by Mick Foley
When the action spilled out into the parking lot, I finally gained my revenge. After knocking The Rock to the floor, I commandeered a forklift that was transporting several kegs of beer. I then drove the vehicle over to where The Rock lay writhing in agony (or at least pretending he was) and I lowered the cargo onto his chest. With The Rock trapped beneath enough alcohol to supply a Kennedy wedding reception, I got out of the lift and covered him for the win. Standing up, I looked into the camera and yelled out, "Yo, Adrian, I did it! . . . Again!" This action seems somehow tarnished over time, especially when realizing that actor (and former WCW world champion) David Arquette later did essentially the same thing on an AT&T commercial. How dare he bastardize my attempt to bastardize Rocky.
So now I was the World Wrestling Federation Champion for the second time. Somehow this one didn't seem quite as special. Maybe it was the sense of having been there before. Or maybe it was because of my exhausted state. Or maybe it was due to the fact that I had salsa, ketchup, guacamole, and mud all over me, and had won the match with a finish so ridiculous that I could almost see Lou Thesz tearing up his Cauliflower Alley membership card.
The finish made me visualize one of wrestling's classic grumpy old men standing on a street corner, yelling out to no one in particular, "In my day, we didn't use guacamole as a weapon. We didn't fight in kitchens, and we didn't need Steven Spielberg to direct our title matches. We wore black boots, we wore black trunks, and we didn't need beer kegs and forklifts to win titles. We wrestled for real. . . seven days a week ...365 days a year ... and we liked it!" Still, beer kegs or not, it felt good to hold that World Wrestling Federation belt again. So good, in fact, that I didn't speak up when I should have. Even though I knew better, I walked away when they said, "Mick, that's great. Rock, we just want to get one more camera shot."
I watched the match from the airport lounge in Charlotte. Not many of the patrons were wrestling fans, and even though they protested when I switched the television station, they seemed to get caught up in our Hollywood production rather quickly. Even one guy's comment—"Come on, a bag of popcorn doesn't hurt when you get hit with it"— couldn't ruin the mood. Until the finish.
They were cheering as I finally leveled The Rock in the parking lot. Rooting me on as I gained control of the forklift with a commanding "Can I please use this?" and laughing as they sensed what was about to happen. And then, in a moment, it was dead. One hokey, completely unrealistic bird's-eye view of a groggy Rock coming to and realizing that he was about to be crushed ruined the whole thing. "Oh, come on, where did that camera come from?" as if he were looking at the dailies of the Harry Potter film. "That's not a wrestling match, that's a movie," cried out another. Slowly, I slunk away, knowing that with one ridiculous camera shot, we had completely ruined their suspension of disbelief. On the whole, I thought the match was fun. And I'm in favor of any match that results in me being the champion. But I'm glad that the match wasn't an unbelievable success artistically (for a short time it was the most-watched match of all time) and that it didn't revolutionize the business. Good wrestling matches are an art, as is good moviemaking. But they're different arts, and I'm glad that, for the time being at least, they will stay that way.
Preliminary reports on the Royal Rumble buy rate looked to be outstanding. Now we just needed one more Pay-Per-View until the big one, Wrestle-Mania. Fans had been so into the Rumble confrontation between Vince and his nemesis Stone Cold that they had been booked into a steel-cage match at February's St. Valentine's Day Massacre. During wrestling's infancy on Pay-Per-View, going back to 1986, the World Wrestling Federation had offered five Pay-Per-View shows a year; Wrestle-Mania, SummerSlam, the Royal Rumble, the Survivor Series, and King of the Ring. WCW soon came up with an equal number. In 1993, WCW decided to run monthly Pay-Per-Views, and World Wrestling Federation was forced to follow suit, thereby changing forever the wrestling landscape.
Instead of building up for angles every ten weeks, the World Wrestling Federation (and WCW as well) had to create, promote, and execute angles for Pay-Per-View every month, while presenting four hours of new programming every week (not including Saturday and Sunday "wrap-up" shows). With the World Wrestling Federation relying on a very small talent pool at the very top of the organization, frequent rematches were inevitable. With Wrestle-Mania on the horizon, and the chemistry between me and The Rock still going strong, a decision was made to have a title match between Mankind and The Rock for the fourth month in a row, in addition to the Super Bowl adventure. This one was billed as a "Last Man Standing" contest, which continued the time-honored tradition of bouts based on Bruce Willis box-office failures. (Actually, I like Bruce, especially in his more understated roles in films like The Sixth Sense, Nobody's Fool, and In Country.)
While getting ready for "Last Man Standing," I got a chance to make my big-screen (or at least straight-to-video) debut. The film was called Big Money Hustlas, or as I refer to it, "My chance to get a SAG (Screen Actors Guild) card." Hey, I was willing to do anything to get that card, which would allow me access to the best health insurance plan in the country. For years, I had been paying massive dollars for minimal coverage, and when I really needed my benefits a few years ago, my carrier screwed me like a three-dollar hooker. I would have done anything to get that card—even Big Money Hustlas. Actually, the film was pretty cool, even though my one day of shooting involved standing outside in my T-shirt in five-degree weather for hours at a time, with only the borrowed Winnebago of the rock band the Misfits to seek occasional refuge in.
I had never heard the Misfits' music, but knew of their reputation as a hardcore band with a loyal, somewhat weird following. The guys dressed demonically and sang of such subjects as murder and decapitation (no, they don't write the music for Disney films). So it was with some surprise that I was greeted by bass player Jerry with a "I thought you might be hungry, so I had Grandma make you some homemade meatballs." Not only was he a nice guy, but his teenage son, who was with him, actually seemed to like him. Nothing gives me hope for the future like seeing teens who actually like their parents.
I couldn't help but notice that the sleeping accommodations on the vehicle seemed a little cramped. There were little sleeping cubicles built in everywhere. I swear, it reminded me of when Kramer rented out his dresser drawers to Japanese visitors to sleep in on Seinfeld. "Jerry," I said, noticing that there was a bed wedged in between two sets of tiny bunk beds, "I'll bet you make sure that you get the bed, right?" "Kind of," he said. "I share it with my brother and the drummer." I couldn't believe it. Eleven guys slept in that Winnebago—eleven! All of a sudden listening to the Blue Meanie's snoring and farts in a Red Roof didn't seem all that bad.
I liked Jerry so much that I was proud to accept his gift package of evil-looking skull T-shirts and CDs. As a matter of fact, I couldn't wait to slide that CD in as soon as I got to my car. And slide it in I did, and waited for Jerry's groovy bass lines to take me away to another place in my mind. Hey—maybe the Misfits would be my new band to inspire me to a whole new level of matches and interviews. Eleven seconds later I pressed eject, and the CD slid out, never to play again. I hope this doesn't hurt Jerry's feelings—he really is a great guy. But I guess that could be somewhat akin to somebody saying, "Hey Mick, I read your book, and you sound like a great guy. But as a wrestler, you suck." But honestly, if I were forced to make a decision at gunpoint between listening to the Misfits and watching a Best of Test video, I think I'd watch the video, even if it had the Rodney match on it.
Speaking of music, I usually don't listen to it while I'm writing, but I was forced to do so when writing these last few pages, by a group of obnoxious teenage girls on my flight from New York to Atlanta. So I put on a CD called Broken Things, by a woman named Julie Miller, and man, it's a great one. "All My Tears" will give you goose bumps. That is, of course, if you like music that no one else listens to.
"Last Man Standing" was a tricky one to figure out. How do we live up to the concept of th
e match, which involves two guys trying to knock each other unconscious, while avoiding the over-the-top brutality of "I Quit" that had made the match hard to enjoy? Actually, I have not yet run into, nor do I want to, the guy who says, "Man, that 'I Quit' was the greatest match of all time—I watch it every day."
Having apparently not learned anything from January's mistake, I had again brought Colette and the kids. Actually, the proximity of the show's location in Memphis, and the following two days of television in Alabama and Tennessee, had been the deciding factor in my decision. With four shows a week on the World Wrestling Federation schedule, and with my decision to accept outside appearances on off days several times a month, and a whole lot of time spent on airplanes in between, I tried to take the family with me whenever I was remotely close to Florida.
Accepting these outside appearances was a matter of great trouble for me. On one hand, I desperately wanted to be home as often as I could. On the other hand, I was beginning to realize that my time as an active wrestler was coming to an end. I had been going full tilt for a long time, and my body was really slowing down. Financially, the past year had been a good one, but with the possibility of retirement poking its head out at me, I felt like I had to make as much as I could, while I still could. The World Wrestling Federation's popularity was soaring, but wrestling fans, historically, have short memories, with the legends of wrestling past being right up there with the guy operating the Ferris wheel at the Johnson Country Fair, in terms of esteem. Maybe this will change—maybe it won't, but nonetheless, I felt the need to make hay while the sun was shining.
I had promised Colette that this match would be different, and had agreed to go on "headshot probation" indefinitely. For months, I would have to preface prematch conversations with opponents with "I'm not allowed to get hit in the head." They would usually laugh and ask me if I was serious, and I would assure them I was. With the exception of one necessary blow to conclude "Last Man Standing," and one tremendous chair to the face that was designed to impress tennis star Monica Seles, I actually went almost a year without a single chair to my head.
In this respect, we've got an advantage over the "real" sports. If former Philadelphia Flyer Eric Lindros had been able to tell opponents, "Watch it, guys, I've taken a few too many whacks lately," he'd be a whole lot better off now. And if San Francisco 49er Steve Young had been able to say, "Hey, I just watched a twenty-four-hour Gilligan's Island marathon, so I think I've had too many head injuries," I'm sure he would have been playing a few more years.
I received some strange news when I got to the building that day. The World Wrestling Federation aired a show called Heat on Sunday evenings, and on the one Sunday a month that we had a Pay-Per-View, Heat would air live, as a way of creating interest for the PPV. On this show, I would be surprised to see three old friends, who would train me for the big match. "It will be great," writer Vince Russo assured me, "with these guys training you, it will be hilarious." I saw things a little bit differently. "Vince, even a moron knows that you don't start training two hours before a match." (With the exception of Ken Shamrock—who once actually did train that long in order to look good as guest referee.) Russo was worried about offending the three guys who had been flown in especially for this training session. Indeed the three men, Bob Backlund and the Iron Sheik, who were both former World Wrestling Federation champions, and Dominic DeNucci, the man who trained me to wrestle, were all wrestling legends. Which, of course, didn't mean a whole lot to the crowd, anyway.
I thought about it for a second. "Vince, I don't mind if they attempt to train me, but why not have some fun with it? Let me be the straight man here, and they can run around like lunatics if they want." And so it came to pass that the Iron Sheik tried to teach me the art of "Persian clubs," Bob Backlund ran up and down several flights of stairs, and a wide-eyed Dominic continually attempted to preach to me on the merits of the dropkick. In his day as a performer, Dominic had a well-deserved reputation as an excellent technical wrestler, as well as a well-deserved reputation as being a not-so-excellent interview. Witness the infamous mid-1960s San Francisco promo where Dominic, who had just arrived in the States and spoke little English, was instructed to promote a steel-cage matchup. In reality, this "steel" cage was made of chicken wire, a fact the promoter urged Dominic not to expose. "I tell you," Dominic said in his promo, "this cage may look like-a chicken wire, but it's not-a chicken wire."
If anyone should have known of my dropkick shortcomings, it would be Dominic, for after all, fourteen years earlier he had witnessed my only attempt at it. After catching Kurt Kaufmann in the mid-left-nut area, it was agreed that I could probably do without having the dropkick in my arsenal. I swear, I think Captain Ahab had more spring in his leg than I did. And that was when I was nineteen! And 230 pounds. In February 1999, at age thirty-three and hovering around the 300-pound mark, I didn't see the dropkick fitting into the evening's itinerary.
But Dominic was insistent. "Mickey, my boy" he began, with eyes flashing widely, "tonight, if you give him the dropkick, then maybe, my boy, you will finally be the champion." His promo wasn't scripted, and neither was my response, a simple, "Dominic, I already am the champion," to which Dominic replied, "Oh."
The Iron Sheik was one of wrestling's great "behind the curtains" characters. A legitimate Olympian for Iran decades earlier, and a real-life bodyguard for the Shah of Iran, the Sheik, whose real name was Kosraw Vasori, had come to the United States as a Spartan athlete. That was a long time ago. He had been the man who dropped the title to Hulk Hogan in 1984, which begat "Hulka-mania," and he had remained a huge draw for years after. Hell, the guy still does independent shots, and the fans still hate him when he sings the Iranian national anthem.
He was also the archrival of Sgt. Slaughter during the Sarge's phenomenal run in 1984, with their classic "Boot Camp" match in Madison Square Garden still among my all-time favorites. The in-ring stories pale in comparison, however, to behind-the-scenes Sheik stories. He spoke in a loud boisterous voice, with a strong Iranian accent, and his statements were often hilarious. One time he was bemoaning the fact that he had been forced to do a job (lose) to Vader, the man responsible for tearing off my right ear in 1994. "Can you believe that," the Sheik yelled out, "the Iron Sheik, a former douba-you, douba-you, hef shompion, losing to a fat jehbroni." At that point Vader walked through the curtain, and the Sheik, without missing a beat, stuck out his hand. "Be-a-utiful, bay-beh, the Sheik loved it!"
I saw him a few months ago in the Atlanta airport, and he hadn't changed a whole lot. He was still attempting to pay for drinks with eight-by-ten promo shots of him with the World Wrestling Federation belt in 1984, and as usual, he made life interesting, even during so mundane an experience as riding the airport convenience cart through the terminal. Now, usually, the cart makes a tiny little beep, beep, beep noise that commands about as much attention as Jiminy Cricket at a Marilyn Man-son concert. With the Sheik aboard, however, the people moved out of the way a whole lot quicker. "Vot, are you deaf, brothah?" he yelled out, as if he were a strange Middle Eastern beacon in the night. "Vot the hell is wrong WITH YOU!"
On this night in Memphis, the Sheik was trying to sing the virtues of his "Persian clubs," Iranian training tools that were heavy and legitimately difficult to master. With these clubs, the Sheik was an expert, and he was able to speak to me as he strained mightily. "Tonight, Sheik teach you the Persian clubs. With these, you gain power, balance, stamina." The Sheik then let them drop with a mighty thud. I looked at him curiously and said, "Sheik, maybe I can just hit him in the head with them instead," to which the Sheik exclaimed, "Ex-zackly!"
Backlund was a World Wrestling Federation Champion for almost five straight years, before dropping the belt to the Sheik in December 1983, with a young and ruggedly handsome Mick Foley in attendance. Like most wrestlers who watch Bob's matches years later, I look up and say, "How did he get to keep the belt for so long?" He was a former collegiate champion, and an unbelievably we
ll-trained athlete, but he was to "smooth" what Dolly Parton is to flat-chested.
Bob was always known as a nice guy, but he was, like, scary nice. I met him in 1985, and after having had my picture taken with him, I asked him if he would sign an autograph for me. Bob mistakenly thought I asked if he would sign the picture, at which point he whipped out a pen and gave me his home address, which he told me to send the photo to. I did, and guess what? He actually signed it and sent it back.
Bob admitted to me that he had trouble reading as a youngster, and that he'd been given preferential treatment due to his status as an athlete. So Bob had vowed to teach himself to read, and rare was the time that he was found without a big, thick, overly intelligent tome in his hands. Bob would then take the big words he'd learn and use them in conversation, often in a humorous manner.
Such was the case on this important night, after I told Bob that I didn't feel like running up and down the stairs. "Young man," Bob scolded me, "don't you exacerbate me!" I grew very serious as I told Bob, "I never exacerbate before a big match." I thought for sure he'd laugh, but he didn't. Instead, he paused and replied with a straight face, "Nobody should." When we heard "cut," we all laughed like crazy. Everyone, that is, except Bob, who never cracked a smile. When it comes to Bob, I often wonder if he gets in his car after the show and suddenly goes, "Okay, I'm through fooling the boys—time to act normal again."
Bob kept insisting that I run up and down the damn stairs, and after he replied yes to my, "If I do this, will you leave me alone?" question, I began my slow ascent. While celebrating my inaugural ten-step accomplishment like I was Rocky Balboa at the doors of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, I was blindsided by The Rock, who, in accordance with my earlier suggestion, went after my legitimately sore right knee. At this point in my career, I still believed in the "real is better" philosophy, and felt that faking an injury when I had a perfectly good real injury to exploit would be scandalous. To make things even better, or worse, depending on how or when I look at it (better at the time, worse after I thought about it), I had The Rock continue the knee assault during the match. The psychology of the match was that instead of trying to knock me senseless to meet the "Last Man Standing" stipulation, The Rock would work on my knee until I was unable to stand.