by Mick Foley
10: MMM, Beefy
The world of commercials wanted me. Chef Boyardee felt that I, and I alone, embodied the qualities that made a man a "Boyardeeavore," a primitive beast whose only urge is to inhale as much of the quality canned pasta product as possible. I was ready.
I attacked the role with an enthusiasm that would have impressed Stanislavsky, and left in my wake an image of a Boyardeeavore that all future Chef pitchmen would strive to live up to. We shot the commercial at the Wild Animal Safari in Pine Mountain, Georgia. Along the way, I was not only exposed to exotic creatures from around the globe, but also attacked by a llama. I had no idea how to defend myself from a llama, so I did the only thing that a battle-scarred hardcore legend could do: I screamed and hid behind a tree. After all, none of my in-depth training at DeNucci's had included llama attacks. Thinking rationally, a guy really should be wary of any creature that would hang out with Michael Jackson—including that Webster guy. But of all the exotic beasts I met during the Chef shoot, none was more unique than Evan Metropolis.
I was introduced to Evan in my dressing trailer by one of the World Wrestling Federation marketing representatives. "Mick, this is Evan," the rep said. "He is the head of all International Home Foods' marketing." International Home Foods was a multi-billion-dollar company, and standing in front of me was its head of marketing—a seventeen-year-old kid. "Hello," the kid said, "it's nice to meet you. It was my idea to use you in this campaign." I looked at him—fresh-faced, rosy-cheeked, and slightly chubby, and thought someone was playing a rib on me.
It reminded me of when I met Joe C, the three-foot-eight-inch Kid Rock sidekick, who claimed to not only have a "high-ass voice like Aaron Neville," but also a ten-foot member. I met Joe six years ago, when I was at an independent show in Detroit, and he was backstage using language that would have made even Dallas Page say, "Wait a minute, bro." When I reprimanded the little guy, I was told he was eighteen. I asked for proof, and he whipped out an official Michigan license with what looked to be a five-year-old's picture on it. Years later I saw his picture in People magazine and found out he had become a big rock star. Before his untimely death last year, Joe even traveled to shows with World Wrestling Federation wrestlers X-Pac and Road Dogg, and had become something of an unofficial World Wrestling Federation mascot.
Gradually, I learned that Evan was worth millions, that he actually produced movies, and was a regular on Howard Stern's radio show. I asked him where he hung out on weekends, figuring he'd say "at the arcade" or "with my buddies outside the 7-Eleven," and instead heard "either South Beach or the Greek isles." He even offered to fly me to Greece on his private jet. I had to decline, however, when he told me he liked to rumble on the weekends and that he'd never lost one of these fights. This kid didn't look like he could lick a stamp, and I told him so. "Come on, Evan"—I laughed—"how much do you pay these guys to do the job for you?"
Later I was told by the World Wrestling Federation rep that Evan had liked me because I was one of the only people who had ever disagreed with him about anything. I even got a chance to hit him with an empty ravioli can during the filming of a special International Home Foods video presentation. I hit him hard too. And then he hugged me. If anyone else had hit Evan with a can, they would be in the spoon position with Jimmy Hoffa about now.
The commercial was a big hit, and my tag line of "Mmmm, beefy" became an oft-repeated catch-phrase for many months. I was even brought back later in the year to reprise my role as the Boyardeeavore, this time on a rampage in New York City. Evan and I hung out quite a bit on this shoot, and I even felt close enough to him to offer some genuine friendly advice. When I was told of Evan's fondness for sexual encounters with beautiful women, I was actually quite sad for him. When he told me of his quest to sleep with 1,000 women by his twenty-first birthday, I could feel his pain. When he told me he was already in the 350 range, I wanted to give him a friendly hug. When he told me that he'd actually nailed one of them while wearing the autographed Cactus Jack shirt I'd given him, I wanted to cry. With a shake of my head and gentle pat on the shoulder, and trying my best to invoke my inner role model, I spoke to him with the voice of wisdom. "Evan, one day you will learn that it is better to make love to the same woman a thousand times than to make love to a thousand women." I never heard anyone laugh so hard. Then Evan spoke with a wisdom that belied his tender age. "You never got laid when you were my age, did you?"
I have had a couple of other commercial-making experiences, but neither was as positive as the ones with Chef. Straight off my Boyardeeavore success, I was asked by the World Wrestling Federation to star in a spot for the Jakks' toys "Titantron," which many stores were counting on to make their Christmas. I felt up to the challenge.
The Titantron was a kind of stage that would play each World Wrestling Federation Superstar's music and announce their names when they were placed on it. The idea behind the commercial was that Mankind was only happy when he was having his name announced—he felt sad when he was out of the spotlight. So to combat his loneliness, he hires a guy named Ted to forever announce him in his everyday life. I loved the concept—Ted, with a megaphone, announcing me as I walked down the street, made a phone call, went to the bathroom, and so on. Unfortunately, I didn't love the director, who treated this children's toy commercial as if he were adapting Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time for a Hallmark Hall of Fame production. The script sure seemed simple. "When I walk through the Titantron, I feel happy." Okay, here I go. "When I walk through the Titantron, I feel happy." Great. One take. What's next? What? I'm not capturing the mood? Okay, what kind of mood do you want? Now, the director, an overly arty New York prima donna with a Cosmo Kramer hairdo, offered his take on the line. "Okay, right now imagine that you lost your puppy. Now you found your puppy. You lost your puppy—you found your puppy. Give it a try."
I gave it a try. "No, no, no," the director yelled. "I didn't get any sense that your puppy was lost— nor did I feel any joy when your puppy was found. Come on now—I need that emotion." Twenty-four times I lost that damn puppy, and twenty-four times I found it. None of it was good enough for this guy, who probably would've been smacked around like Talia Shire in The Godfather if he'd tried to tell De Niro to find his puppy. The director made it clear that he was lowering his standards to work with me.
Next line: "I miss that feeling." Simple enough, especially since all I had to do was stir a cup of coffee. Ready and action. "Okay, stir that coffee. You love that coffee. Your life is that coffee." Take one. I stir the coffee. "Cut—I'm not sensing that you even care about that coffee. You've got to show me you love it. Can you show me?" I told him I would try. Eighteen takes later I still wasn't sure if I had accurately portrayed one man's love for a cup of coffee, but we moved on nonetheless.
The next line was the key. This is where I informed the world that everything would be all right now that I had Ted. "So I got Ted" was the line. Simple, right? But not apparently as simple as one might expect. "You're a mischievous little boy," the director explained. "You're eating cake before dinner, and you're getting away with it." I tried to be mischievous, and I tried to taste that cake as I delivered my line, but it wasn't good enough. The director was losing his patience with me. " 'So I got Ted'—come on, let me feel it." Actually, my own patience was now thinner than a Love Boat plot, and besides, I thought this director was overanalyzing this whole thing just a little bit.
"Listen," I said, "wouldn't this be the perfect time to slip into my Mankind persona?" The director looked dumbfounded. "What is the Mankind persona?" he asked. This guy had wasted a whole morning with meaningless takes concerning lost puppies and incredibly important cups of coffee. I wanted to yell, but kept my cool. Still, I couldn't let this pretentious prick off the hook without at least a few thoughts of my own. "You're making a wrestling toy commercial starring a wrestler, which will be seen by wrestling fans on a wrestling show. Shouldn't you at least be familiar with your talent?" The guy looked like he'd just lo
st his puppy. I then delivered one warbling Mankind "So I got Ted" and the crew applauded as if I was Carlton Fisk homering in the twelfth inning of Game 6 in 1975. Even the PP (pretentious prick) was impressed. I kept waiting for the commercial to air, and it never did. Instead, a spot featuring the action figures being held by kids' hands aired while "Now entering the Titantron" blared over and over. I felt so guilty. If only I had stirred that coffee a little better. The other commercial-making experience was in reality nothing more than an audition in New York City, but was memorable nonetheless. I was working for Extreme Championship Wrestling during the spring of 1995, when Paul Heyman, the mad professor of sports-entertainment, told me about an audition for an American Express commercial starring Jerry Seinfeld. Only a few wrestlers were going to be there, Paul assured me, before adding that he felt I was the odds-on favorite for the gig.
It was a cattle call. Not only was every guy who'd laced up a pair of boots in the last ten years there, but every tattooed biker and musclehead in the tri-state area as well. I knew in all probability that it was much more important to look good than to actually be good, and with the knowledge that I carried about as much muscle on my body as an inactive twelve-year-old, I felt that my chances weren't all that good. Nonetheless, I waited my turn and changed into my working gear when called upon.
"You've got quite a few scars on your arms," the casting director noted quite accurately. I took this to mean that my chances of being picked were slimmer than Calista Flockhart surviving a hunger strike. "Where did you get all those from?" I tried to explain my propensity for Japanese barbed-wire matches as a means to paying my mortgage in as quick a way as possible, but the director's look of disgust lasted long after my story had ended.
"If we pick you for this story," the lady inquired, "what can you do to Jerry without hurting him?" In this situation, I did what every wrestler worth his salt would do when questioned about his talent. I lied my ass off. I rattled off the names of moves that I hadn't tried in years, some that I'd never even attempted, and some that hadn't even been invented yet. Hell, I think I even told her I could dropkick. Oddly, despite my stated mastery of every move ever performed, and my ability to perform them all without harming a hair on Jerry's head, I didn't get the part. In fact, nobody did, as the proposed commercial was scrapped.
A few days after the cattle call, I was talking with a few ECW wrestlers and comparing notes on the commercial audition. Like me, the other wrestlers' lists of moves they could perform without hurting Jerry ranged from slight exaggeration to outright whoppers. All except Tazz, who at five-foot-seven and 270 pounds of muscle was known as "the human suplex machine." Tazz opted instead for the honest approach. "Hey, I told 'em I couldn't guarantee nothin'," he told us in his Red Hook, Brooklyn, accent. "I told 'em that if Jerry gets in there with me, he's kind of taking his chances."
11:Bad Body, Britney, and the Boiler Boom
In the June 1998 King of the Ring Pay-Per-View, the "Hell in a Cell" match had nearly ended my career. The Undertaker throwing me off the sixteen-foot cell onto the Spanish announcers' table has become the wrestling equivalent of the Zapruder film in that it has been seen, visually dissected, and talked about so often. The flight off the top certainly was a tremendous sight to behold, but ironically, it was a second fall that night (that garnered nowhere near the attention of the first) that nearly ended my career.
Following my Spanish announcer landing, I had somehow managed to climb off the stretcher I was being carted out on and return to action, at which point I immediately began scaling the immense structure again. The crowd's response was phenomenal, and I had chills running down my spine as I climbed the last few feet. The Undertaker was waiting on top, and put his hand around my throat to signal a chokeslam on top of the cage—a move we hoped would slightly tear a section of the steel mesh. Instead, the cage gave way instantly and sent me crashing violently to the canvas, where my unconscious body came to rest in an awkward, twisted pose.
The World Wrestling Federation's ring had been infamous for its lack of give. Dating back to 1985, when the World Wrestling Federation was on NBC on a monthly basis on Saturday Night's Main Event, the old rings had been replaced by rings that, in accordance with NBC's wishes, would not move when they were landed on. This, it was thought, would look better on television.
Perhaps these rings did look better on television screens, but there were other screens that did not benefit from NBC's solid-construction idea—namely X-ray and MRI screens. As a result, World Wrestling Federation wrestlers either cut down on their risks, or lived with the consequences. Backs were often injured, serious neck injuries became more frequent, and careers were cut short. New, safer rings had been rumored to be in the works for years, but no one believed it would ever come to pass.
I believe my "Hell in a Cell" match may have sped up the process, because in less than a month, we were throwing each other around these new rings at a level of general health that had previously been unthinkable. Ironically, these safer rings may have actually hastened the end of my career.
The new rings had a certain degree of bounce, which was good in terms of landing. In terms of running, however, I felt very awkward. It felt like running on an unstable surface, and was made worse during tag-team matches, when several wrestlers could end up in the ring at the same time. As a result, my knees took a pounding every night, which caused simple walking to become quite painful and made a flight of stairs my worst enemy. I couldn't wait for surgery, which I hoped would be a miracle cure. First, however, I had to get past the Big Show in a "Boiler Room Brawl."
I felt like I needed a match with the Show in order to complete the story we had begun before WrestleMania, even though now as I write this, the only story I can remember is him being a lot bigger than me and beating the crap out of me. Russo and Vince were concerned, because such a match, they thought, would put Show in a position to be booed—a sound they definitely didn't want to hear. "What if we have it in the boiler room?" I said, in reference to the place that I used to call home during the early days of the Mankind character. The early Mankind was portrayed as dark and demented, and inhabited boiler rooms in arenas throughout the country. He rocked incessantly, pulled his real hair out in clumps, and called for his mommy. The evolved Mankind was more fun than dark and more dorky than demented, but somehow my ties to the boiler room had not been completely severed.
This locale, I felt, would be the perfect place for the Mankind-Paul Wight showdown, because fans would never be able to boo the Show since he'd never set foot in the ring. Vince and Russo saw the logic in this, and the second-ever "Boiler Room Brawl" was booked for the April Backlash Pay-Per-View in Providence, Rhode Island.
Now I had another problem. What the hell was I going to do in a boiler room with a 450-pound man? The first "Boiler Room Brawl" with the Undertaker in Cleveland in the summer of 1996 had been a memorable battle. Not everyone found it enjoyable, as it was twenty-seven minutes long with only a single camera and no audio from the announcers, but they found it memorable nonetheless. The brawl was memorable for a reason. We beat the hell out of each other in there. I had pushed my body to the limit, and had paid the price in painful mornings for the next several days. In April 1999, my mornings were already painful, even without a 450-pound man pummeling me. Big Show was going to need to be led through this thing, and at 450 pounds, I had a hunch that the match would not involve a whole lot of flying around on his part. No, for the second "Boiler Room Brawl" to succeed, I was going to need to absorb incredible punishment. Fortunately, I had an ace up my sleeve.
Richie Posner is a genius. The guy can do more things with his two hands than anyone I have ever met, and that's not including his love life. He has been responsible for the magic involved in the "Buried Alive" matches right down to making Mankind's referee shirt for WrestleMania, and even making balloon animals for my kids. He will hate being acknowledged in this book because he thinks "it will ruin the magic," but I feel he has to be singled o
ut for his contributions. Richie had been a big help to me and we talked at almost every show, but Richie Posner knew better than to try to help out with my matches.
Three years earlier, when I was still fairly new with the World Wrestling Federation, Richie had approached me about using special-effects props for my "Boiler Room Brawl." I was almost offended. "Richie, don't take this personally," I told the eternally Hawaiian-shirt-wearing Posner, "but I don't believe in using special effects or props in my matches." Indeed, I was a believer in using what was available to me at the time—it seemed more real to me, and unfortunately for my body, it felt that way too. In 1999, however, my testicles no longer seemed quite so full of fortitude as they had in the past. Meekly, I approached Richie with a simple request. "Do you think you could come up with as much stuff as possible that looks painful, but doesn't hurt?"
So it came to pass that in April 1999, Mick Foley, the hardcore legend, used fake glass, fake steam, and even, dare I say it, fake blood in a match that turned out better than I could ever have expected. Don't get me wrong—I still got the hell beaten out of me, but it was a good kind of hell beaten out of me, and I sat back and enjoyed the rest of the show in Providence with the knowledge that I had done something special. Unfortunately, the long and successful marriage of Mick Foley and show-stealing matches came to a screeching halt following my "Boiler Room" victory. This painful divorce would last for nine months. At least I had Britney.
Nothing could make me forget about the pain like the opening chords of "Hit Me Baby, One More Time." Hey, say what you want about Britney's voice, boobs, or lip-synching—but don't try to deny that "Hit Me Baby" was infectious feel-good music that hadn't been heard since the summer of "MMM Bop" a few years earlier. The two songs shared something else besides a groovy beat and a hot blond singer: people over a certain age had to pretend they didn't like it. Especially when they were known as blood-and-guts, take-no-prisoners, ask-for-no-quarter-and-receive-none, hardcore legends.