by Mick Foley
“Ric,” I said, “I think you’ve got a few things mixed up. I did want six months off, but that was for ear surgery. I canceled that because you asked me to come back. I am seeing a psychologist for post-amputation depression, but even if WCW does pay for it, we’re talking about four hundred dollars, not four hundred thousand like Barry. And to insinuate that I’d milk any injury is an insult.”
Flair took this all in. “So you want to wrestle?” he asked.
“Yes I do, Ric-until my contract is up, you can book me on every show you run.”
The next day, I was booked in a Texas Tornado Match with Vader. Actually, it was a Texas Death Match, but, being in Disney, a few concessions had to be made. In Texas Death Match rules, pinfalls count, but they don’t end the match. The wrestler has ten seconds to answer the bell. The match continues until one man can’t answer the bell.
Vader and I picked up right where we had left off. We had actually been given a little leeway by WCW to get a little rough, but we took it a few steps further. I had Vader rocking and reeling with punches that were thrown damn near as hard as I could. I gave him a chairshot that had him seeing stars. I went for the elbow off the ring apron, but Harley tripped me and I tumbled to the floor. Vader then threw back the blue protective mats, and exactly one year later, to the day, that my foot and hand had gone numb in Atlanta, powerbombed me on the cold, hard concrete floor.
Vader covered me for the easy pin. But the match wasn’t over yet. The referee began his count as I lay prone. One, two, three-no movement. Four, five-I started to move. Six, seven-I was on my knees. Eight, nine-Cactus Jack was on his feet. Then, with the ref’s back turned, Harley hit me from behind, and I went down. Ten-I lost the match. The loss, as is usually the case in our sport, didn’t really matter, because in this case the real victory was a moral one. I had taken the powerbomb and had gotten up. Nothing could be simpler.
I went to the back feeling like the weight of the world was off my shoulders. It’s amazing how a good match can make you feel that way. I talked excitedly with Eric about the story of the match. I told him about the coincidence of the two matches occurring on the same day one year apart. He agreed it was great timing, and assured me that they would play it up when it aired on TV. Even though Jim Ross was working for the competition, I could hear his voice in my head. “The referee is counting, folks, but it’s just a formality-this one is over. What we really need is some medical attention down here. But wait, what’s this, Cactus Jack is starting to move. My God, he’s on his knees! Ladies and gentleman, in twenty-five years, this is the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. Cactus Jack is up, Cactus Jack is up!” It didn’t matter who was calling the match, however-this was too good to miss. Only a complete idiot could screw this thing up. I went back to our hotel, the Residence Inn. I couldn’t stop sweating and I was lightheaded, but I was on a natural high. Even with a probable concussion, I was in the mood to celebrate. We went to a place called Jungle Jim’s and I scarfed down the biggest steak on the menu, while Colette turned her back and breast-fed Noelle. As good as my steak was, I couldn’t help but feel a little envious of my daughter.
Kevin and I were raising havoc every night with the Nasty Boys. At a show in Melbourne, Florida, in late April, Kevin and I were taking the fight to the Nasties outside the ring. I was working over Saggs, while Kevin tried to get a fan’s beer to throw at Knobbs. The fan resisted, but Kevin physically insisted, and he let a three-quarter-full beer fly. When Knobbs turned around, however, it was obvious that beer was not the liquid that had been inhabiting the cup. Knobbs’s pasty white face and a major portion of his bleached blond Mohawk were now brown. Tobacco juice was everywhere. Knobbs reached with his hands and tried to clear it from his eyes. He opened his mouth, and more came spilling out. He snorted and some came from his nostrils as well. “Sorry, brotha,” Kevin said, laughing, with a warmth that would have made Bill Watts proud. It may have been the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in wrestling. And that’s coming from someone who’s seen the Mean Street Posse in action.
The next day, we traveled to Fort Lauderdale. I tripled up in a room with Steve Austin and Steve Regal. These were two of my favorite guys to travel with, and we were looking forward to having a good time. Now, nevermind the fact that these three big-time wrestlers were so cheap that they actually had three guys jammed into a fleabitten Econolodge. The key thing was that the lodge was right across the street from the beach, and having practically grown up in the Atlantic Ocean as a kid, I was going to be hitting the surf as soon as I could throw my trunks on.
The three of us walked across the street, and I dove in gracefully and headed out to sea, while Austin and Regal soaked up some rays in the beautiful South Florida sun. I floated on my back for a few minutes, several hundred yards from shore, and when I looked to the beach, I saw that both Steves were gone. Then, in the distance, I saw them walking back across the street. A minute later, I could see them sitting by the pool. “That’s strange,” I thought. “Trading the ocean for the pool.” But hey, I wasn’t going to let those party poopers ruin my fun. I frolicked some more. After a while, I headed in to shore.
I got to the sand, reached for my towel, and began to dry off. I looked around to see if any hot chicks had been checking me out, but didn’t notice any. “Sure are a lot of guys here, though,” I thought. I looked some more and saw two guys holding hands. The idea that something was a little odd was starting to sink in. Then I saw two guys kissing, and the sinking process started to accelerate. As did the sprinting process. I don’t think David Hasselhoff could have kicked up the sand any faster, as I hightailed it off the beach, across highway AlA, and into the pool area of the Fort Lauderdale Econolodge. Austin and Regal were laughing hysterically. “You pricks,” I yelled, even while laughing myself. “You left me on a gay beach!”
After the matches, we returned to the hotel and headed out to get something to eat. The hotel was located on the main strip of the city, where plenty of restaurants were located, so we decided to walk. “Hold on, guys,” I said after we’d taken only a few steps. I had just spotted a phone booth, and realized I hadn’t called home yet. “You guys go on without me-just sit somewhere outside, so I can see you; I’ll catch up in a minute.” I began to talk, but within a minute or two, Austin and Regal were back. I was flattered. “Man,” I thought, as Colette whispered sweet nothings into my ear. “These guys must really like me.” When I got off the phone, I realized that affection had nothing to do with their decision to wait for my company.
“There are fags everywhere,” a somewhat rattled Austin yelled.
“Yeah,” added Regal in his distinguished British way. “The whole bloomin’ street is filled with dinnermashers.”
I quickly sized up the situation. Regal, a handsome blond chap, was wearing a casual ensemble of golf shirt, tennis shorts, and flipflops. Austin, who at this point in his career also had short blond hair, was wearing a Gold’s gym tank top, high-tops, and a pair of decidedly non-toughest-SOB-in-wrestling-looking fluorescent pink shorts. As two good-looking, well-toned blond guys walking through what was apparently a gay area of town, they would look like a couple of pinup candidates for Honcho magazine. Add a big, hairy, ugly guy like Cactus Jack into the mix, however, and the picture was a little more innocent.
We sat down outside at a little restaurant and ordered from the menu. Austin ordered a grilled chicken dinner and a white wine spritzer. No, just kidding-it was a beer. Regal ordered a hamburger, but asked that the extra grease be patted with a napkin, to make it healthier. I too asked for a burger, but asked that the napkin used on Regal’s beef be wrung out and dripped on mine.
“I’m sorry,” the waitress said, looking as if she were at the end of a long day. “Our cook is pretty drunk-he can make you a cold sandwich, though.”
The three of us thought about it, but opted instead to just order beverages. I looked at the table. There was a big splatter of picante sauce on it that had been bothering me since we sat
down. I have been involved in some of the grisliest matches in wrestling history, but for some reason, I hate to look at food that has already been eaten. Especially tomato-based products like picante sauce. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said. “But would you mind cleaning off our table?”
The waitress sprung into action. With one quick movement her hand hit the table, and with only the sound of bare flesh sweeping plastic, the aromatic mixture of tomato, onions, and cilantro spilled to the cold concrete floor below. She then looked at her forefinger, and with an equally quick sucking action, vanquished the remnants. On the turnoff scale, it may not have been on a par with Test vs. Rodney, but it was damn close.
The next morning, we woke up and fumbled through the television stations on the remote control. “Let’s keep it there,” I requested when the sterile ambiance of WCW Worldwide flickered onto the screen. My match with Vader was on. Boom, boom, boom-I was really nailing big Leon. I was nervous with anticipation as Vader threw back the mat. They hadn’t made reference to the injury of exactly one year ago yet, but now the story would surely unfold. Vader picked me up for the powerbomb and sent me crashing down to the concrete. Splat. To tell you the truth, this one actually looked more devastating than the one in ‘93. I listened for the brilliant call-sometimes the right words can really cement an image in the fans’ minds. Here it comes. Bobby Heenan was the first to comment on this historic, career-turning moment. “That’ll give you Excedrin headache number nine,” said the brain, with about as much raw, naked emotion as Al Gore on sedatives. “Indeed it will,” added Schiovanne. Then nothing. Or nothing that I had suggested, visualized, hoped for, or at least, in a worst-case scenario, would have settled for. No “My God, he’s on his knees!” No “This is the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen!” No “One year ago to this very day … ” No talk about last year’s injury. No moral victory. Just “Excedrin headache number nine.” I had said it would take a total idiot to screw it up, and, by golly, they hadn’t let me down. This was the final nail. I thought about it for two days, and made my decision to quit World Championship Wrestling.
Chapter 22
Leaving a six-figure job is not an easy decision to make, especially with the uncertainty of the independent wrestling scene. Bischoff was surprised when I told him the news, but he did not seem all that upset about it. Colette was a different story. “What do you mean, you’re leaving-you’ve got a four-month-old daughter, Mickey,” Colette yelled, trying to reason with me.
“We’ll be all right,” I assured her. “I can work lots of places.”
“But you can’t make this kind of money anywhere else,” she continued.
“Listen, hon, if I stick around, I will be worthless within a year,” I fired back. “At least this way, I can buy some time, and maybe come back when things are different.”
The wrestlers were surprised as well. Arn Anderson walked up to me shortly after he heard of my decision and asked me about it. “Jack, we aren’t even working as much anymore, why would you want to leave?”
Now Arn was a guy I respected, and I wanted him to understand my motivation. “Double A,” I began, as I searched for words that wouldn’t include blasting Flair, who was a close friend of his. “I’ve worked too hard for too long to have a joke made out of my career.” I then recounted the “Excedrin headache number nine” example.
“Point well taken,” Arn agreed.
Four months is a hell of a long time to give notice for. Usually when a guy is on his way out, the company resorts to burying his career with defeat after defeat on television, or simply phasing him out. A guy could suffer a lot of defeats in four months. Looking back, I probably should have just rescheduled my surgery and taken off after the Philadelphia show. That way, I could have sat back, collected money, left the company on good terms-and with a right ear, no less. For some reason, that’s not my style. That would be like me hitting a wiffleball to right field or like my dad hiring a typist to finish his dissertation. The easy way just wasn’t in the Foley blood. Instead, I forged on, almost daring them to bury me. In a shocking reversal of company policy, they didn’t. As a matter of fact, they pushed the hell out of me, at least for a little while. For the next four months, Cactus Jack was all over the television. Never once, however, did anyone try to persuade me to stay. In the seven months since I had signed my contract, someone must have authorized Bischoff to open up the purse strings, as wrestlers who had never worked a main event match in their lives began cashing bigger checks than I ever had. Not surprisingly, the purse strings were never opened near me.
Kevin and I won the tag team titles at Slamboree in Philadelphia in a tremendous match. It might have been even better than the one in Chicago. It was especially gratifying to have such a great match with the knowledge that my dad was in the crowd, as were longtime friends John McNulty and John Ambrobo. Even Eric Bischoff noticed how excited I was about the bout, saying, “Now that’s the Cactus Jack I want to see.”
A month later we successfully defended out belts against Saggs and Knobbs. I had a 300-mile drive home, before heading out early the next morning for another match in Philadelphia-this time in the cozy confines of the ECW arena. This match had a little controversy surrounding it and would lead to considerably more in the future.
ECW was a small promotion based out of Philadelphia that prided itself on its rabid fans and hardcore wrestling style. Todd Gordon, who had been the financial backer for Joel Goodhart’s TWA, was the owner and was a big fan of mine. Paul E. Dangerously, wrestling’s mad scientist, was their booker and had, on a shoestring budget, put together the most exciting wrestling show on television. Kevin, who had worked for ECW before his return to WCW, was a close friend of Todd’s, and he hoped to act as a liaison between the two companies. At that point, the two sides were even looking at the idea of doing talent exchanges. As it turned out, WCW worked its way around exchange by offering ECW talent big money, and very nearly sucked it dry. The company today stays afloat due to a few loyal wrestlers and the creativity of Paul E.
Using Kevin’s help, Todd wanted to book a “dream match” between Cactus Jack and an ECW wrestler named Sabu. Sabu was fast becoming the biggest name on the independent circuit. As a nephew of the original Sheik (a sixties and seventies wrestling legend), Sabu had grown up wanting to be a star like his uncle. After years of setting up rings and paying his dues, he had finally caught on, first in Japan, where gory death matches had left his body zigzagged with thick bands of scars, and then in the States, where he had become Paul E.’s biggest star. Without uttering a single word, he had captured the ECW fans’ imagination with his wide array of suicidal maneuvers. Todd felt that this match would be a gold mine.
I did, too. But I wanted it to be my gold mine. This was a match that promoters around the country were going to want to book, and I was going to give it to them-but only when the time was right. As long as I stayed under contract to WCW, the time wasn’t right. I explained my feelings to everyone involved, but in the end, I was outvoted. This was an important match for both companies, and I had to go.
I thought we had a hell of a match. I later saw a tape, and still thought so. Unfortunately, expectations were so high for this match that they were impossible to live up to. There were people in that converted bingo hall who literally thought they were going to see someone die. When I finished the match, my lower back was in a great deal of pain. There was no shower in that little sweatbox arena, and my body started to break out in hives. I wanted nothing more than to have a hot shower and a clean bed, but remembering the importance of the match, I stuck around for three more hours until it was my time to do interviews. In them, I tried my best to put over ECW and Sabu, and explain what it felt like to lose to a better man. To illustrate just how upset I was, I spit on the WCW tag team belt.
I had no idea how much trouble my saliva would cause.
By the time I left the arena, I could barely walk. I ate dinner with Shane Douglas, who was now an ECW mainstay, and a couple of the o
ther guys, and then I walked back to the hotel next door, with shuffling, six-inch steps. By six o’clock that morning, I had hives covering over half my body. I got up for a second shower and had trouble moving at all. I called a fan who brought me to the hospital. An emergency room can’t do a whole lot for a back injury, but they diagnosed a strained muscle and sent me home. Now I know the pain of a torn abdominal muscle had been surprising to me. But a strain? Come on. Whom did they think they were dealing with?
I had an MRI done on my lower back when I got to Atlanta. Back then, they needed to wait for a few days before getting the results. Nowadays, the results are almost instantaneous. In the interim, I actually started to feel better, and I began wrestling again.
The phone rang as I prepared to head to Center Stage for a match with Orndorff and Roma. Janie Engle was on the line, and she asked me if I’d “hold for Ric.”
“Cactus,” Flair began accusingly, “did you do an interview where you spit on the WCW tag team belt?” Now someone had told me that Gene Okerland had stooged off my ECW interview to Flair, after seeing it on the Sunshine Network in Florida, so I was prepared.
“Yeah Ric, I did,” I said excitedly. “Did you see it?”
Flair seemed taken aback by my tone. “Why would you do an interview where you spit on the championship belt?” he inquired.
“Well, Ric,.” I explained to my boss, with even more excitement in my voice, “I wanted the fans to understand that as much as I valued that belt, I valued my pride a little more. By spitting on the belt, I felt that I was adding an exclamation point to that fact. I knew how important this match was for WCW, so I wanted to give a little something extra.”
With that, Flair said he needed to take another call. I was all fired up. “Fuck him,” I silently mouthed, while raising my middle finger in a Stone Cold salute. When Flair got back on the line, he said he had to go, but that he’d talk to me at TV. It would be great to say that I went there and verbally tore Naitch a new asshole, but the truth is that, not wanting to create waves, I apologized for disrespecting the image of the belt. Flair was pleasant enough about the whole thing, as I watched this forty-five-year old man comb back his hair as he looked in the mirror, as if he thought he was the Fonz. Heyyy!