad match, it’s just that they didn’t want the Surfer laying a beating on a Stud’s Stable guy, especially when it was my debut. I learned immediately in Memphis that sometimes selfishness is a necessity.
That night I drove the 200 miles to Nashville for my first house (non-televised) show, which was held at the Nashville Fairgrounds. I teamed with Jimmy Golden against a young Jeff Jarrett, which in case you didn’t know, is spelled J-A-ha ha-double R-ha ha-E-double T -ha ha, and a returning Bill Dundee. Dundee was a fixture in the territory and Jarrett was the boss’s son (who also happened to be a very good talent), so I thought I knew my role in the match. Ironically, the things that had made me look so bad in the office’s eyes earlier that morning suddenly made me look pretty good, as I flew through the air and staggered through the crowd. With that one match, I was given a new lease on life in the CWA.
The next night, Randy Hales got a hold of me at the Motel 6 in Murphreesboro, Tennessee, and gave me a better idea of my job description. “Cactus, we have a pecking order here,” Hales began in his high-pitched, cracking voice, which seemed perfectly suited for his six-foot-five, 190-pound frame. “When you mess up that order, you mess up our plans. We can’t have you taking the same bumps for Ray Odyssey that you do for Jeff Jarrett.” I began to see the light. Then Hales ran by the Memphis philosophy of “getting heat,” which I didn’t agree with then and still don’t today. “A heel has got to cheat to get his heat,” Randy stated emphatically. “If he doesn’t cheat, he’s not a heel.” They more or less didn’t want a heel to do anything that might look remotely gutsy or skillful. That would make the heel a babyface.
I don’t completely disagree with Hales but I think making all the guys fit into one mold takes away from part of what makes a wrestler great-the individuality. A quick look throughout history shows that the great heels weren’t always cowards. Goliath of David and Goliath sure wasn’t a coward; he was a great heel because he was so damn big. Apollo Creed in Rocky wasn’t a coward either-he was a heel because he was the best and he knew it. The shark in Jaws wasn’t a coward; he got his heat by eating people. The mother with the black veil hated the shark because it ate her son, not because it attacked while Chief Brody’s back was turned. Benedict Arnold, on the other hand, probably would have been pushed to the top by Hales, despite his poor physique and weak interview skills.
In general, my time in Memphis was every bit as miserable as it was valuable. No matter what I did, I never could please anyone. I really wasn’t comfortable being a cowardly heel, but still I begged off when the good guy was on the attack, just like everyone else there. When I did play the coward, it was hard to be something else. Frank Morell was a veteran wrestler turned referee, who seemingly made it his goal to torment every college graduate about his decision to wrestle. “What are you doing in this business,” Frank yelled during my first week. “You’ve got a college education, why don’t you use it instead of being in this Godforsaken business?” I guess Frank didn’t realize it but I already had enough things to hate about the company without adding him to the list. Aside from his questionable guidance skills, Frank may also have been the worst referee that I ever worked with. Actually, “worked against” would be more accurate, as he truly seemed like my enemy when I was out there. I had come to Tennessee with a pinched nerve in my right shoulder. Brickhouse Brown had a dropkick that came in high on my face with lots of force-resulting several times in my head being snapped back violently. This would bring about what is commonly known as a stringer, a very innocentsounding word for such a sickeningly painful injury. When Brickhouse planted me with the dropkick, my right arm would literally feel like it was on fire and I would roll out of the ring to try to get my bearings. My physical pain seemed to have no bearing on Frank’s count. However, as he would fire out those numbers. “One, two, three … “
“Frank, I’m hurt, I’m hurt.”
“Four, five, six … ” with a gleam in his eye.
“Frank, help me, I’m hurt.”
“Seven, eight, nine … ” Finally I’d roll in and try to get Brick to help me recover.
At one point, the pinched nerve was so bad that I seriously questioned whether I was physically cut out for wrestling. We were in the main event of the TV show and the “Stable” was beating up on somebody when the babyface cavalry of Brick, Jarrett, and Dundee stormed the ring. With a succession of quick moves, including a Brickhouse dropkick, the ring was quickly cleared of all the dastardly bad guys, who all hightailed it to the back. All except one, that is. The pinched nerve was so excruciating that I had simply rolled onto the floor and stayed there. I wouldn’t feel quite this helpless again until Chyna slammed the cage door on my head at the 1997 Summerslam.
At least the cold tile floor of the Channel 5 studio was of slight comfort, and my goal was to simply lie there until I stopped suffering, which would take about two hours. The triumphant babyfaces were already on their way to the back when a fan stooged off my position. “Someone get this piece of garbage out of here,” the prick yelled, loud enough for the boys to hear too. A moment later, I was back in the ring and being triple teamed, until I finally rolled out and headed for softer ground.
I had tears in my eyes as I cradled my right arm with my left so that it wouldn’t dangle. I really felt as if I’d been shot. Apparently, Randy Hales didn’t think much of my plight, as I later found out from his heartless comment of “Cactus Jack has got to be the biggest pussy I’ve ever seen.” I’m proud to say that in my absence, Jeff Jarrett stuck up for me by saying, “Fuck you, Randy, you’ve never even been in the ring.” I think that was very nice of Jeff, but hey, I’m not a twenty-three- year-old kid frightened for my job anymore-I’m Man F’ing Kind, and I can speak for myself. So here goes. “Yeah, fuck you, Randy Hales, you’ve never even been in the ring.”
Actually, only one guy seemed to have faith in me and that was Robert Fuller. I used to ride to many of the towns with Rob, and it was kind of like sitting under the learning tree, because Rob had as good a head for the business as anyone. I learned a lot about what to do in the ring from Rob, but sadly learned just as much about what not to do outside it.
Rob and his brother Ron had both grown up in the business as second-generation stars, both had booked, both worked, and, for a time, co-owned Continental Wrestling. In actuality, Robert was the better performer and better talker. But somehow, at a similar age, Ron was a multimillionaire and poor Rob lived week to week. I genuinely liked Rob, but his situation depressed me and I made myself a promise that I wouldn’t make the same financial mistakes he had. I believe Robert Fuller was the only guy I ever simultaneously looked up to and looked down on, but I can honestly say that without Rob’s respect and support-and the confidence they gave me-life may have not turned out quite the same for me. One night in late September, I was riding to Memphis with Rob and Jimmy Golden, and Rob was having a hard time thinking of a way out of his match. After hearing him worry out loud for an hour and a half, I kind of sheepishly belted in, “Uh, Rob, I have an idea.”
“Well hell, Jack,” Rob responded enthusiastically, “let’s hear it.”
When I finished, Rob thought about it for two seconds and then replied, “Jack, that’s good-it’s damn good, and I’m going to use it tonight.” With that analysis, Rob helped restore faith in myself-I was getting so used to people calling me stupid that I was starting to believe it.