by Mick Foley
The lady could see our surprise, and as an expert in the field, decided to give us a little insight. "Most women who come in here have never used a sex toy before. They find this model. . . less threatening." With her simple words, this woman had not only given me a way to describe my own "less threatening" member, but a philosophy of life as well. Certainly it can be applied to my experience in the book world.
For a book to be phenomenally successful, it has got to appeal to people who don't normally read. Therefore, many people stepping into a bookstore are doing so for the first time in a while, and are looking for something "less threatening"—like Tuesdays with Morrie. Morrie was less threatening. My book was a baby's arm holding a damn apple.
19: Legal issues
I HAD OVERCOME THE SIZE PROBLEM, but there were other problems rearing their ugly heads as well. Not the least of these was my writing, which was atrocious. Not the content or style, but the actual penmanship, which was, at times, barely legible. As a result, the 760 pages of legal paper that I sent in was returned to me as being in something less than a state of completion.
Upon the manuscript's arrival in New York, a team of people had been assigned the arduous task of deciphering my words. I think digging up and assembling the "Fighting Dinosaurs of Mongolia," which were on display at the Museum of Natural History, had taken fewer hours than typing my project. My handwriting itself was borderline horrible, but it was the cross-outs, arrows to the top of the page, insertions of "page 724A," and notes in the margin that made things extra difficult.
During especially long writing sessions, my penmanship would get even worse. I estimated that I had averaged seven hours a day of writing over the fifty-day course of the project. Seldom was it actually a seven-hour writing day, however. Due to scheduling conflicts and the pressures of being a wrestler, a husband, and a father, sometimes I was not able to write at all. Sometimes I wrote for two hours and sometimes for twelve. On a trip from England, for example, I wrote for eighteen—a number I hoped to beat on my aforementioned Asia trip. After writing for fifteen straight hours, though, we arrived in Vancouver, and my energy fizzled out quicker than an Al Snow entrance pop. I slept from Vancouver to New York.
Even now, as I write these words, it's 1:43 A.M., since I have to wait for my family to go to sleep before I go to work. I hope someday to have a house with my very own office so that I can go about accomplishing my ultimate goal of becoming America's foremost author of children's Christmas books.
The chapter in Have a Nice Day! on meeting my wife was especially troublesome since Colette insisted that I be drunk when I wrote it. So I loaded up in the Delta Crowne Room and boarded a plane, where a combination of loving thoughts, inebriation, and airplane turbulence caused my pen to jump around, like the results of a Pinocchio polygraph test.
When the manuscript came back from the typist, a good 5 percent of the words were either left blank or written incorrectly. A section on Terry Funk stands out in particular. Since he is my idol and mentor, I wrote quite a bit about Terry, who I affectionately referred to as "The Funker." The manuscript came back with every Funk reference written as "The F—ker." The woman must have felt that she was typing up a book for Diamond Dallas Page, what with all the F words in there.
Page, or D.D.P. for those who don't know, is a walking, talking cartoon character, whose overbearing ways and eyeball-rolling-inducing cliches are matched only by the size of his heart, his love for wrestling, and his loyalty to his friends—a group that I am proud to include myself in. D.D.P. is also the key player in Have a Nice Dayl's perennial favorite "cookie story," which I plan to make a major part of my projected film version of the book.
D.D.P. wrote a book himself, but unlike mine, which was written off the top of my head, Page's was meticulously researched. Unlike mine, which took fifty days to write, D.D.P. worked on his for years, conducting hundreds of hours of interviews with friends and wrestlers from all periods of his life. And unlike mine, which printed all curses in unedited form, D.D.P.'s book used the star method of editing all his f**k words. So, as a result, Mick Foley, who uses the F word only in traffic jams and on special occasions in the Foley bedroom, comes off like Tony F**kin' Soprano, and D.D.P., who uses at least two F words to describe a newborn puppy, escapes F-free on an editorial technicality.
So I read the manuscript, corrected the mistakes, crossed out parts I didn't like, and sent it back. I received a corrected manuscript in a few weeks' time, went through a second correction and crossing-out process, and sent it back again. At this point official editing began.
Certain structural suggestions were made, most of which I accepted and some of which I fought. More important, the editor suggested we cut out things that made me look like a jerk. It has been said that "the pen is mightier than the sword," and I could easily see why. In fifty days, I had been able to settle all the scores, right all the wrongs, and get back at all the people who had screwed me along the way. Much of it, I know, was a little severe. Many people thought that I was rough on Ric Flair, a certifiable wrestling legend and possibly the most respected performer of the modern era. For those people, and for Ric himself, who I heard was hurt by it, I can only say that it's a good thing you didn't see all my words. I remember writing for six straight hours about Flair and then throwing it all out in the morning because it was a little too brutal. As brutal as it was, though, it was very therapeutic to get my feelings down on paper. I can honestly say that I have never had any ill will toward Flair since then, so it's too bad that he hates my guts now.
It's too bad that gangs and world leaders can't get their hatred down on paper. The world would be a better place.
Even though I had done quite a bit of self-editing, quite a bit remained to be done. By the end of the process, happy Mick was well represented. Cranky Mick was eliminated. For those interested in the writings of cranky Mick, check out the bonus chapter in the paperback of Have a Nice Day! He's all over it.
The book was scheduled for an early October 1999 release. Printing and editing were a big concern, but they seemed to get resolved. Only one hurdle remained—but it was a big one. Legalities. I thought I was safe on lawsuits; after all, this was an autobiography and these were my opinions. For example, I just read in The Weekly World News that I was predicted to be the recipient of a sex-change operation. That was the opinion of well-respected sports psychic Sonny Meers, and I wouldn't be so foolish as to think I could sue him for it. Besides, if it weren't for the fact that I'd make a real ugly chick, I'd start shopping for estimates.
The attorneys involved thought that Vince McMahon would have problems with criticisms that I had written about him and the World Wrestling Federation. Instead, they were stunned when Vince responded with "don't gut the book, if that's the way he feels, then print it." Other issues were not resolved quite so easily.
In the book, I was quite critical of a particular wrestler's talents or lack thereof. I had also made small jokes about the wrestler (let's call him whafs-his-name) and his wife, who was something of a celebrity. I really didn't know what to do about this. I needed a punch line for my jokes, but already knew I was dangerously close to overutilizing Al Snow. Remember Al jokes were my big finishers, so I couldn't go there too often.
As I stood for hours at the phone, in a sweaty arena in Texas, speaking with lawyers in their air-conditioned offices in New York, I saw the answer to my problems: the Mean Street Posse—Joey Abs, Pete Gas, and Rodney—heading toward me. In an instant I whipped up a batch of false sincerity. "Hey, guys, how would you like to be in my book?" The Posse looked quickly at each other and all agreed that being in the book would be cool. Now I had to tell them in what context they would be appearing. "I'm going to make fun of you in it." Again they looked at each other. "Okay, that's cool," was the unanimous decision. With that one quick conversation, what's-his-name was out and the Posse was in.
I like the Posse. There, I said it, and I'm not afraid to admit it. I like their gimmick of being tough
guys from the mean streets of Greenwich, Connecticut— and I like the guys as well. Two of them, Rodney and Pete, are high-school buddies of Shane McMahon. Joey Abs is actually a veteran of the Carolina Independent scene who was brought in to be the "worker" of the group.
I'm not sure if Pete and Rodney were actually supposed to be wrestlers. Originally, they were used to hype Shane's match with X-Pac at the 1999 WrestleMania XV Pay-Per-View. In the midst of telling outrageous stories about Shane's exploits in Greenwich, they started getting over, and even though they'd never wrestled, actually had more heat than most of the heels on our crew.
They had heat in the dressing room as well— especially Rodney. Pete seemed like a nice guy, but Rodney? Not only was he sporting a hairstyle that was repulsive even by sports-entertainment standards, but he was unbearable to be around. Then he started growing on me. Sure, they were horrible and hadn't paid any dues, but they were working hard and I genuinely got a kick out of the gimmick, which saw them going to the ring to do battle in loafers, chinos, and blue sweater vests. I liked it so much that when I saw the guys growing wild facial hair I tried, so to speak, to nip it in the bud. "Look, guys," I explained, "you guys don't want to look like tough guys. We have enough of those. The preppier the better." They actually listened. Pete shaved off his beard, and Rodney covered up his tattoos so that the Posse gimmick remained pure.
The guys had been practicing in the "World Wrestling Federation Dojo," which was actually at the television studio in Stamford, and while their improvement was not noticeable, they were still a long way from even being poor when I found out I was to wrestle all three members on a late August episode of Raw.
Rodney and Pete politely asked to talk to me before the match. They had been informed that I was going to lay out all three of them with chair-shots to the head, and they were understandably nervous. Oddly, they weren't nervous about being hurt. They were nervous about not being hurt. "Listen, Mick," Pete Gas said softly, "we know that we're only here because we're Shane's friends, and we know some of the boys resent us for it." I nodded in agreement. Personally, I didn't resent them, but I could understand those who did. Rodney then spoke up. "We've never gotten hit with a chair before, and we don't want everyone thinking that we're afraid to. So . .." Rodney's voice trailed off, and as he searched for the proper way to phrase his next words, Pete stepped up and made the strange request. "Do you think you could hit us really hard with the chair?" Rodney nodded and they both looked at me as if I was "the great and powerful Oz" contemplating their brain and heart requests.
I thought it over. They had been very polite about it—and besides, I had been planning on blasting them anyway. "Sure, guys, I'll do it," I said, and was rewarded with sincere handshakes and heartfelt gratitude.
Sure enough, I lived up to my word, and sure enough, the Posse was deeply appreciative.
Hey—I give the guys a lot of credit. They took whatever bookings they could get and even moved to Memphis to improve without the spotlight of the World Wrestling Federation on them. Maybe someday, when Rodney is the new "most electrifying man in sports-entertainment," I can point to the TV and say, "I gave that man his first chairshot."
Unfortunately, the Posse wasn't there to clear up all the legal questions about my book. Difficult questions. Soul-searching questions. Questions like: What's the basis for your belief that Flash wanted to hammer Foley? Was Esterly found sitting Indian-style naked, eating brownies? Who are The Godfather's Ho's and what do they do?
All in all 325 legal questions were raised, including whether my saying that I had seen seventies adult film star Kay Parker perform oral sex on a videotape was slanderous to her reputation. The toughest question of all, however, was the following: What is the basis for stating that Scorpio is a "geni-talactic" freak of nature?
"Can you repeat that, please?" I asked, not quite sure of what I'd heard. "What is the basis for stating that Scorpio is a genitalactic freak of nature?" they repeated. I asked the attorneys on the phone if they were serious and they assured me that they were. Actually, these were the World Wrestling Federation attorneys and were merely reading a list of questions that had been written by an outside law office.
This was the type of question that was so simple it was hard. It was like a "who's buried in Grant's tomb" question. I decided to answer in the easiest way I knew. "Urn, because he has a large penis?" I actually answered in the form of a question. They gave me a follow-up: "Is this true?" I assured them it was. "Would you be able to find witnesses to corroborate your statement?"
This was too much. I half expected to have Allen Funt walk up and point to a hidden camera. Of course I could find witnesses to corroborate my statement. Entire dressing rooms had seen the damn thing. Besides, I asked the lawyers, "Is this really the type of thing I'm going to get sued over?" Really! Is this guy going to file a suit claiming that he's been wrongfully charged with having an enormous pecker? Is he going to claim damages based on mental duress and pain and suffering? I wish somebody would slander me that way. Besides, if I know Scorpio, he's probably got that page framed on his living-room wall.
I stuck to my guns on the penis problem, but ended up giving in on a few others. Unfortunately, a few of the things I had to give in on were not legal matters, but were important personal points.
Have a Nice Day! should be called Blood and Sweatsocks. In truth, I never said "have a nice day" all that much, and certainly never in the first eleven years of my career. I had to fight just to get the name "Mick Foley" on the book. My editor didn't seem to grasp just how important this was to me. "You're better known as Mankind, aren't you?" was his somewhat baffled reply to my request. "Maybe," I said, "but I didn't write the book with my leather mask on rocking back and forth and calling for my mommy." I also pointed out that Mankind doesn't show up until page 373 of a 503-page book. Granted, the White Whale didn't get his big scene until the last few pages of Melville's Moby-Dick, but he was talked about the entire book. Besides, I'm tired of all the scholarly comparisons that already exist between my book and Melville's.
In the end, we compromised. It was too late to change the title, but we did add A Tale of Blood and Sweatsocks as the subtitle. Mick Foley did get credit as the author as well, even if the name does appear awfully little next to the nearly Scorpio-size MANKIND that dominates the spine of the book.
I had a chance to see our legal system at work in May of 2000 when I was a defendant in a lawsuit filed by a fan based on an October 1995 incident at the ECW arena in Philadelphia. The fan received first- and second-degree burns on his hands and face as a result of the incident, and was treated at the hospital and released less than forty minutes later. When I saw the fan in the dressing room, he appeared not only calm but almost ecstatic at having been the center of attention. Indeed, he was freely taking the credit for "putting out" Terry Funk, who had accidentally caught on fire during the match.
That was the last I saw of the fan until we stepped into that courtroom. Ten months after the fire incident, the fan, William Sandborn, had been involved in a terrible motorcycle accident that resulted in the amputation of one leg and over a dozen operations. In all, he was in the hospital for over a month, one week of which was spent in a coma. Despite the severity of his injuries, it was his attorney's contention that the ECW incident had caused greater mental duress and more pain and suffering. I found that to be ridiculous.
I wish that Sandborn had come to ECW with the facts, or at least the facts as I believed them to be. "Look, I was at your building and I got burned. Sure I'd had a few beers and sure I reached over the guardrail, but I was trying to help out and I got burned." I have no doubt that had he done so, he would have gotten a small settlement, and more importantly, received what seemed to be of utmost importance to him at the time—free tickets for life. Instead, Sandborn let his lawyers present him as an innocent victim, someone who was minding his own business when a burning chair flew onto him in the crowd. Sandborn, they claimed, was then pushed onto the burnin
g chair and was an emotional wreck afterward. So emotional that he hung out in the back and asked for free T-shirts after the incident. So emotional that he was able to drive his truck, with a stick shift, home that night.
I took the stand on the third day of the trial. I saw his counsel pull out my book, which he proceeded to quote from as if it were gospel. I will reprint a few pages of that incident from Have a Nice Day! so that you can gain a better knowledge of the incident in question and also familiarize yourself with what I was hearing on the witness stand.
I should point out that there is one lie printed in this story of the fire. Keep this in mind as you read, and try to picture the attorney reading in a decidedly unpleasant voice, especially concerning profanities, which he made extra grating. After every profanity, he would apologize to both the judge and the jury— just to make it clear that it was my offensive language and not his. Here we go:
Funk got on the mike and attempted to lure me into a fight using the same psychology he'd used on Bullet Bob Armstrong. "Cactus jack," Terry bellowed, "you're a goddamn coward, you son of a bitch." I remained in the back. "Your wife is a whore." Still in the back. "Your mother is a whore." Nothing. "Your children are both whores." That should have done it. But. . . nothing. I could not be broken. The Funker had one more ace up his sleeve. "Bischoff is a homo." That did it! I was out from behind the curtain in a flash to defend my main man's honor. I meant business as I hit the ring, but as I got to the blasphemous Funk, Dreamer stepped in front and started peppering me with big rights. BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM—the crowd was exploding, and I was doing my best to make each one look its most devastating. . . . Our quest for righteousness was not to be denied, however, as referee Bill Alfonso (who had been taken to the back after suffering his one-punch knockout) reemerged with a weapon of his own. It was my old Japanese standby—the fire chair! I was handed the unlit chair and knocked Terry down with a nice shot to the head. Dreamer turned as well and was dropped with a crushing blow to the skull that was lessened only slightly by the kerosene-soaked towel. Raven touched Funk's iron to the towel, and the fire chair lived again in the ECW arena. . . . Before my shocked eyes, I saw our plan fall to pieces. What appeared to be a giant fireball flew off the chair and instantly ignited Terry, who was bent over by the ring apron. My first thought was to save him. I completely abandoned my character and my story line and dove through the ropes to try to put out Terry. I knew that flames had about three seconds of contact time before they really did their damage. Terry was up to at least two. I took off after Terry, but he was running like a madman. To this day, I try to relive these events in my mind and try to figure out why I couldn't catch him. Was he moving too fast to catch, or was I simply a coward under pressure? The question still haunts me. I do remember thinking, "I've got to catch him." And then wondering, "What do I do once I'm there?" I had no answers. I wish I could point to a burn on my body and say, "This is where I saved my hero, Terry Funk," but all I have to show for it is a heavy conscience.