by Mick Foley
One of my strengths as a performer is coming up with creative ways to get hurt. The upside to this is that my matches look original, and thereby cool. The downside is that the less painful ones get duplicated by others to the point that only a wrestling historian (a guy without a girlfriend) knows that I was the innovator, and I am left with the genuinely torturous ones to call my very own. In this latter, ridiculously painful group was the gem I came up with for this match, where The Rock lifted the steel ring steps overhead, while standing in the ring, and threw them onto my prone body outside the ring. Ouch!
The Rock, on the other hand, thrived on coming up with creative things that weren't painful in the least. This night's offering was a rendition of "Smackdown Hotel," which seemed appropriate in Elvis Presley's Memphis hometown. With Mankind down on the mat, The Rock grabbed the house microphone and began serenading me. "Well, since Rock's baby left him, he found a new place to dwell, it's down at the end of Jabroni Drive, that's Smack-down Hotel." The crowd went crazy. He may have been the bad guy, but he was pretty damn funny. After a pause he continued. "Rock feels so lonely, baby, Rock feels so lonely, Rock feels so—oughuff!" When Rock leaned over, I had caught him in the "Socko Claw."
Socko Claw? What the heck is the socko claw? Actually, most people know, but seeing as how Have a Nice Day! actually was well liked by people who didn't even watch wrestling, I'll give a short background. Upon my entry into the World Wrestling Federation in 1996, I began using the "mandible claw," a nerve hold that applied pressure with the fingers to the nerve underneath the tongue. Two and a half years later, in an attempt to cheer up the ailing Vince McMahon, I (at the suggestion of Al Snow) created "Mr. Socko," the world's ugliest sock puppet. Mr. Socko became an immediate hit, and shortly after, in what may have been the most important cultural combination since Marty's chocolate bar fell into John's peanut butter, the "Socko Claw" was born. Thank goodness it was, because especially after this match, I would grow to depend on Socko like a 2 a.m. boob in an infant's mouth.
With The Rock reeling from the Sock, I mounted a big comeback that climaxed with Mankind mounting the second turnbuckle, ready to pounce on The Rock, who was staggered outside the ring. Like a 300-pound, one-eared bird, I took to the sky (I can't jump high, so I jump from high places), and like a 260-pound intelligent man, The Rock moved out of the way. I knew I was hurt the moment my right knee hit the corner of the table. The table collapsed, but did so slowly, unlike my knee, which did so immediately. As a foolish subscriber to the "real is better" philosophy, I refused to have anything to do with "gimmicked" tables, and I had just paid a heavy price for my foolishness. If I had to point to one moment in time that signaled the beginning of the end of my career, it would be this table collision. After that, Mick Foley and quality matches (with a few notable exceptions) parted company for a long time.
I struggled back into the ring for the finish, which had changed dramatically over the previous few days. I had assumed all along that I would be putting The Rock over in this match, in order to set the stage for WrestleMania. Instead, Vince Russo had informed me, Mania was going to be a three-way match between Austin, The Rock, and myself. I tried to talk him out of it, believing that Austin vs. The Rock was the way to go, but he was insistent. "Mick, after everything you've done, Vince [McMahon, the "real" Vince] says there's no way we can go to Mania without you in the main event." Great, I was in. But now, how do we get through "Last Man Standing" without beating either me or The Rock? You got it—screw the people. Actually, if anyone felt ripped off after the match we had, they can feel free to screw themselves, but I still felt funny about our inconclusive ending.
This is where my one necessary head shot comes in (the non-Monica Seles one). Do you remember The Rocky II finish? Good. Now substitute chairs for boxing gloves, and substitute me for Creed and Rocky for, um, Rocky, and you've got our finish— simultaneous chairshots that knocked us both out. Believe it or not, The Rocky II finish had actually been done a few years earlier, in the 1975 movie Let's Do It Again, with Jimmie "Dy-No-Mite" Walker playing boxer Bootsey Farnsworth. So I guess I am guilty of ripping off a movie that had ripped off another movie. Still, I was carried out of the arena as the World Wrestling Federation Champion. For less than twenty-four hours, as it turned out.
I arrived in Birmingham, Alabama, the next day in terrible pain. When I was a kid, I used to question my dad's decision to leave Yankee Stadium after the sixth inning in order to "beat the traffic." Now I was questioning my own previous night's decision to forgo treatment on a serious knee injury for the same reason. Indeed, I had bolted with Colette and the kids right after my match, and was halfway to Birmingham when I stopped to check on the knee. I took off my tights, and then slid down my knee pad to reveal a massive amount of swelling. I bought some ice at a convenience store to try to reduce the size, but the thing was purple and throbbing (my knee, that is) when I showed up at the arena the next day. Francois worked diligently on it, and was actually quite helpful, but I was still having difficulty doing even the simplest things—i.e., walking, bending, making fun of Al Snow in front of the boys.
While my knee was being mended in one room, my career was being upended in another, where a decision was made to scrap me from the Wrestle-Mania main event. It seems to me that some people thrive on controversy, as well as dissension. Former wrestler Shawn Michaels not only seemed to thrive on it, but seemed to have a genuine talent at creating it, which he did on this day by convincing all parties involved that the WrestleMania main event had to be a one-on-one contest. Shawn had main-evented several Manias, and believed the integrity of the event would be hurt by a three-way match. Ironically, Shawn was actually pushing for me to remain in the match, but was outvoted. Instead, I was asked to drop the belt to The Rock in a ladder match later, on that night's Raw, and saw my WrestleMania dream disappear.
8: Limpin' Ain't Easy
It was a classic good-news-bad-news situation. The bad news was that I was broken down, burned out, and had only a few good matches left in my system. The good news was that nobody noticed. In their fourteenth minute, the quality of my matches went downhill faster than Milli Vanilli's career, but the reaction to them actually grew stronger. The Mankind character had benefited greatly several months earlier by upping the comedy quotient. One part hardcore badass and one part lovable dork had proven to be a successful formula. Now, with Mother Nature and Father Time teaming up to kick my ass, I changed the equation once again. Over the course of the next several weeks, Mankind would, as Triple H put it, become a "human Muppet," with half a thimbleful of a badass reputation dusted on top. I began to have the worst matches—and the best time of my career.
In truth, I'm probably being too hard on myself. In retrospect, my performances in October and November of '99, when I truly did suck, made my March and April offerings look like Flair vs. Steamboat by comparison. Also, by being booked primarily in "Fatal Four-Way" matches around the country, I was able to hide my weaknesses and have more fun in the ring than ever before. I was tentatively set to have knee surgery following WrestleMania, so for the next several weeks I gutted it out, stunk up the ring, and made audiences laugh, while I looked forward to some time off.
Las Vegas, Nevada, in March of 1999, stands out in my mind as a good time, and not because of gambling. My mother told me about traveling across country after she graduated college, and how she only gambled one quarter in Vegas. I've got her beat, because I've been there well over a dozen times and never wagered once. I mean why give my money to casinos when worthwhile organizations like the IRS need it so much more? Vegas is wonderful because it is this country's only city with world-class roller coasters at its hotels. So, after experiencing the joys, loop-the-loops, corkscrews, and G-force of New York, New York with Al Snow, I headed to the arena.
A small group of teenagers had gained access to the backstage area with cable-access press credentials, and were seeking out interviews with World Wrestling Federation performers. I went up in
front of the camcorder and was immediately besieged with questions about my hardcore wrestling past. "Mick Foley," began one kid, trying to sound like a pimply-faced, goofy-haired Edward R. Murrow, "you are known as the 'King of the Death Match,' you've been in barbed-wire matches, thumbtack matches, and bed-of-nails matches. Do you have any scars?" Do you have any scars? Oh, this was great. I had been waiting to be fed a line like this since Scott Darragh and I had shown up as freshmen at Cortland State University in upstate New York, with jokes so bad that we were immediately shunned from any and all sexual activity on campus. "What was that last part?" I asked the kid. "I asked if you had any scars," he replied. "I'm sorry," I told the group, "I don't smoke." I then burst out into the biggest fake laugh my body could handle. "Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, ha—get it? You asked if you had any scars, and I said I don't smoke! Oh, that's good. Owen, come here, listen to this." Owen Hart came forward, and I asked the kid to repeat the question. When he did, I landed the same horrible joke, and Owen, who was no stranger to bad jokes himself, burst out laughing. Together, we spent the next half hour pulling aside every wrestler, crew member, custodian, and Godfather "Ho" we could find, and repeated the ritual. When I was finished, I had fake-laughed myself hoarse, and took a break while I watched the Godfather in action.
The Godfather was the real-life Charles Wright, who at this point was in the opening stages of creating a character for himself that would finally get over. In 1990,1 had once split a room in Dallas with Charles, where I spent the night saying sweet nothings over the phone to Colette's expanding belly. Despite that bonding experience, I wasn't especially close with him, but felt I knew him well enough to see that his previous personas—Soultaker, Papa Shango, Kama, and Kama MustaFa—were missing their mark. Good wrestling characters are usually exaggerated slices of a performer's real-life persona, and Wright's dark, brooding characters didn't seem to embody the real person in any way. In real life, Charles was vibrant, outgoing, and happy. In the ring, he had actually become known (never to his face) as "The Black Hole of Charisma," because not only did he have no charisma in the ring, he seemed to suck the charisma out of his opponents as well. After seeing him in action at the hotel lounge in Chicago one night, I wondered why he couldn't channel his natural charisma into his wrestling persona.
Enter The Godfather—neon-bedecked, shade-wearing, spliff-smoking, throwback-to-Huggy-Bear 1970s pimp! That's right—a pimp. In every town, The Godfather would have Ho's (whores) who were tapped from the local gentlemen's clubs, in what I understand is considered a pretty big honor in that particular field of entertainment. One night in New Orleans, World Wrestling Federation road agent Jack Lanza (knowing New Orleans was within driving distance of my house) voiced disappointment when he found out my wife hadn't made the trip by saying, "That's too bad, Colette could have been one of the Ho's tonight." To this day, Lanza can't understand why I was offended.
I've got to admit, the first time I saw the act, I had my doubts, but the fans loved it. Hell, they made him a baby face (good guy)! Since then, he had engaged in a legendary feud with Tiger Ali Singh, which had been touched off when Singh referred to the girls as "sluts." Now, those are fighting words— how dare he call those Ho's sluts!
On this night in Vegas, I watched as he launched into his familiar speech. "Once again, it's time for everybody to climb aboard the Hooooo train. Now I want everybody to light a fatty for this pimp daddy, light that mother up, and say it out loud—Pimpin' Ain't Easy." At that moment I knew deep down in my heart that I would do with that catchphrase what I do with all catchphrases that I like—I would rip it off.
Later I watched as Al Snow and Bob Holly tried to destroy each other for fifteen minutes in a tremendous hardcore matchup. "Hardcore" used to mean using anything at your disposal, in a display of pride and intestinal fortitude. Presently, it means comedy matches with guys running all over the arena using the dreaded cookie sheet. But on this night in Sin City, the curmudgeonly, non-carnival-attending Holly and his opponent, Snow, were letting it all hang out. Tables, chairs, and hard bumps on concrete were all enlisted to make for a very enjoyable, hard-hitting match. Then they went for the popcorn. Gimmick infringement. As any reader of Have a Nice Day! will tell you, the big Santa's sackful of popcorn to the head and back belonged to me and Owen Hart, who had stunk up many a sold-out arena with it. Now here was Al bastardizing it for his own personal gain. Now, I don't care if someone wants to borrow or blatantly steal my dangerous stuff—but leave my hokey stuff alone. What next? Was Al going to "borrow" my dumping of 1,000 soft-drink lids, which Owen and I had invented in Los Angeles? Owen had sold the plastic lids like sledgehammer shots, with his knees buckling while the lids floated to the ground. Was nothing sacred? I decided to take the appropriate steps to ensure that this blatant thievery would not happen again. I told Vince's son, Shane McMahon.
Al and Bob looked like hell when they walked through the curtain. Bob hits harder in a pro wrestling match than most people do in a street fight, and Al's face showed the results. His eye was slightly swollen, and a thin trail of blood trickled from his nose. Both men's chests were bruised from the brutal open-hand chops they had both endured. Despite his worn-down condition, Al had about him a look that was unmistakable—a look of pride. Until, that is, Shane asked to speak to him.
I was too far away to hear the conversation, but I could read Al's body language as he nodded meekly, before bowing his head and walking away dejectedly. A moment later Shane called him back, and spoke again, prompting Al to point to me and Owen, who by this point were doing our best not to bust out and yell, "You!" Al came over and told us Shane's talk had gone something like this. "Al, you know, we work real hard to try to protect people's gimmicks around here, right?" Al nods. "Well, using popcorn in a match is Mick's gimmick, and we're trying to protect that. We can't have you stealing it and using it in your matches." Al walks away. "Wait, Al, come back here—you know I'm kidding, don't you?" At this point Al simply says, "Mick," and points to me and Owen. Later Al said, "I should have known that something was up when I saw you and Owen huddled together." I took that as a huge compliment.
Later that evening, before our "Fatal Four-Way" main event with The Rock, Kane, Mankind, and Stone Cold, The Rock grabbed the mike to begin another hilarious monologue. "Finally, The Rock has come back to Las Vegas. You know, The Rock has been around the world, and The Rock can say that beyond a shadow of a doubt, this is the largest gathering of trailer-park trash The Rock has ever seen." The crowd laughed and booed simultaneously and showered "The Great One" with the familiar chorus of "Rocky Sucks." The Rock smiled, and pointed at Kane, who was already in the ring, and continued. "First, The Rock is going to beat your big, red, retarded ass, then he's going to take Mankind's monkey ass and kick it all over the corner of Know Your Role Boulevard and Jabroni Drive, and then finally, The Rock is going to lay the Smacketh down on Steve Austin's candy ass." The crowd booed, but deep down, they were dying to love the guy. Even my angle with Rock was only delaying his inevitable face turn.
I heard my music and stepped through the curtain. I always limped slightly when I walked, but on this night in Vegas, the walk was exaggerated greatly. The roar of the crowd was Hegstardish in its intensity and Laurentiis-like in its duration. It was nice to be loved, even without the World Wrestling Federation belt. I grabbed the mike and tried to sound sad as I began to address the crowd. "I guess you can tell that I am in considerable pain by the way I walk." The crowd nodded in agreement. "Indeed, walking with an injury is very difficult, or in other words, 'LIMPIN' AIN'T EASY' " The remark was met with both laughter and groans from the audience, and great amusement from Kane and The Rock. I had made some mental notes backstage during The Rock's speech, and with my "Limpin' " line out of the way, was eager to share them with the residents of Sin City. "You know, Rock, I couldn't help but overhear you talk about my monkey ass. Then I heard you talk about Steve Austin's candy ass. Hell [pointing to Kane], I even heard him talk about your big, red, retard
ed ass." The crowd roared, and I could see that The Rock was interested to see where I was going with this impromptu speech. A moment later I showed him. "Now, I could be wrong, but it certainly seems to me that The Rock likes to talk about men's asses a lot." The crowd roared, and The Rock feigned anger while doing his best not to laugh. Especially when I spoke again. "All of this has gotten me to thinking— maybe it's true—maybe The Rock really does suck after all!"
The crowd's response was huge, and they immediately broke into a prolonged chorus of "Rocky Sucks," while The Rock adamantly denied doing any such thing. Please realize that in front of 16,000 screaming fans, a verbal accusation is not enough. To properly reach the top levels of an arena, an elementary knowledge of pantomime must be utilized. I'm not talking about white-faced, Marcel Marceau "trapped in a box" pantomime either. That stuff can get your ass kicked in some parts of the country. I'm talking about "grabbing an imaginary penis in your hand and pretending to gnaw on it" type of pantomime. There's a fine line you don't want to cross here, though. When accusing someone of such an act, you can't seem so proficient at the miming that the crowd can picture you with a real one in your hand. Instead, you just kind of haphazardly hold it while rolling your tongue around your own inner cheek. Granted, I have never, in my own limited experience, seen or heard of this technique being implemented in a real-life sex scenario, but it is nonetheless the time-honored technique for pantomimed fellatio. Now The Rock was livid, or at least his character was.