Have a Nice Day!: A Tale of Blood and Sweatsocks

by Mick Foley

  We made sure that November to Remember had some levity to it. The show had actually sold out faster than any other in ECW history, which seemed to rule out the idea of having gone too far. Still, we felt it was important that the brutality be toned down a little bit and that some fun be substituted instead.

  My pro-WCW angle was really catching on. In honor of my former employers, I had some special ring attire made up for the showdown. On the surface, it was impossible to tell-but underneath, the “Wanted” shirt hid my secret weapon. Raven and I were having our way with our adversaries-with Funk catching a beating on the outside with Raven, and me putting the boots to Tommy. Tommy’s face was a mask of pain as I worked him over. He didn’t seem to have a chance. Suddenly, when things were looking bleakest, I pulled off the familiar black-and-gold Cactus shirt. Underneath was the insult to end all insults-at least in the ECW arena. I was now sporting a beautifully airbrushed T-shirt featuring The Shark/John Tenta, Kamala, and The Zodiac/the Butcher/the Booty Man/the Disciple/the Barber/Brutus Beefcake. Collectively, they were known as the Faces of Fear, and although they were all individually nice guys, collectively their respect among the ECW fans was microscopic. In addition to the great artwork on the front, there was a big valentine on the back-it looked like something that a twelve-year-old girl would wear to her first concert.

  I stood up and did a meandering circle so that the entire audience could see my horrible shirt. It was a great heat getter. Cheap heat, yes-but heat nonetheless. I went back to Dreamer, who had by this time seen the blasphemous artwork. I kicked him, but it didn’t faze him. Another kick, but to no avail. A big punch, and he started shaking. Dreamer was now Hulk Hogan and was making a Superman comeback on the Turner-loving turncoat. He let loose with a barrage of punches and sent me down to the canvas with one of his violent innovations. He then ripped the offensive shirt right off my body. I stood up slowly and turned to the crowd. Immediately, they reacted. As I turned in my slow, torturous 360, everyone learned the ugly truth but Tommy. Finally, as I completed my circle, Tommy spotted it, and his eyes grew wide. There it was. Compared to this, the Faces of Fear shirt had been nothing. Compared to this, Kamala, Shark, and Zodiac were hardcore warriors. On my shirt, in front of 1,200 bloodthirsty WCW-hating fanatics, I was sporting a lovingly created, painstakingly detailed image of Eric Bischoff. On the back was this simple wish: “Forgive me, Uncle Eric.”

  It was almost as if Dreamer was Popeye and Bischoff was his spinach, because Tommy kicked it into overdrive. Boom, boom, boom, boom-Tommy was connecting with solid rights. The crowd was eating it up. A few more punches and Dreamer was ready for the big one. He pulled my shirt up and stretched it over my head so that the WCW Boy Wonder’s head completely covered mine. It was almost as if I were wearing a Bischoff mask. I weebled and wobbled inside that shirt, as if it were a Rubbermaid, while Dreamer selected the perfect chair. I could hear the crowd buzzing, and I could see the silhouette of the swinging chair as I waited for impact. Bang! I staggered and stumbled but didn’t go down-although, when I lifted my head, it magically appeared as if Bischoff himself had been busted wide open. Was it magic, or was it real-only the people who watched Secrets of Pro Wrestling really knew for sure.

  I honestly can’t remember who won the match that night, although the fact that I can’t remember is a pretty good indication that I didn’t. As a strange side note, I understand the Bischoff shirt from that show is now worth a huge sum of money.

  When I returned home, I received a phone call that was of great interest to me. Jim Ross was on the phone with the news that the World Wrestling Federation wanted to meet with me.

  Chapter 31

  It had been about a year since I’d spoken to Jim Ross. Jim and I had remained in contact throughout our different trials and tribulations, but this had been the longest I’d gone without keeping in touch with him. Despite being the best playby-play announcer in the game, Jim had been in and out of the World Wrestling Federation on several different occasions before finally coming back to stay. Oddly, one of the past differences between Jim and the Federation centered around his reluctance to don a cowboy hat and call himself J. R. Coming from a Bill Watts background, Jim did not see announcers as being “characters” and had fought the idea. Upon his return, Jim finally donned the Stetson and became J. R. It’s funny … because now it’s hard for me to imagine him without the damn hat, and even I refer to him as J. R. Hell, he refers to himself as J. R. Really, the hat just adds a little flavor and has in no way diminished his passion for the sport or his unique ability to make a bad match decent and a good match great. J. R. was now Vince’s right-hand man, so a call from him was no small deal.

  A year earlier, I had informed J. R. that I was working steadily, was having fun, and in no way needed a job. I also let him know that if the right job came about, I would be interested. J. R.’s new call informed me that this might be the right job, and that Vince McMahon had a new idea, and that he would like to set up a meeting. This was a top spot, he informed me, and would hopefully lead to a successful series of matches with the Undertaker.

  I had one question before I agreed to a meeting. “Jim,” I asked. “You don’t tell everyone who comes in that they’re being groomed for a top spot, do you-I mean, what did you tell Aldo Montoya when he came in?” (Aldo Montoya was a perennial Federation loser before he went on to stardom in ECW.)

  Jim thought about it and came back with an answer. “No, we don’t, Cactus. If we say it’s a top spot, we mean it. In Aldo’s case, he was probably told that it was a good spot, but not a great spot, and that there would be room for advancement if the character caught on.”

  “All right,” I said. “Let’s set up a meeting.”

  There were a lot of considerations to take into account at this time. I was making decent money in Japan, but my goodness, I was getting the hell beaten out of me. The death match tournament was not the last time I came home from Japan in a pretty bad way-not by a long shot. The brutality was taking its toll not only on me but Colette as well, as she was beginning to fear a ringing phone for the bad news it might carry. I had been approached by Mr. Asano about coming back to Japan for seventeen weeks during the next year. I was even offered a raise of five hundred a week-up to $3,500 a week. But seventeen weeks was really 170 days when you include travel-and a hell of a lot more than that when you figure in intangibles like jet lag. Also, without trying to sound like a big shot, I knew that my blood and sweat were worth more to the $500 million man than the fifty-nine grand that he would be paying me.

  I would still be able to sell Tshirts, but that gravy train was showing signs of slowing down. I was a popular wrestler with enthusiastic fans, but our fan base was still rather small. Many of the fans who bought the “Wanted” shirt already owned several of them. To stay ahead of the game, I had designed a few new Tshirts, but their designs included tactical errors that I could not have foreseen. One of them featured a silhouette of Cactus Jack against a red sun, with the Japanese writing “King of the Death Match” on the front and “Born to Be Wired” in English on the back. Two problems. One-since the Japanese flag consists of a red sun, a newspaper reporter considered the design to show a lack of respect to the Japanese people. Two-for some reason, Japanese wrestling fans only want slogans that are written in English. Ironically, the ECW fans loved the Japanese writing.

  My second shirt was a winner in theory but a flop in practice. 0. J. Simpson’s murder case was all over the news, and I figured I’d cash in on his international notoriety. I came up with an old-time wrestling card motif that billed a one-time-only death match between Cactus and 0. J., who was nattily attired in his Buffalo Bills jersey and a bloody glove, which held a bloody knife. Detective Mark Fuhrman was slated as the special guest referee. I thought the Japanese fans would eat up a shirt featuring these two hardcore icons-with 0. J. being a little more extreme than me. I think I sold twelve of them. So, if 0. J. wants to sue me for royalties, well, he can have them.

&nb
sp; Japanese tradition has prided itself on honor for thousands of years, and going back decades, agreements with U.S. wrestlers were made on a handshake. I even asked Mr. Asano if he wanted to shake hands on the deal or sign a contract. He insisted on a contract-if we’d shaken hands, there is a chance that there would be no Mankind or Mr. Socko in the World Wrestling Federation, as I wouldn’t have broken that agreement.

  With the exception of the fire incident, I was having a tremendous time in ECW. I got along with everybody, I was free to do whatever I wanted, hell, I was even able to call the owner a “scumbag” and his place of business a “pissant pawnshop.” Unfortunately, many of the things I’d said of the ECW fans in interviews were true. They were demanding, bloodthirsty, and insensitive. I was also aware that my presence there, while valuable, was by no means a necessity, as the ECW arena sold out whether I was there or not. By this time, the ECW merchandise machine had started to roll and my “Wanted” shirt was no longer the only quality item on the table. As a matter of fact, there were about eighteen to choose from, and the fans were so passionate about this company that they usually chose an ECW shirt as opposed to that of an individual wrestler.

  I also found my stock dropping in other independent organizations. I had been off national television for over a year, and though I hate to admit it, many people had either forgotten about Cactus Jack or didn’t care all that much. As a result, I had lowered my price and, once at the show, no longer sold the same quantities of merchandise. Polaroid business was slowing down as well, and while it never got close to the Gordy in Chattanooga level, there were many times when my ego took a little beating.

  So I guess my decision to meet with World Wrestling Federation came down to two simple things: physical and financial well-being.

  The Federation at that time, however, was far from wrestling utopia. Crowds were down, morale was down, and paychecks were down. I had heard horror stories from the road about Canadian trips where guys hadn’t even made enough to meet their road expenses. Wrestlers were at one another’s throats, and there were deep divisions among groups of guys in the dressing room. Shane Douglas, who had left ECW months earlier with high hopes for his World Wrestling Federation chances, was now miserable. “Abort mission” was one of Shane’s more pleasant messages, as he pleaded with his longtime friend not to follow down the same lamentable path that he had taken. In truth, Shane was at least partly to blame for his Federation woes, as he had let Vince change him from the dynamic, intense Franchise into the monotone, drippy Dean. Now don’t get me wrong. A guy with a good vocabulary who thinks he’s smarter than anyone can be annoying, but it was not exactly the type of thing that would inspire me to buy a ticket. “Hey, Jimmy, I was watching wrestling, and there was this really smart guy on there-let’s go buy a ticket” was not a conversation that I envisioned kids around the country having. No, I wasn’t going to fall into the same trap that Shane had-I was too smart for that. Vince was going to get Cactus Jack the way I wanted him-or else, dammit, he wasn’t going to get him at all.

  I drove to Stamford, Connecticut, that day with lots of questions on my mind. In an uncanny coincidence, I was wearing the same sport coat that I had met Ted Turner in. Actually, maybe the coincidence wasn’t quite that eerie, as it was the only sport coat that I owned. The prospect of meeting Vince McMahon was definitely unnerving. This was the same guy that I had been watching since I was a kid, and he was definitely a larger-than-life character. In addition, Vince was the man responsible for starting the wrestling revolution in the mid-eighties. By combining a bold vision with a savvy marketing plan, Vince had gambled everything to turn his father’s regional northeast territory into an international powerhouse. His product had infuriated wrestling purists and most old-time promoters, who felt that Vince had turned their beloved sport into a circus. He had taken a low-class, vulgar, and bloody sport and turned it into clean family entertainment. Under those conditions, Cactus Jack was not exactly the old Federation’s cup of tea. Now, with business down, and with society rejecting McMahon’s dated vision, he was in the beginning stages of spicing up his product. In some ways, just bringing in Cactus Jack for a meeting was evidence of the Federation’s new “attitude.”

  I walked into Titan Towers, an ominous-looking, eight-story structure of glass and steel, and I was shown to Vince’s office. This itself was a dubious distinction, as I had been told for years that if Vince really wanted you, he’d have you brought to his house. Still, at least I had a meeting with J. J. F’ing Dillon. I swear, Dorothy had an easier time getting an audience with the Wizard of Oz.

  Vince walked into the office looking fit and wealthy. I don’t know if that’s a proper way to describe a man, but that was the impression that I got. I’d met Vince fleetingly when I did my World Wrestling Federation matches in 1986, but this was over nine years later, and if Vince had remembered our little encounter, he was doing a good job of hiding it.

  “Mike, how are you?” boomed the voice-the same voice that I had heard call so many matches from my childhood. Ooh, that wasn’t a good sign. I hadn’t been called Mike since the early seventies and didn’t really enjoy it then. I didn’t want to correct him, especially within the first nine seconds of meeting-it would be almost like telling the President he had mustard on his chin. So, instead of speaking up once and correcting the small inaccuracy, I allowed myself to be called the wrong name for two hours.

  Actually, other than the “Mike” thing, which we could work around, I hit it off well with Vince. So well, in fact, that we went over to his house, where I borrowed a pair of Vince’s trunks and did cannonballs and belly flops into the McMahon pool while Vince flipped hamburgers on the grill. Okay, maybe not that well-maybe there were no burgers, cannonballs, trunks, or home visit-but at least we were cordial.

  Vince explained some of the company’s past problems to me and how those problems had affected business. A federal steroid trial, in particular, had been especially damaging. Vince was eventually cleared of all charges, but the length of the trial, cost, and energy involved had badly damaged the company and its public perception. Vince told me that the company had actually wanted to change gears and adopt a rougher style much earlier but had found it necessary to maintain a clean image during the aftermath of the trial. Now he was ready to forge ahead, and the timing seemed right to bring in the Hardcore Legend.

  I guess I was lucky to have escaped the ECW curse, because it seems that many of the ECW mainstays have floundered and looked out of their league when they jumped to the big two. Much of the time, there is a stigma that surrounds them, and a negative feeling toward them in the dressing room. Vince had sent out feelers, and I found out later had actually gotten positive feedback from some of his bigger stars, like the Undertaker and Kevin Nash. Actually, it was the Undertaker who was most instrumental in my hiring … in more ways than one.

  I loved the Undertaker’s character and had been a fan of it since its debut at the 1990 Survivor Series. I had actually known the ‘Taker quite well, and rode and roomed with him back in his Mean Mark Callous days. Over the years since, I had run into him on the road a few times and had always been happy to catch up on old times. The Undertaker seemed to have suffered over the past few years, however, due to a lack of decent opponents who could generate interesting feuds. The Giant Gonzalez experiment, in particular, yielded some tough-to-watch matches. At six-foot-nine, and over 300 pounds, Undertaker was one of the largest men in the business, but his last several years had been spent feuding with wrestlers who were either taller or heavier. With the exception of Yokozuna, who ‘Taker had done big business with, none of these feuds was able to capture people’s imagination.

  The idea that Vince had was to match Undertaker up with someone who could get inside his head and could threaten him mentally as well as physically. Vince assured me of his ambitions for this “marriage” by saying that my interviews would really put this thing over. He was so convincing in his accolades for “Mike,” as both a wrestler a
nd a human being, that I couldn’t wait to become part of the World Wrestling Federation family, even if the money stank and the guys in the dressing room hated one another. Then Vince spoke again.

  “We’ve got a gimmick for you, Mike, and it involves putting you under a hood,” Vince said with a big smile, as I felt my heart sink to the bottom of my stomach. A hood was a mask, and outside of Mexico and Japan, a mask was a death knell for a career. Hell, a mask was something the underneath guys wore at Center Stage, when they didn’t want their friends and family to know that they were losing on TV. I may have been in awe of Vince, and willing to let him call me the wrong name, but this time I had to speak up.

  “Vince, I always felt that my facial expressions were part of my charm-why would you want to cover me up?” It was then that Vince showed me a sketch of a hood that more closely resembled something from The Man in the Iron Mask. The mask was actually an idea that was first brought up for the Undertaker after he’d suffered a fracture of his orbital bone and needed a mask to protect his face. Instead of putting the ‘Taker in a hockey mask, Vince had requested several ideas for a mask that would add to instead of detract from his image. The drawing I was shown was actually a reject from the Undertaker project that Vince had saved for future reference. Apparently my name had come up some time later, and Vince thought that “Mike” Foley might just have found his niche in the World Wrestling Federation.