by Mick Foley
A nurse showed me my MRI results, which revealed two bulging discs and one herniated disc. If you think of the discs in your back as jelly donuts, a bulge occurs if the jelly has started to put pressure on the donut, causing it to bulge, and a herniation is when the jelly actually squirts out. Well, my jelly had actually squirted out. The nurse left and Dr. Rosenrosen (the name has been changed to protect my bank account) walked in a few minutes later. He started in by saying, “Well, Michael, it looks like you’ve got two bulging discs.”
I kept waiting for him to continue, but he didn’t. Finally, I continued his diagnosis for him. “What about the herniated disc?” I asked, which startled him.
“Oh, how did you know about that?”
My reply was simple. “I read the report.” He was clearly caught offguard, and began backpedaling with his brain. “Well, it is but it isn’t,” came his somewhat less than scientific reply. That was all I needed to hear. I took my MRis and sought a second opinion. Dr. Armstrong was the guy wrestlers went to when they didn’t trust Rosenrosen. Armstrong took one look at my MRis and strongly advised me not to wrestle until I saw a back specialist. He said the MRI detected a portion of the disc that had fragmented and was floating freely in my spinal column. If this fragment lodged in the wrong area, it could be serious trouble. Unfortunately, I had to leave for Florida the next day and didn’t have time to see a specialist. Dr. Armstrong wished me luck and sent me off with a note that read, “Do not wrestle. To do so would risk serious and permanent injury including, but not limited to: loss of control of bowel and bladder function, loss of sensation in extremities, and paralysis. Do not wrestle until seen by a specialist.”
I called WCW and told them the news, but told them that I would come to Florida anyway. When I got to the Residence Inn, Kevin called me in to his room. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
“They don’t believe me, do they?” I said sadly, knowing that my question was merely rhetorical.
“Of course they don’t,” Kevin shot back. “Ric thinks you did this because he yelled at you about spitting on the belt.”
I was getting hot. “Where is he?”
I went to a boardroom, where Flair was sitting with several other members of the booking committee. “Cactus,” Flair began, the tone of his voice sounding like trouble to me. “Kevin tells me you won’t be able to wrestle tomorrow, is that true?”
“Yes, Ric, it is,” I answered.
“Are you sure?” he shot back, as if I were on trial.
“Yes, I am, Ric,” I answered again.
Now he’d hit a nerve. I pulled out Dr. Armstrong’s note, and with more than a little anger in my voice addressed the Nature Boy. “I’ve got a legitimate medical note from a respected orthopedic surgeon that tells me I would be risking loss of bowel and bladder control and paralysis if I wrestle. I’m actually scared, Ric, and none of you seem to give a damn, and for once in my life I’m going to put myself and my family before this business. I am not going to wrestle.”
“Is this true?” he said to someone whose identity escapes me.
“Well,” the unknown man told Flair, “the doctor did say he could use some time off.”
“But what about tomorrow?” Flair inquired.
“The doctor says that one more match shouldn’t make a difference,” the unknown man answered.
Now it was my turn to step back in. I explained the “it is, but it isn’t” diagnosis, and stressed the second opinion.
“That’s true, Ric,” unknown said, actually backing me up on this matter. “A lot of the boys don’t trust Rosenrosen, so they go to Dr. Armstrong.”
“Look,” I said, “my note says, ‘Don’t wrestle until seeing a back specialist’ -if you can get me to a specialist who can give me a milligram and a CAT scan, and if that doctor says I can wrestle, then I will.” Away I went to the Sand Lake Regional Hospital.
Unfortunately, the hospital was not able to give me those tests on short notice. The doctors echoed Dr. Armstrong’s advice before I left. I should have listened, but I didn’t. When I got back to the Residence, I went to the boardroom, opened the door, and said, “I’ll wrestle, but I’m not doing anything risky.”
“You see how soon they forget.” I was on the floor stretching at the Orlando arena when a familiar, gruff voice addressed me. I looked up and saw Harley. There was sadness in his eyes. “Everything you’ve done for them, and this is how they repay you.”
I didn’t say anything, but nodded my head. If I’d spoken at all, I very well might have cried.
“Cactus,” he continued, “I hope you remember this night for a long time.”
“You know something, Harley-I will.” I sent Harley a Christmas card that year that said simply, “I wish the office had done half as much for me as you have.” Two years later, his wife told me how much it had meant to him.
I did wrestle that night, and I was scared as hell. It was the worst Pay-Per-View match that I have ever been in, and the fans knew it. Now, I’ve been in some stinkers before, but I always had this feeling inside me that no matter how bad things sucked, I could always somehow pull it out of the gutter. I got that same feeling in Orlando that night as we cluster fucked to a symphony of silence, but I waited on the ring apron until the feeling went away. After twenty-two minutes of a match that was about nineteen minutes too long, we dropped the tag team titles to Orndorff and Roma-just as they had so mysteriously predicted over ten weeks earlier.
Chapter 23
By this point, it was clear that due to irreconcilable differences, the remaining months of the WCW-Cactus Jack marriage weren’t going to be happy ones. Gary Juster, a company attorney, told me that they would be willing to let me leave a month early with full pay, on the condition that I came back at the September Pay-Per-View and wrestled Kevin Sullivan. That sat fine with me, and Juster said they’d work on the legal aspects.
I still had one more controversy to handle, however. The phone rang, and I was dumb enough to answer it. I should have just sat at home and let the machine pick it up, or better yet, thrown both the phone and the machine into Lake Alatoona, but I didn’t think quick enough. It was Janie Engle, and she said that Flair had a big angle to turn me heel on Kevin and he needed me at TV.
“I thought you guys were done with me,” I said to Janie.
“I know,” she replied, “but baseball went on strike, and Turner’s giving us more hours to fill, and Ric really needs you.”
“Damn,” I thought as I hung up the phone, “I don’t want to be a heel.” It was early August and since I had given my notice three months earlier, my phone had been ringing steadily with independent offers. I had already taken several opening dates with ECW and some other groups as well, and was booked on a two-week tour of Austria. My weight was down to 280, and with my back pain reduced (it’ll never be completely gone) I was really in a groove. For merchandising purposes, a must on the independent scene, it was vital that I be considered a “good guy.” But what could I do? The wheels of the heel turn were already in motion.
I heard Flair’s scenario, and it was exciting, except for the fact that it would cost me a fortune in potential independent merchandise revenue. I was dejected, and I asked veteran wrestler Rip Rogers, the cheapest man in wrestling, for his professional opinion. Despite the fact that Rip was a guy considered too weird even for this sport, I liked him and valued his opinion. Actually, I felt like Rip was probably the most talented guy in the business who never really “made it”- because his reputation preceded him and usually destroyed him. Once Barry Windham lost his keys when they dropped into the toilet and sank to the bottom of his cloudy brown Jack Daniel’s diarrhea concoction. Barry thought the keys were lost for good, until Rip rolled up his sleeves and went to work. He emerged a moment later with the keys and a newfound respect/disgust from the boys. Another time, two wrestlers jokingly suggested they were going to have some “jailhouse romance” with Rip. “Go ahead,” Rip said, pulling down his pants and spreading hi
s cheeks. It was quite a sight to see Rip running backward down the hall, chasing the two wrestlers, his puckered starfish leading the charge.
“I really wish I could leave this place as a baby,” I said, before adding, “This angle’s going to change all that.”
“No it won’t,” Rip shot back quickly and assuredly. “You don’t think leaving Kevin lying will turn me heel?” I asked.
“Cac,” Rip said, laughing, “Kevin Sullivan is the least sympathetic character in the business, the fans will love you for it.”
“What about Dave? He’s sympathetic.” I countered, waiting to see what the ketchup soup drinker would come back with.
“Yeah he is,” Rip had to admit. “But Cac, even the fans can tell he’s just a mediocre worker.”
It was true. Dave Sullivan was one of the nicest guys in the business. So nice, in fact, that the boys would always mention what a hell of a guy he was before they mentioned what an abysmal worker he was. Sure enough, Rip’s words came to fruition. When I dropped Kevin, the cheers were deafening. When I dropped Dave, they intensified further. By the time I finished giving my interview, I was as big a babyface as I’d ever been. I guess I’d be selling Tshirts and eight-byten glossies after all.
Later that night, Kevin called me at home. I had bolted out while Kevin was receiving medical attention, and was already on West Peachtree Street, with the night air blowing through my “good guy” hair, by the time he got to the dressing room. “Brotha,” said Kevin, “you were the babyface out there tonight.”
“I know,” I said to Kevin compassionately, “but who would have ever thought it?”
A month later, I called Kevin from Austria, the day before our Pay-Per-View match in Roanoke, Virginia. I told him where I was, and that I’d be cutting it real close with my flight schedule. “Don’t worry, though,” I assured him, “I’ll be there.” I left a town in Austria, whose name escapes me right now, and drove three hours to Vienna. From Vienna, I caught a flight to Frankfurt, and after a three-hour layover, continued on to Atlanta. In Atlanta, I ran to barely meet my connecting flight to Roanoke, and once in Roanoke hailed a cab to the Civic Center. Pay-Per-Views usually require the talent to be at the building six hours before bell time. I got there fifteen minutes before the first match went on. Kevin and I were second.
“Brotha,” a relieved Kevin said with a sigh, “we were panicking.” My final WCW match was billed as a loser-leaves-WCW match. Because I already had three months of independent dates booked, the outcome was in about as much doubt as the night I showed up at the Sportatorium in Dallas with everything I owned stuffed into my ‘80 Plymouth Arrow.
“Give me a slam off the second turnbuckle to the floor” was all I said as I rushed to the dressing room.
As my Michael Hayes-penned entrance music, “Mr. Bang Bang,” began, Kevin called out to me, “Brotha, do I stand on the floor or the apron when I throw you?”
I looked at the five-foot, seven-inch former Games-master and before stepping through the curtain for my final WCW match ever, answered his question. “Kevin, if you stand on the floor … you’ll never reach me.”
With no preparation, and with twenty-three hours of traveling behind me, I charged into Kevin. Guess what? We had a pretty good match. Anyone with an appreciation for spontaneity and give-and-take brawling would have enjoyed it especially. WCW had certain rules pertaining to violence, but we ignored those right off the bat. I mean, what were they going to do-fire me? The announcers were still trying to portray me as the bad guy, but the fans cheered me harder than ever. As for Kevin, well, the writing was on the wall, and out of necessity, he turned to poor “Evad” about a week later, leading to some of the worst matches of all time. Kevin later had a run on top with Hogan and others, and as the man who replaced Flair as booker, was largely responsible for helping the company climb out of its creative hole.
Yeah, I lost the match. Looking at the fans, I made the decision to run into the crowd, where I was mobbed by hundreds of well-wishers, some of whom were genuinely moved. WCW could have shown this special moment, but they cut instead to a sterile, pretaped backstage interview. The thought hit me to disrobe gradually until all my wrestling attire was thrown to the fans, but, thankfully, common sense prevailed. After all, I would much rather be known as the guy who gave it his all, instead of the guy whose ass looked like a piece of Swiss cheese that had backed into a belt sander.
I was in the shower, cleansing not only my body, but three years of memories, when Bischoff approached me. He thanked me for my effort, and told me if I behaved myself, I’d be welcome to come back at a later time. He hugged me, and, while the hot water produced its steamy fog around us, we held each other for a long, long time.
Come on, you didn’t really buy that, did you? No, there was no shower, no steam, no hug, and no holding for a long, long time. Actually, he caught up to me as I was walking out the door. He did thank me, did tell me I could come back, and then shook my hand. I then walked out into the cool, autumn breeze-a free man.
Chapter 24
I had walked in WCW in August 1991 with about two grand in the bank and a baby on the way. I left three years later with a house, a car, two children, and some solid financial investments that I could build on. I never made truly big money in WCW; $156,000 might seem like a lot, but after taxes and road expenses, it’s not exactly the type of income that sets you up for life after three years. Still, without WCW, Cactus Jack would be a distant memory, and Mankind would have never existed. The coverage I received with WCW made it possible for me to go out on my own and continue to make a decent living. There are a couple of last things I’d like to get off my chest before I slam the door shut on this part of my career. The first centers around a comment I made about Eric Bischoff, shortly after leaving, and the second looks at a lawsuit I filed against the company for the loss of my ear.
Soon after my departure from WCW, I did an interview with an industry newsletter, or dirtsheet, called the Pro Wrestling Torch. The Torch would always get a hold of wrestlers after they left the big companies, and get them to vent their spleen. As a result, right there on the pages of the Torch, guys would bury their careers and burn their bridges by insulting and hurting the feelings of their fellow wrestlers and former bosses. I was no different. When asked if I had ever been asked to tone down my ring style, I answered, “All the time-one night in Chicago, Eric Bischoff was literally pleading with me not to do anything extreme.” Now, I know Bischoff read this, and I know that since he was a martial arts tough guy, it had to have hurt. It’s not his fault he has perfect cheekbones. In retrospect, the word “pleading” may have been an exaggeration. In truth, Bisch was legitimately concerned about my health, and having known my family personally, was “asking” me to tone it down.
There you have it-an intimate confession. It is my hope now that Eric Bischoff can hate me for the right reasons. Such as, because I’m a guy he let walk away, who is now a major reason he wakes up with boot marks all over his butt cheeks every Tuesday morning. Tuesday morning refers to the Monday night wrestling Nielsen ratings, which aren’t available until the next day. So, with the truth now known, I would just like to ask for forgiveness. Please. I’m pleading with you.
There have been several people who felt I was hypocritical in filing a lawsuit against WCW for the loss of my ear, while at the same time, allowing that same lost ear to be exploited by the World Wrestling Federation. Let me address this.
First, understand, I was not filing a ridiculous suit for millions of dollars based on pain and suffering, mental duress, and lots of other mumbo-jumbo. I filed a suit for the exact amount of money that it would cost to have reconstructive surgery done-approximately $42,000-and six months’ salary at my old rate of $3,000 a week; the time it would take to heal. This was the same agreement that I had with WCW before I naively agreed to return to the ring.
I explained all of this to my attorney, in addition to giving him a run-down of all the sacrifices I had made on beh
alf of the company. I also explained the outrageous salaries that were now being paid to WCW wrestlers who had never even headlined a card. He agreed that this was unfortunate, but not applicable, and that our only recourse was to sue for negligence. Now, I’ve been banged up pretty good over the last fifteen years, and the last thing I want to do is point fingers and blame other people for the career choices and ring risks that I have willingly taken. But I felt I was in the right, even if negligence was not the road I wanted to take. As it turned out, I never got a dime, because of a Georgia law that forbids an employee from suing an employer. But the point I want to make is this: I sued for negligence because there is no law in our legal system that prevents a company from paying Johnny B. Badd twice as much money as they pay Cactus Jack. Maybe not … but, by God, there ought to be.
Yes, indeed, I was a free man. Free to choose when, where, why, how, how long, how many times, and with whom I wrestled. Forget the fact that I’d have no more guaranteed income-the important thing is, I was free.
The independent scene is a difficult one. Making your own bookings, cutting your own deals, and hoping that some of the less reputable promoters won’t bail out on a show, are only a few of the hassles involved. Working the indies also requires receiving money up front, so as to guarantee you won’t get screwed. Even with a fifty percent deposit, the screwing sometimes occurred anyway. One time, I was booked in the westernmost part of West Virginia on a Sunday afternoon. I drove all night from eastern Pennsylvania to arrive on time. I checked into a hotel and called home. “Good,” Colette shouted into the receiver. “I’m glad I caught you in time. The promoter called this morning and said that the show was canceled.” When I informed Colette that I’d just traveled ten hours, she wasn’t so glad after all. I swore to the promoter, who called himself Mad Dog something or other, that I would do whatever I had to do to ensure that he would never be successful in the business. So Mad Dog, if you read this, it’s not too late to send me my money, you prick!