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

by Mick Foley

  Dewey was funny that way. He loves wrestling more than anything in the world, but for years was terrified of going to the matches. During my first year with the Federation, he had gone into such hysteria in Savannah, Georgia, that I had to dress in the kitchen. Later that summer, in Bangor, Maine, with author Stephen King in attendance, he had actually watched the matches but covered his ears the entire time to drown out the noise. Stone Cold had spotted the little guy in the stands and smiled. “Has he been covering his ears the entire time?” he asked.

  “Well, all except during your match,” I answered back. “Then he covered his nose.”

  Now it’s a different story, as Dewey surveys the action and expertly offers theories and predictions on all the mat action. And most of the time, his theories and predictions are right on the money.

  Mankind merchandise was starting to move as well. I had worn the yellow Mankind happy face T-shirt on my Jim Ross interviews, and they immediately became a big hit. As a matter of fact, they trailed only “Austin 3:16” as the company’s bestselling shirt-but by a substantial margin. The Austin shirt was fast on its way to becoming the biggest selling piece of merchandise in wrestling history, so I didn’t feel too bad about trailing him. At first, I’d look out and estimate the margin to be two to one, then three to one, four to one, and so on, until the entire arena landscape was full of those things.

  The shirt was showing up everywhere-on football players, on rock stars-you name it. Austin 3:16 had become mainstream. I used to sit and wonder if any big stars might wear my shirt. That would be a big thrill. One day, I was looking through some underground thrash metal magazine that a fan had given me. All of a sudden, there it was. A musician was on stage with a “Wanted Dead” Cactus Jack T-shirt. Man, it felt good. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know the guy’s name or wasn’t a fan of his type of music-what mattered was that he had thought enough of me to wear my likeness in front of his crowd. I was damn proud, because it seemed to be an affirmation of everything I’d ever worked so hard to achieve. Then I looked closer. The musician had his penis pulled out and was stroking it onstage. My pride shriveled like George Costanza’s member after a dip in a cold pool. I haven’t seen one of my shirts in a photograph since, and to tell you the truth, I don’t want to. I’m afraid.

  At this point, Brett Hart and Shawn Michaels had been building up to a rematch of the 1996 WrestleMania that was expected to draw a huge audience. In July of 1997, they had their first fight. It didn’t do a big Pay-Per-View rate or TV rating because, in fact, it wasn’t a televised event. Strangely, it didn’t have a big audience either; in fact, it was seen by only a few people. After sixteen months of anticipation, the big match between Shawn and Brett was a real-life fight in the dressing room. The two, who didn’t care for each other to begin with, had been doing a series of “shoot” interviews, where they revealed their true feelings about one another. In these, they verbally tore each other apart, and as a result, genuine aggression had developed. Shawn lost his interest as a result of the backstage beating, leaving a huge void .in the Federation’s plans. Not only was the potentially lucrative Hart-Michaels match ruined, but the tag team scene was in a shambles as well. Michaels and Stone Cold had been tag team champs, and now General Vince and his lieutenants had to think up another battle plan. I was their secret weapon.

  Mankind began petitioning Steve to be his partner, while Steve started a campaign of his own to keep the one-eared weirdo away from him. I began wearing a big sign reading “Pick Me Steve” and taking unbelievable punishment to impress the “Texas Rattlesnake.” Finally, after I saved him from a “Hart Foundation” beating, Steve seemed to lighten up. He called me into the ring and extended the hand of friendship, which I gladly accepted. Steve then grabbed the mike and, in a departure from his bad-ass persona, let his sensitive side shine forth. “Mankind, a handshake just ain’t good enough.” Then, the bald bastard held out his arms for a Mankind hug. Hell, I’m a good hugger, so I embraced the “toughest SOB in the World Wrestling Federation.” Then, in an act of treachery so great it had Benedict Arnold and Judas Iscariot shaking their heads in disbelief, Austin turned on me. He booted me in the stomach, hit me with the Stone Cold Stunner, and even gave me double middle fingers as I lay there in my anger and my shame. This was the kind of thing that could send Mankind over the edge.

  A few days later, I received a surprise phone call from Vince. His booming voice wasted no time in making its point. “Hey pal, how would you like to be Dude Love?”

  I didn’t know what to say, as his question had caught me completely offguard. “Do you mean for the next Pay-Per-View?” I finally managed to squeak out, after remembering Vince’s previous idea.

  “No,” Vince boomed back. “I’m talking about from now on.”

  I gulped and actually felt my body going weak at the prospect of the Dude gracing the sacred World Wrestling Federation ring. “Vince, are you sure? I mean, Mankind’s going so well.”

  Vince was adamant, but his voice was softer now, actually soothing. “Mick, I’m not saying we can’t ever go back to Mankind, but I just love the whole Dude Love story-and I know our fans will love it too. It’s such a great PR story-Regis and Kathie Lee would love something like this.”

  Vince had made me see his vision. I was smiling brightly as I said, “You really think so?” Which was kind of like saying, “Put me over just a little more.” Vince was happy to oblige.

  “Mick, the way I see it, Dude Love is going to be huge. Children will love him. The fans who already love Mankind will love him. And guys won’t be afraid to bring their girlfriends to the matches, because the Dude won’t threaten them-he’ll be a safe sex symbol.”

  I was sold now but just wanted a little more information. Vince was quick to please. “We will play it up huge. Girls. Pyro. We’re even going to team you up with Steve.”

  The Summer of Love was about to begin.

  I walked into the Freemont Coliseum in San Antonio, Texas, in July of 1997 and heard an unusual retro-disco beat booming over the loudspeakers. Vince was right there. “Congratulations, Dude, this is your new music.” I had to admit I liked it. I even learned the emotionally touching lyrics and began singing them throughout the day. Hell, I even caught that old softy Jim “the Anvil” Neidhardt singing them one time also.

  Dude Love, Dude Love

  Dude Love, Dude Love

  Dude Love, Dude Love Baby

  Dude Love, Dude Love

  Believe it or not, I have a platinum album in the closet for “Dude Love” on the World Wrestling Federation-The Music, Volume III CD, even though I didn’t sing it, write it, or play it.

  Next, Vince actually tried to teach me how to walk with rhythm. I had been doing the Mankind stagger, the Cactus Jack stumble, and the Mick Foley limp for so long that I really didn’t know how to strut like the hip cat that the Dude was. After several tries, we finally pretaped some footage of just the Dude’s white boots “strutting” across the floor.

  The evening’s Raw main event was to feature tag champs Bulldog and Owen against Austin and a mystery partner. Austin had been taped saying, “I don’t need no damn partner,” and was attempting to go it alone. Stone Cold was holding his own for the first few minutes, but the champs then took over as the show started to go to commercial break. “Wait,” Vince yelled over his play-by-play mike. “We’ve just been informed that Stone Cold Steve Austin’s partner has just arrived.” A drum track blared over the loudspeakers as the pretaped footage of the Dude’s strutting shoes played to the crowd.

  Once back from the break, the beating continued until a strange figure suddenly appeared on the huge “Titantron” video screen. “Oww! Steve-O,” the figure yelled, “looks like you could use a little help, like maybe a tag team partner.” At this point the action in the ring stopped, and all the men stared in disbelief at this guy on the screen. He was dressed in a tie-dyed shirt and bandanna and looked to be the figure of “cool,” even if his mirrored shades were slippin
g due to the lack of an ear to support them. The cool guy continued his mesmerizing jive talk by yelling, “Now Steve-O, I don’t blame you for not wanting to team with that scraggy-looking Mankind, but you never said nothin’ about teaming up with the hippest cat in the land. Yo, Steve-O, it’s me-Dude Love, and I’m coming to save the day. Oww. Have mercy!”

  The crowd roared at the mention of the Dude and roared even louder when the Dude came strutting down the ramp. All three guys in the ring were great at expressing their shock, with Austin in particular looking like he was looking at the “biggest dork in the land.” Before the Dude could get to the ring, however, the champions jumped Austin, and the Dude had to wait anxiously in the neutral corner. Finally, the champs screwed up just enough to allow Austin to tag the Dude. The Loved One was a house on fire as he tore into his adversaries with hokey chops and a variety of weak-looking offensive maneuvers. Finally, the Dude saw his opening and caught Davey Boy with the tie-dyed mandible claw, which would briefly be known as the Love Handle. After this match, it was decided to leave the claw to Mankind in order to accentuate the disparity of the two characters. Davey struggled until Owen came off the top rope with a dropkick that floored the Dude. While the ref was putting Owen out, Steve-0 reentered the fracas and caught Bulldog with a mighty Stone Cold Stunner-his patented finishing move. Davey went down, and the referee turned around just in time to see the Dude making the cover. One, two, three-we had new champions. The place erupted as the strain of “Dude Love, Dude Love Baby” had the crowd dancing in the aisles. Two paid models, oops, I mean two Dude Love groupies, couldn’t take it anymore and hopped the guard rail so that they could get down and boogie with this “safe sex symbol.” Austin barged in and began dancing with us, showing his fellow Texans some intricate break dancing moves not seen since that particular form of entertainment disappeared ten years earlier. No, he didn’t, but he did hand the Dude a tag team belt and shake his hand before leaving the happy threesome to dance the show off the air.

  I was elated backstage. Vince had single-handedly made this dream come true. It didn’t matter that the Dude couldn’t dance a lick or that his trunks were falling down to the point where he almost looked like the “hippest plumber in the land.” The Dude was a breath of fresh air. As Vince himself put it a week later, after surveying fan’s opinions, the Dude makes people “feel good about themselves.”

  For a while that summer, I led a dual existence as Mankind and Dude Love-even to the point of appearing on the same show as both guys at different times. In a few matches with Triple H, I started the match as the Dude, only to be beaten all the way up the aisle. While Helmsley celebrated, Mankind would suddenly emerge and continue the battle. Ironically, it was during the Mankind match with Helmsley that Dude Love would have his finest moments.

  Summerslam took place in the Continental Meadowlands Arena on July 24, 1997. Mankind was scheduled to take on HHH in a steel cage match to settle their lingering feud. I had just returned from Santa’s Village in New Hampshire and as usual found that the combination of White Mountains Christmas memories and harrowing trips down the Yule log flume had me ready for action. As a general rule, I tend to suck big-time inside a cage, but this match was memorable.

  We went at it at a good pace for several minutes, before Triple H took over. At one point, he rammed my head ten unanswered times into the blue steel bars. Even though I tried to absorb the impact with my shoulder and chest, I could feel my noggin bounce against the steel about half of the time and woke up the next morning with the lumps to prove it. Unfortunately, that would be far from my worst pain of the night.

  As things looked their worst for Mankind, Chyna hurled a steel chair over the top of the cage and then climbed partway up the bars to shout encouragement. Hunter went for his patented “pedigree,” which, if successful, would have planted my head firmly on the steel chair. In reality, the “pedigree” was a great-looking move that did carry quite a bit of risk with it. I was able to sweep his legs to counter the move and then, using my knees as a type of fulcrum on his ass, was able to drop backward and slingshot him into the bars where Chyna was standing. The treacherous twosome collided, and the pop was monumental, to the point of being almost Road Warrior-ish, as Chyna flew to the floor below.

  Victory was within my grasp. All I had to do was get through the door and touch the floor to be the winner. In this type of cage match, the winner is the first man to climb over the top or through the door and touch the ground. I began crawling for the door but was well aware of what was waiting for me when I got there. At two hundred muscled pounds, Joanie Lauer was as strong as many of the men in the Federation, and actually stronger than the guy whose book you’re reading. When she came to the company, many of the men had been hesitant to let a woman show them up-or as former intercontinental champion Ahmed Johnson had so eloquently put it, “Ain’t gonna let no bitch hit me.” Apparently, I was a little more secure in my manhood and as a result had been power-slammed, punched, kicked, suplexed, and ballshot by the “ninth wonder of the world.” None of that, however, could have prepared me for the pain that I was about to feel.

  As I stuck my head through the bars, Chyna made her move. If anyone was at fault for what happened next, I was, because I made my head such a wide-open target. Chyna was merely swinging the door as hard as she could, which is how she knew I insisted on things being done. Maybe I should have tried what many believe is the whole idea behind wrestling anyway-faking it. Because the pain that I felt when Chyna slammed the heavy steel bar door on my head was unbearable. I know that I mentioned earlier my torn abdominal muscle as my most painful injury, but this one was close. It hurt so bad that I didn’t even hold my head-1 held my shoulder. Pain was shooting all the way down my arm, and I lay still for several moments. At first I thought there was no way I could continue, but then I sadly realized that this was Summers/am, and I had one big move still left in me. Somehow, as Triple H made his move, I was able to duck and catch him with a DDT on the steel chair. It was time for the past to look me directly in the eye.

  I got up and started to scale the cage. When I reached the apex, Hunter still had not moved. The match was all but over. As I began to climb down to certain victory, the pop was deafening. So loud was it that I temporarily looked around to see if Hegstrand was there. I was literally three feet from victory when I was overcome by a memory, a memory of Madison Square Garden and Jimmy Snuka and the leap that had changed my life. All of a sudden my next move was clear-I too was going to fly off the top of the cage. I stopped my downward descent and looked up. It seemed as if the crowd could read my mind. I took off my Mankind mask and threw it into the ring. I didn’t need it anymore because I wasn’t Mankind anymore that night: I was Dude Love, and the Continental Arena had suddenly become Danny Zucker’s backyard. With each step up the blue bars, the noise grew in volume. When I got to the top, the sound was louder than anything I’d been a part of. I tore open my shirt to reveal my old Dude Love red heart tattoo, flashed the Jimmy Snuka “I love you” sign, and sailed majestically into the New Jersey arena air. Wham! I landed hard on Hunter with an impact that jolted both of our bodies. It was, at that point, the greatest single moment in my career.

  I still had a match to win, though. After a few moments of basking in the adulation of the crowd, I crawled to the bars and started to climb. Sensing defeat, Chyna climbed in to help her man. As I climbed, she helped, and as she helped, I climbed, until it was a near dead heat to see who would reach the floor first-Hunter being dragged through the door, or the Dude over the top. Just as things looked their worst, the Dude snatched victory out of the jaws of defeat by dropping the last five feet to the floor. Hunter touched down a split second later, but the results were already in. The Dude had won it. The match, however, had taken its toll on both men, and we lay momentarily motionless. Until the music played.

  Upon hearing the beat and the faux Bee Gees groove, it seemed as if the Dude’s boots had a life of their own. In a scene taken right
from The jerk, where Steve Martin’s Navin Johnson learns he has rhythm, the Dude’s toes started tapping. The melody must have been infectious, because soon his whole body was moving. Even though badly wounded from Chyna’s cranium-crushing cage concussion, the Dude somehow summoned the guts, the pride, and the testicular fortitude to strut out of the Continental Arena. I described it as my “mangled, twisted strut,” Hunter later said it looked pretty much like my everyday walk.

  I’ve got to admit to taking some creative liberties with the story I have just written. In truth, the tattoo was almost invisible, as it became smudged during the match, and I also was so afraid of falling when I got to the top that I actually flew from the bar one below the top. The rest of the description is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth-so help me Dude.

  Unfortunately, later that same evening, Steve Austin was badly injured as a result of a ring accident with Owen Hart. The move, an inverted piledriver, saw Austin land squarely on his head and left him unable to move for the next few minutes. It was a truly scary moment that put Austin out of action for several months, but that ironically helped his career reach even greater heights. My own injury from the cage door would affect my neck for several months, but obviously not to the extent that Austin’s injury affected him.

  The next evening, the Dude squared off with Owen for a match that was memorable mainly for the arrival of the Dudettes to congratulate their man on a hard-fought victory. Actually, the Dudettes in this case were our seamstress, Julie, and a hot chick named Colette, who also happens to be my lovely wife. Given her moment in the spotlight, things very nearly got X-rated, as my wife clearly appeared to be attacking her somewhat embarrassed man on national television. But hey, what the hell, after being alone with the kids 250 days a year, she deserved a little release.