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

by Mick Foley

  "Hey, guys," he politely said, "I know I'm going to get involved tonight, and I thought one of you might teach me how to throw a fake punch." We all laughed, because we knew that the match was going to be extremely intense and that faking punches wouldn't be high on the list of that evening's priorities. We all assured Dave that faking his punches wouldn't be necessary. Dave looked flustered. I tried to put him at ease. "Dave, this is a big match for us. We're going to be hitting each other pretty hard. The last thing we want to do is have you ruin your reputation by throwing punches that don't look good." Schultz looked over at Nasty Boy Jerry Sags, who was to be the recipient of the blows. Sags gave him a goofy grin and assured him that it would be okay.

  From that moment on Schultz looked like a different guy. Looser, cooler. He even drank a couple of beers. He actually appeared to be looking forward to it. And when he got the chance to go, he looked like "The Hammer" of old. He pulled Sags' shirt over his head, hockey-style, and with a sneer on his face, threw about a half-dozen uppercuts that damn-near knocked Sags out. More importantly, the crowd went wild, and long after Sags' headache had gone away, it still looks great on video.

  So, Jesse didn't want to get involved? What could I do? Nothing, besides try to get in shape in twelve days and try to hide my weaknesses, which, at that point, was like trying to hide Roseanne Barr/Arnold/just plain Roseanne in a thong. Besides, we had two whole days to explain this entire scenario, which included getting me, who hadn't been seen in two months, back not only on TV but into the title picture.

  In the wake of Austin's injury, a quick, somewhat preposterous, but creative scenario had been set up concerning the number one contender spot for SwnmerSlam. A three-way contenders' match with Undertaker, Hunter and Chyna had ended with Chyna winning the match on a fluke and being awarded the number one contender status. Now, in my first show back, Hunter desperately wanted that status back from his real-life and on-screen squeeze. She refused. He got mad and so did she, and they agreed to their own number one contender match.

  This is where I entered the picture. In the midst of a very good match, Mankind returned, hit Triple H with the stairs, and helped Chyna attain the victory.

  I had always had a special relationship with Chyna. Upon her entry into the World Wrestling Federation in early 1997, she had run into many World Wrestling Federation Superstars who were unwilling to sell for her during matches. Despite the fact that she had a phenomenal build and could out-lift many of the guys (including me) in the weight room, she still carried the stigma of being a woman in a man's business.

  To this day, Chyna (real name: Joanie) gives me credit for helping change that. Hunter and I had engaged in a memorable feud in the summer of '97, and it was enhanced greatly by the creative and hard-hitting maneuvers that Chyna was a part of. I had been secure enough in my manhood to sell for a woman, and soon everyone else followed suit.

  I decided to publicly call her on that favor by inviting her down to the ring later in the show. "Chyna, we both know that there has always been a vague sexual tension between us. You with your revealing outfits—and me with mine." Hey, I can't remember what I said next, but I somehow asked for a match and climbed to the second turnbuckle to milk some audience support.

  Look, I can't take it anymore. I've been living a lie, and I can't continue any longer. Talking about Chyna and thinking of her in those studded-leather sexy outfits has been too much for my system, and though I may regret writing this, it has to be better than the pain of pretending it never existed. This book is about the truth, and sometimes the truth hurts. But you see, at one time Chyna and I were more than just friends. We had a ...relationship. A relationship that included a great deal of contact with her hand and my genitals. Sure, her hand was usually balled up in a fist and was traveling at high speeds when the contact was made, but what the hell, it's my book and I'm going to count it!

  While I stood on the ropes, the memories of our relationship must have been too much to resist, and she made contact again and I slumped to the canvas in an awkward fetal position. "Does that mean no?" I managed to gasp out, and even from a distance, I could see Chyna laugh as she stepped back through the curtain.

  We did have a match, and it was strange because, as well as I knew her, and as helpful as I'd been to her career by letting her get physically involved, I really felt strange about having a match with her. She and Hunter had torn into each other only minutes earlier, but I really didn't know what to do. So I did what came naturally: I stunk up the place and then put Mr. Socko on her.

  Since that time Chyna has gone on to have matches with many of the guys, and I feel like a wimp for not giving her a little better matchup. She has been the Intercontinental Champion, and I think she has done a tremendous job. Even more important, she is Noelle's idol and she treats my daughter with a kindness that is truly touching. I may be Big Daddy-o, but when Noelle comes to the matches, she wants nothing to do with me. Instead, it's Chyna holding her hand on the way to the girls' dressing room for some quality bonding.

  In 1997, Chyna wasn't allowed to be hit at all— even by accident. Now, after being suplexed, punched, and kicked by the top guys in the game, she definitely wrestles like one of the guys, but more important, is accepted as one of the guys.

  Following my victory over Chyna, Shane McMa-hon insisted that I wrestle Triple H to find out who the number one contender truly was. Shane, who at this point in time was the head of "The Corporation," whose crown jewel was Triple H, insisted he be the referee. Commissioner Shawn Michaels, however, insisted that he himself referee. This led to a compromise that allowed for two referees, each of whom, at the end of the match, saw a double pin differently and awarded the number one contender-ship to two different people. So we headed into SummerSlam with two number one contenders, a champion with a torn ligament, and a governor referee who didn't want to get involved.

  I was given the honor of throwing out the first pitch at the Twins-Yankees game on the night before the big show. I was even allowed to take a little batting practice at the Metrodome. I hadn't swung a baseball bat since I was fifteen, back when I used to dominate my brother in driveway stickball. I hadn't swung at a real baseball since I was twelve. This was not a problem, as I was simply going to tap a few grounders and bloop a couple of fly balls before retiring to a luxury box to watch my first professional baseball game in twelve years. Right? Screw that, I was going to hit one out of the park!

  The first pitch came in and I sent a screaming liner down the third-base line. A few of the Twins clapped and I saw a couple of Yankees nod in appreciation. Another pitch came in, and I took it deep to left. Man, that baby was gone, and I knew it! Unfortunately, the ball didn't know it, and dropped about ten feet short of the wall. Still, it was a hell of a drive for someone who hadn't swung a bat since the Carter Administration. A few more swings and that ball would be jumping over the fence; after all, I'd visualized just such a thing. Too bad I didn't visualize how damn far those fences were, because no matter how hard I hit the ball, it always came up short.

  I should have walked back to the dugout, accepted a few handshakes for my hitting—which really had been pretty good—and watched the game in comfort. Instead, with one of the biggest matches of my career on the horizon, I became obsessed ... with hitting a home run. By the time I left the field I was exhausted, soaked with sweat, and vaguely aware that I had just screwed up big time.

  People who watch wrestling often wonder how we are able to accept so much punishment. The answer is simple—training. In the same way that a marathon runner trains to run long distances, wrestlers train to accept punishment. Baseball players train too. An inexperienced kid who jumps into a wrestling ring and attempts to have a match is an idiot. A thirty-four-year-old man who takes 200 home-run swings with no warm-up is probably an even bigger one.

  When I woke up on the morning of SummerSlam, I was in tremendous pain. My right hand throbbed, and would be incapable of a handshake for two weeks. My lower back was sp
asming. And my oblique muscle was the worst of all. My oblique! I didn't even know I had one of those.

  The backstage area was covered with security for the governor. For hours we didn't see him. In the days leading up to the event, criticism surrounding Jesse's participation had been extremely harsh, and we sensed that he was going to be miserable to work with. The participants gathered in one dressing room to try to salvage the match, but expectations were low. "Here comes Jesse," Shane announced, and moments later a bevy of official-looking men ushered in Governor Ventura. "Hello, Cactus," he said in that incredible voice. Yes—the governor remembered me! His next words were even more uplifting. "I wasn't going to get involved," he boomed, "but I've been getting blasted so bad by the press that I figure SCREW IT—I'll do anything you want!" This was like music to our ears. Suddenly we had a second chance. The governor had issued us a pardon. We had been handed down a "crappy match" sentence and Jesse Ventura had overturned it.

  He even came up with some ideas of his own, and truth be told, they were among the highlights of the match. At one point Jesse grabbed an intruding Shane and threw him over the top rope, to the thunderous roar of the crowd, and ad-libbed a line that I'm sure stuffy Washington insiders must have loved: "That's for your old man, you little bastard." The match itself was pretty good, and yeah, I even managed to hide those dreaded weaknesses. Best of all, I won the damn match. In a move that was a surprise to just about everybody, I defeated Stone Cold with a double-arm DDT—becoming the first guy in almost two years to score a clean win over "The Texas Rattlesnake."

  In a move that was something less of a surprise, I dropped the title to Triple H the following night in Iowa. I was the World Wrestling Federation Champion for a third time, although it lasted less than twenty-four hours. I think over time I will gradually forget about that last little fact, and when my grandchildren ask about my career, I will simply point to a huge poster with the governor of Minnesota raising Grandpa's arm in the air.

  18: Size Does Matter

  My book was in big trouble. Quality wasn't the problem. My editor had read the manuscript and been very impressed. Content wasn't the problem, either. The problem was sheer mass. ReganBooks had wanted 60,000 words for a reason: it was easier to sell that way. Easier to sell to bookstores, who already doubted that wrestling fans could or would read—and easier to sell to fans as well.

  My editor broke the bad news to me on the phone one afternoon, and just about broke my heart as well. He explained that a book my size would price itself out of the marketplace in many of the larger book outlets. Sadly, he explained that a great deal of content would have to be removed.

  Colette could tell that I was crushed. When I told her the news, she was just about in tears— along with me. "What are you going to do?" she asked. Immediately I thought of an old magazine article I'd read in 1976, where Sylvester Stallone said he would rather have buried the Rocky script in his backyard and let the worms play Rocky than sell the script and let studio favorite James Caan have the role. Maybe I wasn't willing to bury it, but I told Colette that I would rather keep it in the attic than allow it to be sold in a bastardized state.

  Several hours passed before I received a call from Judith Regan, the namesake of the Regan division of HarperCollins. Her brief conversation with me made my world a happy place to live in once again. "We're going to keep it in its entirety," Judith informed me, "and we're going to keep the price the same. But I've got to tell you; we're counting on your enthusiasm to help us sell a lot of books." Enthusiasm, I assured her, was not going to be a problem.

  What exactly is "a lot of books"? Larry Nahani had told me that 100,000 copies sold was a huge amount. Judith Regan had been the editor in charge of Howard Stern's Private Parts, which in 1993 had shocked the literary world by selling more than a million copies. Since then, Judith had played a part in many successes, but her biggest-selling celebrity autobiography had been Marilyn Manson's The Long Hard Road Out of Hell, which had sold somewhere around 150,000 books. Autobiographies by people I considered to be major stars, such as Fran Drescher and Meat Loaf, routinely sold in the neighborhood of 50,000 copies. Outwardly, my editor hoped to sell numbers comparable to Manson's. Privately, he probably felt that Fran Drescher would give me a literary spanking.

  When I look back on it now, I can understand Regan's concern. I can even stretch myself to understand, if not agree with, the fears of the book world. Books tend to frighten people. Big books terrify them. Most wrestling fans don't read books, but neither do a great majority of the public. I once read a report that claimed 70 percent of all adults never read a single book after completing school. I believe it. So most people, when they do decide to read a book, don't want to be overwhelmed. I guess it's kind of like an old guy tiptoeing into the shallow end of a pool instead of attempting the Triple Lindy of Back to School fame.

  Personally, I enjoy reading. Back when I was making monthly forays to Japan, I was a reading machine. I stayed in small rooms with no English television, rode for hours on buses, and flew with all the perks that seat 26D includes. But even for me, a book like Moby-Dick looked ominous. My mom had recommended a book called The Physician, but at 1,100 pages, I had self-prescribed several hours of Nick at Night instead. A big book is like a serious relationship; it requires a commitment. Not only that, but there's no guarantee that you will enjoy it, or that it will have a happy ending. Kind of like going out with a girl, having to spend time every day with her—with absolutely no guarantee of nailing her in the end. No thanks.

  A few days ago I saw a man in the Okaloosa Regional Airport reading Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom, which at this point has been on the bestseller lists for more than 120 weeks. Two complete years. Maybe this sounds cruel, but I'm usually a pretty good judge of character, and this airport guy looked like he'd be more comfortable flipping burgers at the Waffle House than flipping through a story of "an old man, a young man, and life's greatest lesson."

  I made a quick assessment of this Albom reader and guessed that this was his first journey into literature since high school, or at least since the twentieth- anniversary Best of Jugs hit the newsstand. So why Morrie} Well, probably for the same reason I read Morrie—a little spiritual uplift and a two-hour time killer, all in one easy flight. Yeah, it's a good book— but is it really that good?

  Tuesdays with Morrie is 30,000 words, 30,000 F'n words. Now usually I'm the first guy to jump up and say "size doesn't matter," or "it's not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog," or "it's not the size of the wave, but the motion of the ocean," but this was different. This was about books. And being the author of a big book, I felt that size did matter. But a 200,000-word Morrie would have killed its success. Tuesdays with the guy was just fine. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday would have been too much, and the book would have spent about as much time on the bestseller list as Mideon on the crunch machine.

  Thirty thousand words? Hell, I could have written a book like that. As a matter of fact, if I had taken Have a Nice Day! and removed the graphic depictions of violence, Al Snow jokes, obscene language, sexual references, sophomoric humor, and other various offenses, about 30,000 touching words is exactly what I'd have been left with.

  Who Moved My Cheese? Fifteen thousand words, and the thing is selling like Emo Phillips merchandise at a losers' convention. About 100 pages long with writing so large that Mr. Magoo could knock it off in an hour. Hell, I've got 15,000 words of advice hidden somewhere in my book also.

  I find the fact that these books are eligible for the bestseller lists a little distressing. I think they need to fall into different categories. The New York Times already had different lists for Fiction, Advice, How-to and Miscellaneous Nonfiction, Self-Help, Diet, and as of July 2000, Children's. I think the book world was a little concerned that J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter series had a monopoly on all the top fiction spots and was thereby not giving the "real" authors a shot at number one.

>   So now we've got Rowling's 300,000-word Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire at the top of the children's list and the 15,000-word Who Moved My Cheese? at number one in nonfiction. What the hell is wrong with that picture? So if the New York Times is willing to create a new children's list in their newspaper, why not add a few more lists? Tuesdays with Morrie could move to the "Inspirational Pamphlet" list and Who Moved My Cheese? could move to the "Informative Brochure" list.

  I guess like a lot of things in life, the size of a book can be compared to sex toys. I was going to use the D word, but I realize that some of our younger readers may not know what that is, and I don't want to be responsible for little Jimmy asking about a dildo at the dinner table.

  Back in 1987, while on a disastrous wrestling tour of Wyoming, Idaho, Montana, and the Dakotas, a bunch of us DeNucci students hit a twenty-four-hour "adult" store just to look around. A former World Wrestling Federation wrestler used to hit these places and do more than look around; he'd drop a couple hundred a week in them. But I swear, I was just looking around.

  At one end of the store, on shelves that seemed to go on forever, stood the largest collection of fake penises known to mankind—the species, not the wrestler. Some of these things were grotesque. One looked like a king cobra with a vein running through it. Another looked like a baby's arm holding an apple. A few of us, including "Moon Dog" Tony Nardo and Dave "Crusher" Klebonski, approached the salesgirl as if we were looking at late-model Chryslers. "Excuse me, ma'am, which of these fine phallic forms would be your most popular model?" The lady smiled and pointed at a rather innocent-looking number. I think my mom used to take my temperature with thermometers that were bigger. It didn't even look like the real thing.