Foley Is Good: And the Real World Is Faker Than Wrestling

by Mick Foley

  Jim Ross later told me that immediately upon impact, Owen had moved, as if trying to perform a sit-up, and then went limp, never to move again. Even though Ross and Lawler had continually told the audience watching at home that "this is not part of the show—this is not a wrestling angle," many viewers thought it was exactly that.

  My family had no idea what had happened. They thought like I did, that there had been a technical problem, and had taken to playing during the delay. My phone call, then, came as a complete surprise. "Hello," Colette said, at which point I found myself unable to speak. My mouth was open, but no words would come. "Hello . . . hello," Colette repeated, and I feared that the silence on the other end would cause her to hang up. Finally, I spoke, and the most difficult words I have ever had to say came forth very softly: "I think Owen's dead." "OWEN'S DEAD?" Colette shouted, making me aware for the first time that my family had not known. Instantly, I heard Dewey break down in tears, and the next few minutes on the phone are just a blur to me.

  I remember Noelle's gentle voice—too young to truly understand what had happened. "Where's Owen?" she asked. "He's in heaven, honey, Owen's in heaven." Noelle still did not understand. "But where is him?" By this point I was crying, and my voice was shaking as I tried to explain. "Owen's with the angels, little one; he's with the angels in heaven." Noelle was crying now, more, I think, because she'd never heard her dad so upset than he was because of Owen. I really don't think she was able to fully understand the concept of death. "But where is him?" she sobbed, and then Colette was on the phone, holding Noelle and telling her everything was going to be all right.

  In the arena, nothing seemed all right. Another match was in the ring. I wished the whole show could have been called off. Many people later said that the show continued because Owen would have wanted it that way. I have no idea what Owen would have wanted, or if anyone can really guess. After all this time I still don't know what the right answer is and I don't know if there is a right answer. Personally, had it been me, I would have wanted not only the show to stop, but the whole world as well. There is no real right or wrong, and in my opinion, no bad guy to blame. As much as I wish a sense of closure for the Hart family, I don't know if there is a true answer to what happened that night in Kansas City.

  Owen Hart was pronounced dead shortly before my match went into the ring. The fans at home were told of the terrible news, while the live fans had no idea. Again, I don't know if that was the proper decision, or if a proper decision even exists. I do know that I dreaded walking out to the ring and taking part in a match on what was the worst night in our sport's history.

  My senses all felt numb as I walked through the curtain. The referee warned us of a hole in the ring right near our corner. I stood in that corner for over ten minutes and never realized that the hole was where Owen had landed. I looked at the bloodstain no farther than three feet from my shoes, and had no idea that it was Owen's blood. I had a feeling of nausea, and a little feeling of hatred when fans actually cheered during our match. I remember Chyna in tears after her match, wondering what type of a person would yell vile insults at her in the wake of such a tragedy. Neither of us knew at that time that the live crowd was unaware of Owen's death.

  I would like to think that wrestling fans as a whole are not coldhearted. I would like to give the fans in attendance that night the benefit of the doubt. Hopefully, they had no idea of what had happened to Owen. Possibly, they have seen wrestlers perform so many death-defying stunts and walk away that in their minds, they didn't feel such a tragedy was possible.

  I believe that the wrestlers themselves block such possibilities out of their minds. I look back now at situations I put myself in that could indeed have been life-threatening, and realize that at the time I didn't allow such fears to enter my mind. Not only did they not enter my mind, but I had the ability to downplay my risks to others as well—putting their minds at ease in the process.

  When faced with genuine examples of our own mortality, we don't seem all that accepting. We don't want to admit that tragedies happen. When Darren Drozdov went down with a neck injury at the Nassau Coliseum on October 7, 1999, every one of us thought he'd get back up. Then thought turned to hope and hope turned to prayer and prayer turned to reality. Darren Drozdov was taken away in an ambulance and hasn't walked since. We held a vigil for Droz in the hospital that night. At least twenty wrestlers, as well as the McMahon family, waited for word on Droz's condition. D'Lo Brown, who had been in the ring with Droz at the time of his injury, was beside himself with grief. After a few hours Darren was wheeled out on a gurney. He asked to speak to D'Lo. From my seat twenty feet away, I could hear Droz tell D'Lo not to blame himself—that it wasn't his fault. It may have been the gutsiest thing I've ever heard.

  Later that night we got the news that Droz's X ray was negative—there had been no break. The doctor said he might regain feeling in his legs the next day. Every one of us, I think, took that to mean he would regain feeling the next day. The waiting room took on an atmosphere of jubilation. We wrestlers were indestructible after all. The feeling didn't return to Droz's legs that next day. Or the day after that.

  I visited Darren twice in the hospital, and sent him two letters after that. Then . ..nothing. I think of Droz several times a day, but I never call. I can write for fifteen hours in a single sitting, but I never write to him. I was not an especially close friend of Darren's, but I was definitely a friend. I enjoyed his company, and will always remember his words to me in the dressing room following the Royal Rumble. I know he looked up to me and would enjoy hearing from me. I don't think I'm a coldhearted person, and I do think I care. I believe I haven't kept in touch with Droz for the same reason I haven't written to Owen's wife, Martha, and for the same reason I haven't talked to Owen's brother Bret. Because like most of the guys in this business, I'm scared. Scared I won't know what to say. Scared that I won't know what to do. But most of all scared because it could have happened to me.

  The World Wrestling Federation dedicated their entire show to Owen the next night. Anyone who didn't feel like wrestling didn't have to. I did and found it healing. There were no angles or story lines on the show. Every wrestler who wished to was able to give comments about Owen that were then aired on the show. I wish that clips of Owen could have been shown, but I understand the reason for not doing so. Most of Owen's greatest World Wrestling Federation moments had come as a sneaky, despicable heel. It may have been in poor taste to air clips that had the announcers verbally slamming Owen on them.

  I felt that the show was honorable in its intentions, but that too many of the people interviewed didn't know the real Owen. Some of them talked about how Owen lived to perform for his fans. Others said that the World Wrestling Federation wrestlers were like his second family. I feel like I knew Owen very well. Not as well as some, but well enough to know where his true passion lay. Owen liked to perform and at times even loved it, but he certainly didn't live for it. Owen liked certain wrestlers, maybe even loved them on a certain level, but they were by no means his family. He had a family—a wife, a son, and daughter who he loved, and it was for them that Owen Hart truly lived.

  I attended Owen's funeral in Calgary a few days later, as did many of the wrestlers who had known him over the years. It meant a great deal to me to know that the Hart family appreciated my comments on the Owen tribute show. It meant even more when Martha Hart told me I had been one of Owen's favorites, and that he considered me one of the "good guys."

  Owen Hart may be gone, but his memory remains. Stories of his legendary practical jokes are warmly recalled, and some of my memories of him still make me laugh out loud. Some still make me cry. My picture of Owen, Terry Funk, and me in an "old-time" photo dressed as Civil War generals still occupies a place of honor on my mantel, and every photo of the two of us together shows a shared smile or laugh. My children still ask if they can watch his matches, and both Dewey and Noelle have a picture of Owen on their wall.

  I took Dewey
on the road with me several months after Owen's death. Being the wrestling fanatic he is, Dewey brought his wrestling cards with him in his special notebook. When he opened up the book, I saw a picture of Dewey and Owen taped to the inside cover. Their smiling faces brought tears to my eyes. Somehow, Dewey's love for Owen makes me feel like a success as a father.

  On the flight home from Owen's funeral I wrote down my remembrances of a great man. While I was writing, words from a late seventies Charlie Daniels song entitled "Reflections" kept running through my mind. I paraphrased the words slightly and included them in my first book. I would like to do the same here.

  And Owen my buddy above all the rest

  I miss you the most, and I loved you the best.

  And now that you’re gone, I thank God I was blessed...

  just to know you.

  14: Superdad

  I OFFICIALLY WENT ON THE SHELF on May 31 at the hands of a Triple H sledgehammer to the knee during a hardcore match. This would give me a ready-made program for my return and would also place valuable heat on Hunter (Triple H), who had been handed the top heel assignment following The Rock's defection to the babyface ranks.

  The timing was perfect. Not for wrestling, but for my summer vacation. Florida schools had just gotten out, and following a little simple double knee surgery, I would be good as new. All I had on tap was a personal appearance for the day after my surgery, and then a lengthy vacation that would include both Hershey, Pennsylvania, and New Hampshire's White Mountains. Candy and coasters—my favorite combination.

  I have become a master of the amusement park vacation. A famous baseball player (who apparently wasn't famous enough, or else I would remember his name) had a simple strategy: "Hit 'em where they ain't." Never mind that my college teacher would have deducted points for improper grammar in the quote. This theory was perfect for vacationing at theme parks. I call it "go when they ain't there." It's actually a simple philosophy that uses our country's educational system and geographical differences to my coaster-riding advantage. The schools in the North run from early September to mid-June. The schools in the South run from mid-August to mid-May. But almost every theme park in the country remains open full-time from Memorial Day in late May until Labor Day in early September. So I merely hit the Northern parks after Memorial Day, but before the end of school, and hit the Southern parks after mid-August, but before Labor Day. This was going to be easy.

  Unfortunately, I had that nagging knee-surgery thing to contend with. One thing was certain: I would need to be writing every chance I got. I had been shocked—or actually, relieved would be more accurate—to see how vivid my recall was. I had been worried that the chairshots I had absorbed over the years would affect my memory, but instead, I, uh, um . . . what was I talking about? Instead, I was writing about events I hadn't even thought of in years, and as a result, the size of my book was swelling faster than Bill Clinton at an intern festival. My 60,000-word book was already up to 100,000, and I had only covered 1991 to 1998. With this in mind, I decided to skip right over any semblance of "Mom made the best spaghetti on the block" and start this saga at the age of eighteen, with my trip to see Jimmy Snuka inside a steel cage.

  I was writing in my notebook until the moment I went under anesthesia in Birmingham, Alabama, on June 2. My instructions to the nurse before losing consciousness were simple. "Please don't give me any pain medicine." She warned me that I was going to be in great pain upon awakening. "That's okay," I said. "I've got to start writing right away."

  Sure enough, I woke up and was in great pain. But I was true to my word. Despite the pain, I somehow summoned the guts, pride, and determination to fire off a decent Al Snow joke, and suddenly I felt better. I wrote for several hours in my little bed, while feeling quite sexy in my backless medical gown.

  I had a sudden revelation when I tried to walk to the bathroom: there was no way I was going to feel up to riding roller coasters in three days. Sadly, I made the call home, and told the kids that we would have to postpone the trip for a couple of weeks because Big Daddy-o hadn't counted on not being able to walk.

  Unfortunately knee surgery was not a miracle cure for me. Dr. Andrews (a noted sports surgeon) had repaired my radial meniscus and had cleaned up both knees, but unfortunately, there was no simple procedure to reverse fifteen years of pounding and abuse. As I lay in bed, it occurred to me that fifteen-foot flights off ring aprons onto concrete floors probably hadn't done a whole lot for the happiness of my knees. Yeah, I know, I hadn't come close to the fifteen-foot mark in years, but even my six-foot flights at a weight of 300 pounds hadn't been healthy. Simply weighing 300 pounds wasn't helping my cause either. Nor was my decision to stop wearing kneepads three years earlier.

  I truly was "Superdad" two weeks later at Her-shey Park. Up for breakfast at 9 A.M. Away to the park by ten. Coasters and candy until a midday break at two. Back to the park at four. Return to the hotel by eight. Bedtime story at ten. Then the people at the Hotel Hershey would allow me to use an office, where I would write until 5 A.M., at which point I would sleep until nine. I did this for three straight days.

  Then it was off to Santa's Village in the White Mountains for some Christmas relaxation in June. It was here that I realized the error of my vacation plan. The trip should have been in reverse order. Let me explain. Vacations, much like wrestling matches, are a lot like Al Snow jokes. They are all a matter of timing and experience.

  Too often, a wrestler will immediately go to the hottest moves in his repertoire in an attempt to get over with the fans. Often they will do these big moves at the expense of the in-ring story. They may get pops for the moves themselves, but the audience will find itself unable to become emotionally involved in this matchup, making it exciting, perhaps, but not emotionally fulfilling.

  Instead, a wrestler should build a match from the ground up, in an attempt to whip the fans into a frenzy at the finale. That is the time to pull the death-defying, incredibly athletic moves out of the bag. That is where the moonsaults, the Swanton Bombs, the top-rope Hurricanranas, the Mr. Sockos, The Worms, The Stink Faces, the Ho Trains, and The People's Elbows come in. Hey, I know that the last five moves listed all suck, but people love them, and all of them are a credit to their inventors. Anyone can get a great move over; it takes real talent to make the bad ones work.

  Al Snow jokes are the same way. I know why most of you bought this book—to see me score literary knockouts on "the crown prince of hardcore." But I can't knock him out too early—then it becomes like a Tyson comeback fight; you might get what you paid to see, but after it's over, you wish you had your money back. So I need to jab Al occasionally, throw a straight right once in a while that puts him on queer street (where I imagine he spends a lot of his time anyway), and knock him senseless in spectacular fashion when the time is right.

  In that way, I am using Test and the Mean Street Posse as my tune-up fights. Let's put it in wrestling terms. I may give Joey Abs a literary hip toss, and I think the readers appreciate it. I may give Test a big literary boot to the face and he'll go down momentarily, and I believe the fans will enjoy that as well. I may even catch Rodney with a literary shot to the testicles that may seem hurtful and unnecessary, but I think deep down the readers will appreciate it. But Al? That's another story. What I have in mind for Al is the literary equivalent of Mr. Socko, The Worm, The Stink Face, The Ho Train, and The People's Elbow all being delivered simultaneously, and the effect will be devastating. So prepare yourself, Ray Fosse, because Pete Rose is rounding third and heading for home.

  Hershey Park has a big, sprawling layout with world-class thrill rides and attractions—including eight coasters. Santa's Village is a small quaint park with only ten rides in the entire place. By the time Dewey and Noelle got to the Village, they had already been on the Superdooperlooper, the Wildcat, and many other rides beyond the scope of the imagination. Somehow Rudy's Rapid Transit Coaster no longer seemed like such a big deal. We still had a great time, and my mom enjoye
d her first visit to the Village in thirty years, but the trip reminded me that my kids were growing up, which in some ways is a little sad.

  In addition to the Village and writing whenever I could, I got to experience quite a bit more in the mountains of New Hampshire on this trip. Two of the experiences will stay with me for a while.

  I love water parks. Unfortunately, water parks usually require me to be shirtless in public, and that is no longer such a good thing. Sure, I believe everyone should feel at peace with their body, but most people don't have to worry about their picture showing up on the Internet or on the pages of a tabloid. So these days, I tend to keep my pecs and lats and rolls and flaps confined to our backyard pool. Occasionally, however, I will lose my trepidation and my shirt simultaneously, as I did at the "Whale's Tail" water park.

  School was not yet out in New Hampshire, so the crowd was at a minimum. I had my hair up under a hat and was sporting sunglasses for about the third time in fifteen years, and as a result, was somewhat incognito. My kids both love the "lazy river" at water parks, as do I, so the three of us grabbed our tubes and let the gentle rhythm of the water float us around the park.

  I tried to sit on my tube, but it was too small. Instead, I put the tube over my head and let it rest underneath my arms. It certainly was relaxing . ..until it was time to get out. Then panic set in. I couldn't get the damn tube off my body. I was helpless and summoned a lifeguard for assistance; the lifeguard responded by getting on the public-address system and noting that a bather was in trouble. I wasn't in real trouble—I just felt kind of stupid. Then I heard a voice. "Isn't that Mankind?" With that, the secret was out, and I did my best to look cool for my fans while my mother and a couple of lifeguards began letting the air out of the tube. Now I knew how poor Pooh felt when he was stuck in that anal-retentive neat freak Rabbit's hole. (Entrance to his living quarters, that is.)