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

by Mick Foley

  For the next several months, the ratings would teeter back and forth. For the next few weeks, a conspiracy theory played out and it was obvious that the Dude was in McMahon’s pocket. Dude was even given his own “Love Shack” interview segment, which featured a pink shag rug, love beads, lava lamps, and new Dudettes. The Dudettes seemed to be a different breed now. Gone was the innocence of old-replaced by the skimpiest of thong bikinis. Under those guidelines, my wife gracefully declined the company’s invitation to resume her role from the previous summer.

  The Pay-Per-View match was a tremendous success, both artistically and financially. I actually had a great deal of doubt leading up to this match as I wasn’t quite sure how to keep the Dude in character while at the same time making him seem like a threat to the Federation champion. I even dyed my hair a little to try to alter the Dude’s persona. I later found out that even the office had reservations about this matchup.

  As it turned out, all our fears were quickly relieved, and Austin and I tore the house down. Vince was simply hilarious in his role as the crooked boss who was looking for any opportunity to screw the “Rattlesnake” out of the gold. His facial expressions, with the exception of the bobbing Adam’s apple during time of fear, are the best in the business.

  At the end of the match, Dude was down and out, as the concerned McMahon tried in vain to lift his 300 pounds off the ground. Austin wielded a chair, which was supposedly meant for Dude, but strayed by about two feet and caught the evil Vince square in the head. Vince went down, to the delight of the fans, but the bell was rung immediately, signaling the disqualification of the champion. Dude had won! Dude had won! In the words of Owen Hart, “I did it! Yes! I am a winner! Woo!” Unfortunately, the belt cannot change hands on a DQ, so Austin remained the champ.

  “Hardcore” is a word that’s thrown around often, but its definition is kind of vague. I hope you know by now that I use the term “Hardcore Legend” as a joke, simply because I like the way it sounds and because I get a kick out of referring to myself as a “legend.” A legend is an honor that others can bestow upon me, if they so desire. If they mean it, I’m flattered, but the continual Hardcore Legend reference is simply something I do to amuse myself. No less an authority than Terry Funk described who he believed to be truly hardcore. “Vince McMahon is hardcore; you know why, Cactus?” asked the grizzled Funker. “Because he’s a millionaire who doesn’t need to be getting hit in the head with chairs, but he does it anyway because he loves it.” So, as the ECW fans might say, “He’s hardcore. He’s hardcore.”

  The next two Raws were big ones, as WCW was preempted for two weeks for the NBA playoffs. This, we felt, would be a chance to expose our superior product to the fans who were getting fed up with the staleness of Turner’s product. The first week witnessed Vince giving a title shot to Goldust, a fact that did not sit well with the Dude. Dude came out of character, lamenting the fact that he had worn the tie-dye like Vince wanted; he’d beaten Austin like Vince wanted, and now he was giving my shot to a freak with a bustier like Goldust. This set the stage for the next week’s show in Richmond, Virginia.

  The show in Richmond may have been one of my finest hours. I came out onstage to start the show and immediately apologized for all my corporate misdeeds of the preceding few weeks. Before I left, I vowed that there were three things that I would never again do” suck up to a lowlife like Vince McMahon, have my children watch their dad bump and grind with a couple of second-rate strippers, and above all else, I will never, ever let you make me wear this tie-dyed crap again.” The crowd roared its approval at Mick Foley’s new attitude, until Vince came down and cut one of his all-time best promos. Even though I’d just vowed my independence, it seemed that I couldn’t quite shake Vince’s hold over me, as I stood mesmerized by Vince’s tales of loyalty and sacrifice.

  “You want a title shot, Mick?” he yelled into my nodding face. “Then you go out and earn it. Tonight you’re going to have a match with Terry Funk, and I don’t want you to just beat him. I want you to destroy him. I want you to tear his heart out, so that the blood drips down your arm. Then you’ll get your title shot.” I was completely under Vince’s spell, until the sound of glass breaking and the roar of 18,000 fans signaled the arrival of Stone Cold, who proceeded to tear down the “Love Shack.” It was like a strange battle for Mick Foley’s soul, with Vince as the Devil and Austin as something of a beerswilling, foulmouthed Angel. Who would win out in this modern-day morality tale? We would soon find out.

  Chapter 37

  Terry and I had a classic no-holds-barred contest. Before the match, we spoke very little, but we both had the clear understanding that this was a very important match. “Cactus, let’s go out there and give it to them,” I remember Terry saying before leaving me alone for the next hour to prepare for the contest.

  Many who saw it considered my match with Terry to be the best Raw match of the year. I felt that it was on a par with my match with Austin, if not slightly better. For the record, it was the only match I have ever wrestled as “Mick Foley.” These days, it seems that hardcore matches have become an excuse to go all over the building and hit each other with cool stuff. That may be entertaining, and I’m not saying it’s not painful, but in my mind, it takes away from what these things should really be about-intensity. Terry and I wrestled with intensity that night. Lots of it.

  I came out the winner and then challenged Austin, who’d been doing color commentary, to step into the ring. He threw his ever-present beer in my face, and the temporary loss of vision caused me to mistakenly clamp the mandible claw onto corporate stooge Pat Patterson. As my vision cleared, I saw Austin flipping me off, but rolled out of the ring to avoid further incident. Suddenly, Vince appeared with the two second-rate strippers and my tie-dyed Dude outfit in his arms. As my music kicked in, I walked up the ramp, and to the strains of “Dude Love, Dude Love Baby,” I proceeded to do everything I swore I never would. I sucked up to Vince by giving him a big, sloppy hug. I not only took back the Dude outfit but cradled the tie-dyed ensemble with a tenderness usually reserved for old, scratchy Leonard Cohen albums. And yes, the Dude certainly did bump and grind with the strippers for my children and the whole world to see. Not only that, but I did it with a hell of a lot of gusto for a guy who had just been through a war and had a head wound that would require twenty-seven stitches to close. Vince even joined in and in a classic Raw moment, the four of us gleefully boogied our way off the air, as Austin shook his head with disgust. Stone Cold had lost out, and the wicked Vince had my soul.

  Afterward, I did what I always do after suffering an injury-I looked for a camera. “Vince, let’s do an interview,” I yelled, and we prepared to capture this touching moment on film. The Dudettes were nice enough to return to their state of near undress, and the cameras rolled. “Hey, Vince, you want a little bit of this action?” I laughed in my Dude way, as I pointed to my two Love chicks.

  “Ho, ho, Dude, I’m a married man.” Vince laughed with all the conviction of a sleazy used car salesman. “Besides, I think you’re going to need all the love you can get. Looks like you’ve got a little scratch up there,” he continued as the camera zoomed in on a three-inch gulley high on the left side of my skull. “We’ll probably need a little Band-Aid to patch that up.”

  The show did a phenomenal 5.4 rating in the Nielsens. As I’d hoped, many of the new viewers stayed tuned to our show, and we started to defeat our southern adversaries with greater and greater frequency. A year later, our show set an all-time record with an 8.1 rating-up a full 50 percent in a year. The basketball game on TNT, stocked with spoiled multimillionaires, did a 1.3.

  In the remaining three weeks leading up to the May Over the Edge Pay-Per-View, I decided to tweak Dude’s image. If Dude was going to be Vince’s hand-picked corporate champion, then I felt I needed to look like it. In a move that was very reminiscent of the psychology behind the ECW Hardcore Christmas, I once again strove to eliminate anything that the fans had found adm
irable about me. The hair was slicked back into a neat ponytail, and I borrowed one of Vince’s clapper sports jackets and a tie. I probably should have cut the hair and shaved, but I did come forth with a quality prop-a dental flipper of my two front teeth. I hadn’t worn these false teeth in so many years that I had difficulty speaking with them, but when I did, it was pure heat. Front teeth? Now that’s selling out. Sporting a pair of eyeglasses that were slightly slipping down my amputated auditory appendage and clutching a folded copy of the Wall Street Journal, the “new corporate kiss-ass” Dude made his debut in Baltimore. Sounding like a dull college professor or Dean Douglas, the Dude addressed the crowd.

  “It seems that as of late, I have been having trouble with my identity. But now with the gracious help of Vince McMahon, I have found out who I am. I am a speaker of four languages. I am a student of American history and a reader of Greek tragedy. I am a leader of men and a lover of women, as well as the toughest SOB in the World Wrestling Federation. As I’m Dude Love-your next World Wrestling Federation champion.”

  Vince beamed with pride as he announced the special guests for the upcoming Pay-Per-View. First, Pat Patterson was announced as the special guest ring announcer. Next, the esteemed Gerald Brisco was brought out as the special guest timekeeper. Finally, Vince gave a huge buildup for the guest referee, ending with “Here he comes right now.” To Vince’s embarrassment, there was no referee forthcoming. The crowd started to laugh. Vince tried once again, with a second “Here he comes.” Again, no referee. Again, audience laughter. Things weren’t looking too good for the corporate team. “Well, I guess I’ll have to drag him out myself,” Vince yelled before storming up the ramp.

  I small-talked in midring with the Stooges, before Pat Patterson picked up the mike and, in his eloquent style, introduced the world to the special referee. “Ladies and gentlemen, he’s the best there is, the best there was, and the best there ever will be-Vince McMahon.” With that, Vince came bounding down the ramp, sporting a referee’s shirt that must have been eight sizes too small. In an attempt to show off his impressive physique, Vince was wearing a shirt so small that my son Dewey would have had trouble squeezing into it. The deck was clearly stacked against Austin, and the time seemed ripe for a new champion. A corporate champion. A kiss-ass champion. I was ready.

  I’ve mentioned before that I consider Mind Games, against Shawn Michaels, to be my best match. The future King of the Ring was probably the most emotional. Over the Edge, with Austin, however, was undoubtedly the most fun to watch. Don’t get me wrong, I got the hell beaten out of me and I was so blown up (out of breath) that I must have been running on something other than oxygen for the last ten minutes. But I have never before or since seen such a reaction from the boys as they watched the replay the following day. Smiles and laughter for twenty minutes as they watched our elaborate twenty-minute epic drama unfold. Thinking about it now, it’s a small miracle that things went as well as they did.

  In the World Wrestling Federation, we are often allowed to do third-party bookings, which means, basically, that we are allowed to work on our own time for other promoters. In the past year, that has usually meant signing autographs at memorabilia shops, malls, department stores, and car lots. But until promoters learned that wrestlers were nicer, cheaper, and more popular than overpriced “real” athletes, third-party bookings usually consisted of wrestling at small venues for large payoffs.

  I had four days off before my showdown with Austin. Resting up probably would have been the wisest thing, but I just had trouble turning down ten weeks’ worth of “Memphis payoffs” for one night in a sweaty high school gym. Hey, it might not have been glamorous, but at least it was profitable. So instead of concentrating on my big match and resting up for a cardiac machine like Stone Cold, I wrestled in four shows in three days in the boonies of Ohio, and then drove 500 miles to Milwaukee. I was exhausted and questioning my intelligence when I showed up. Somehow, we pulled off a classic.

  Pat Patterson came out first as my announcer and proceeded to read off a long, scripted, ridiculous series of introductions. I came out to the Dude Love theme, nattily attired in sports coat and flowered blue pastel tights. I was dancing just a little but not enough to ruin my corporate image. I had never understood why a retro hippie would go out to a faux Bee Gees disco number, but now when I threw in the corporate image, it was completely confusing. I guess the Dude was a disco-dancing corporate hippie. Nonetheless, Patterson continued, announcing my opponent.

  The bell rang, and we started the match with a little bit of “believe it or not” scientific wrestling. Don’t worry, not too much. Just a couple of reversals that led to a cover and a quick one-count by Vince. The fast count earned Vince the ire of the Undertaker, who had been brought down by Austin to watch his back. For the rest of the match, Vince played it straight, but by virtue of his mannerisms, made it clear who he was pulling for. I even saw the Adam’s apple bob up and down a couple of times when the Dude kicked out of two close pinfall attempts.

  A few minutes into the match, I took the advantage on Austin. I was choking him outside the ring when Vince suddenly got wide-eyed and ran over to Patterson. “This is just a reminder,” boomed Pat’s voice, which still carried a French Canadian accent even after over thirty years in the States, “that this match is a no-disqualification match.”

  “That’s not fair,” Jim Ross informed the home viewers. “This match doesn’t have any stipulations.” Austin eventually took over, but the Dude used a diabolical ballshot to send the champ to the outside. As I was putting the boots to Austin halfway up the entrance aisle, Vince got that wide-eyed look again and sprinted down the aisle, and around the ring to Patterson. A moment later, Pat was on the mike.

  “Just a reminder, in this match, falls count anywhere in the building.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” said a sarcastic J. R., “I guess they’re just making up the rules as they go along.”

  The impromptu falls count anywhere provision gave us the excuse to work our way over to where a series of parked cars made up the Over the Edge set. We spent the next few minutes liberally destroying the already destroyed vehicles, including a Dude Love backdrop that saw Austin smash a front windshield. At one point, with Austin prorte in the aisle, the Dude ascended two cars, which were stacked precariously on top of one another. I dove off the hood looking for the elbow, but when Austin moved, I uncharacteristically cheesed out and landed partly on my feet instead of on my hip. The fight continued into the ring, until Austin finally gained the upper hand and caught me with a vicious chair to the face. At that point, the match should have been over, but Vince refused to make the count. Realizing that a screwing was at hand, Stone Cold got in Vince’s face, while I came to my senses and picked up a steel chair that Patterson slid me. I came charging and brought the chair down. Hard, but Austin moved, and my boss took a shot so hard that it literally knocked the caps on his teeth off. I caught him with the claw, and before he even went down, Patterson slid in as an apparent substitute ref and attempted to count Austin out. Before he could get to three, however, the Undertaker slid him outside and promptly chokeslammed him. Now it was Gerald Brisco’s turn to slide in, attempt a ludicrous three count, and get pulled out and chokeslammed through a table. I got up and turned into Austin’s stunner, and Steve made the count himself with Vince’s very hand.

  The next night, I came out on Raw with an eye that was visibly swollen and discolored from my chair to the face the previous night. What followed was a memorable verbal interaction with Mr. McMahon, which left the Dude without his pride and without his job.

  Dude Love had been fired, Cactus Jack had retired, leaving only one persona who was still eligible for a paycheck. That’s right, the return of Mankind, who had last been seen almost six months earlier. I’d like to say that Mankind’s return was an instant success, but in reality, it was met with the type of apathy usually reserved for Al Snow matches (yes!).

  Running a weekly two-hour wrestling
program head to head against well-financed competition is exciting and often makes for remarkable television, but the speed with which issues are rushed sometimes leaves creative casualties behind. Unfortunately, Mankind was one of those casualties. I had just completed a very emotional interview with Vince McMahon. I’m not saying I was really fired, but I thought it was a good representation of reality. Not everyone can hit his boss when he wants to. Usually, the boss holds the ball and the employee has to play by the rules. I had been embarrassed by my boss on national television, and it felt like there was a part of everyone that could feel for me. When I came running out just an hour later as Mankind, it was almost as if I were wearing a hospital gown and pulling an IV stand behind me. Mankind has gone on to incredible heights since that poorly received run in, but at the time the rapid character changes led to credibility problems that would be tough to overcome.

  I had been tentatively scheduled to face Stone Cold at the June King of the Ring Pay-Per-View in a special Hell in a Cell match. Hell in a Cell was a match that was devised eight months earlier as a special attraction for the Shawn Michaels-Undertaker feud. The cell referred to an ominous-looking sixteen-foot-high steel mesh structure with a matching ceiling. The cell was so large that, unlike other cages, it literally surrounded the ring. The first cell match had been outstanding-probably the best match of 1997-and the feeling was that a sequel would do big business. Unfortunately, as I learned with the aid of a phone call, the feeling was that Foley vs. Austin III wouldn’t.

  Vince Russo broke the news, and as he did, I could feel my heart sink. I knew that Mankind wasn’t over, but I was hoping that the office wouldn’t catch on to the current apathy for a while. Russo’s comments made me realize they had. “Cactus, we are just concerned that the audience won’t buy another match with you and Steve.”