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

by Mick Foley

  The guy had read a few pages from my book, but had managed to completely crap on the spirit in which it was written. I had seen the guy operate the past few days and had to admit that he was very good. Short and stocky, with a suit that looked a good two sizes too small, he used the bully approach with witnesses. He would seek out the slightest discrepancy between witness testimony and depositions taken a year earlier and attempt to exploit it as well as a witness's own nerves and insecurities. I knew that he would attempt this with me as well.

  Several minutes into his inquisition, he asked me about the accuracy of quotes that I had attributed to several people. I informed him that I had written about the incident several years after it took place and was using my memory and "creative license" to attribute quotes. "Aha"—he thought he had his opening!

  "'Creative license', huh, Mr. Foley," he bellowed while making those stupid quotation marks in the air with his fingers—a move that should be reserved only for Dr. Evil. From then on every question was followed up with "Is that true, Mr. Foley, or are you using 'creative license'?" with the annoying finger quotes. Finally, I cracked and admitted that there was one small lie in my Have a Nice Day I story. He jumped all over me like Clinton DNA on a Gap dress.

  "So, you're telling me that you lied in your book?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You're telling me that you have deceived this jury by passing off your book as the truth, when in actuality you knowingly lied?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Mr. Foley, you swore in this courtroom to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—so help you God! Do you remember that?"

  "Yes, sir."

  I looked at the judge. Her eyes were locked on me. I looked at the jury. For the past two and a half days they had looked attentive but completely humorless. I had not seen a single one smile during the proceedings. For the first several minutes I had seemed so sure of myself, but now this legal genius, this master of the spoken word, had me on the ropes. Then he made a mistake. In the legal drama A Civil Action, John Travolta's lawyer character admits to making the mistake of asking a question that he doesn't know the answer to. Apparently, this attorney hadn't seen the movie, because he made the same mistake.

  "Mr. Foley, would you care to tell the members of the jury what part of your story isn't true?"

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, Mr. Foley. Give us the truth. Don't use 'creative license.'"

  The last finger quotations did it. He deserved to be made a fool of. The lawyer had served up a big fat Softball and I intended to hit it out of the park.

  "Well, sir, Terry really never did call Bischoff a homo."

  The jurors broke out in laughter, and even the judge chuckled. The tough-guy attorney, for his part, looked like he wanted to crawl into either a hole or a WCW "Worldwide" television main event—someplace where he could be hidden from the public.

  Five days later the verdict arrived. I had been wearing the same suit for every session and had tried to fool the jury by switching ties. The poor Funker looked exhausted. He had feared the worst—and the worst, he felt, could be pretty bad indeed. Terry felt that the jury might well look at us and assume we were loaded and then look at that poor bastard without a leg and pretty much give him everything we'd ever worked for. I thought he was being a little paranoid, but I certainly felt like I was going to have to open up the purse strings and wave bye-bye to several years' worth of money saved on the road.

  Before excusing the jury to make their decision, the judge had informed them that their job was to determine who was most at fault. If the plaintiff (Sandborn) had been more than 50 percent to blame for his injuries, she explained, they would not have to award damages.

  The jury returned and my heart started pounding. I had been calm for the duration of the trial, but now the reality of the situation was sinking in.

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do you find Extreme Championship Wrestling liable for Mr. Sandborn's injuries?"

  "No, we don't."

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do you find Paul Heyman [ECW owner] liable for Mr. Sandborn's injuries?"

  "No, we don't."

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do you find Terry Funk liable for Mr. Sandborn's injuries?"

  "No, we don't."

  This left only me. In the ten seconds it took to ask the question and get the answer, I foresaw the worst. All the blame was going to be placed on me!

  "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do you find Michael Foley liable for Mr. Sandborn's injuries?"

  Drumroll, please. "No, we don't."

  Yes, yes. After four and a half years I could finally put this thing to rest. I was finally free. Free to light more chairs on fire. Free to burn more fans. What the hell! I was free to relax with a big thick steak and a victorious plane ride home.

  I couldn't help but feel bad for Sandborn and his wife as they sadly walked away. I also couldn't help but feel a little sad for our justice system, and how it can be abused.

  During my time in the courtroom, I had witnessed testimony that differed from my recollection of the events, bullying of weaker witnesses, taking quotes out of context, misrepresenting facts, and not substantiating claims. Yes, indeed, the United States legal system can be—you got it—faker than professional wrestling.

  20: Rock *n* Sock

  I had been spending a great deal of time thinking about the future—mine as well as my family's. I knew I had about a year left as an active wrestler, but how I spent that last year depended, in large part, on me. I had been presented with a great opportunity to turn heel a while back, but had felt not only physically unable but mentally unprepared. As the proud possessor of half a thimbleful of natural athletic ability, I had depended on a great deal of physical risk and mental energy to excel in a business where gifted athletes were the norm.

  At age thirty-four, I had more than fourteen years of paying the price for my physical risks. I simply no longer felt I could perform at a top level on a regular basis. My past successes as a heel had been the result of a combination of high risks, quality matches, and an ability to dig deep to come up with and showcase the ugly side of my personality.

  Some call it acting, and sometimes it was. Sometimes, though, it wasn't. Much of my anger was very real, and while therapeutic to vent, it often left me emotionally exhausted. In my 1995 ECW interviews, it had been easy to be angry. I had left a six-figure job with a major company, I was getting physically decimated by participating in barbaric "death" matches in Japan, my family was living in a sweatbox with no air-conditioning, and I was performing regularly in a converted bingo hall while wrestlers in other companies who couldn't hold my jock (or at least wouldn't have enjoyed doing so) dwarfed my salary with a fraction of the effort.

  In 1999, getting angry would be a little more difficult. I had been the World Wrestling Federation champion three times, every store in the country carried my action figures, and I was being paid more money than I ever dreamed of. Hell, I was one of the guys that the 1995 Cactus Jack would have been pissed off at.

  For me to be a heel in mid-1999 would have meant digging even deeper for some real hatred to grab hold of. With my body no longer able to cash the checks that my mouth would be writing, I turned down the heel opportunity and focused instead on making Mankind as lovable as possible.

  The lovable Mankind, however, was stuck in a career hole. With Austin and The Rock miles ahead of me on the babyface food chain, I had resigned myself to never getting any bigger than I already was. From an ego standpoint, that was fine. I had no problem being number three. But from a financial standpoint, being number three was not fine. Being number three meant never truly making the big Pay-Per-View money.

  I looked at our top heels, and the list was small. The Undertaker had finished a long run with Austin, and both his character (which he had stretched to its limits by introducing satanic elements) and his body needed a rest. Triple H was making great strides as a heel and was looking to emba
rk upon a series of matches with Austin. He had already engaged in many Pay-Per-View contests with The Rock, and that rivalry needed a rest.

  As I saw it, there were two ways to make truly big money in the World Wrestling Federation, and neither one involved being a lovable but broken-down babyface. The Rock and Austin were the way to go. I had great history and chemistry with each. Austin and I hadn't had a match of magnitude in over a year. My rivalry with The Rock was still etched in people's minds, but a reversal of roles would make the whole thing seem fresh again.

  I knew that turning heel would require two things that I hadn't shown in a while: physical conditioning and some real anger. With my family's financial security on the line, I knew that I could summon the fortitude to get my ass in the gym. The anger was going to be a problem to tap into and channel, but I was willing to go to those dark places in my mind because in the long run, with a fat pile of cash in front of me that I could wallow naked in, I'd be happier.

  Now, what reason did I have to hate these guys? Veteran wrestler Michael Hayes had taught me long ago that every heel needs to believe he is justified in his actions, no matter how wrong the logic behind those actions may be. My best promos always came forth when I knew I was right, and at least some of the anger was legitimate.

  I thought back to the point in the "Hell in a Cell" match when I managed to get back to my feet after a second devastating fall. Jim Ross was at his absolute best there, as he called the action with legitimate passion and emotion. "My God, he's got to be the toughest son of a bitch in this type of environment that I've ever seen!" Something about this call had always bothered me, but for months I couldn't put my finger on it. When I did, I knew that I could draw big money with Austin.

  "He's got to be the toughest son of a bitch ...in this environment." In this environment? What exactly did this mean? From a character standpoint, I knew what it meant. It meant that Ross, in complete honesty, was in the middle of calling me the toughest son of a bitch he had ever seen, period, when something had stopped him. Something made him add on that ridiculous "in this type of environment." Jim Ross had to add those words because, from a marketing and story-line standpoint, Steve Austin was the toughest son of a bitch in the World Wrestling Federation. As Mick Foley, a guy who knew his role, I understood why Ross needed to qualify his statement. But as the heel Cactus Jack, I would find Ross's glorification of Stone Cold's character at the expense of my real-life "Hell in a Cell" performance to be inexcusable—and I would take it out on Steve.

  I needed The Rock to get to Austin, but in truth, I felt like The Rock needed me. In the three months since he had turned babyface, The Rock had been on an incredible roll. His interactive audience-participation promos were highlights of our television shows, which now included a two-hour Thursday show on the fledgling UPN network. The Rock was like wrestling's version of singer Ray Charles in that he could come up with a catchphrase on Monday and have an entire crowd repeating it on Thursday. He was undoubtedly the heir apparent to Steve Austin, who was showing signs of fatigue after his phenomenal run on top of the World Wrestling Federation.

  I could only see one thing getting in the way of The Rock's rise: his character was mean. As a heel, part of The Rock's appeal was watching him humiliate people. It was a guilty pleasure—kind of like watching Louis Gossett, Jr. chew out young officer candidates in An Officer and a Gentleman. As a babyface, The Rock continued this practice and the crowd roared its approval, but I could definitely see the day when fans would stop perceiving it as cool. Sooner or later I felt The Rock was going to have to show signs of inner decency to go along with his slick persona—and I thought lovable Mankind would be the guy to bring it out of him. Then, when The Rock actually accepted this homely Mankind guy, BAM, I would turn on him and show the World Wrestling Federation audience a side of Mick Foley they never knew existed.

  Why would I turn? This one was easy. The Royal Rumble, January 1999, and The Rock's dressing-room no-show would provide all the anger I needed. I sat down with The Rock in the dressing room in Iowa State University on the evening of August 24, 1999—one day after my title loss. I explained to him my feelings, my ideas, and my belief that in a year's time there would be no Austin, Undertaker, or Mankind in the World Wrestling Federation and that the company would be his to carry into the future. He was very open to my thoughts, and together we brought the idea to the Vinces—Russo and McMahon.

  During the discussion, I laid out a tentative timetable for an October teaming, a December heel turn, and a series of matches that would take us through February. Austin, I hoped, would be the Holy Grail—the 2000 WrestleMania.

  Six days later The Rock tapped me on the shoulder, and I turned to see him smile. "We're teaming up tonight." "Tonight," I said, a little surprised. "Wow, that was kind of quick."

  So, on August 30 in Boston, Massachusetts, The "Rock 'n' Sock Connection," as it came to be known, began one of the most unique and humorous journeys in sports-entertainment history. We even won the Tag Team Championship from Undertaker and the Big Show on that very night.

  The act was a natural! We rarely talked about what we were going to do, relying instead on our chemistry together to guide us. Much of it involved my theft, or at least my borrowing and adjusting, of The Rock's catchphrases. On our first night in Boston, The Rock was looking for revenge on 'Taker and Show, who had left him lying earlier in the broadcast. He stepped out on the stage and began spouting Rockisms as he walked down to the ring and insisted that he wanted to take on both culprits.

  While he stood in the ring, my music hit and I stepped onto the stage. I proceeded to run off The Rock's spiel, but put my own personal touch to it.

  I implored The Rock to let me be his partner with the words "The people want Mankind to be The Rock's partner, the people need Mankind to be The Rock's partner, and tonight in Boston, Massachusetts, Mankind is asking to be The Rock's partner." The Rock accepted on a one-time-only basis under one condition: "Never—and The Rock means never—steal The Rock's catchphrases again!"

  The match was to be won with the People's Elbow, a point that I had a problem with. There was no way, as a fourteen-and-a-half-year veteran, I was going to let a match against the legendary Undertaker and the world's largest athlete end with a move as stupid, as infantile, and as horrible looking as the People's Elbow—unless, of course, I got to do it, too. So together we dropped our elbows, with The Rock's grazing Show's triceps and mine landing squarely on his nuts. The first title reign of wrestling's odd couple had begun.

  Perhaps most amusing of all was a twenty-minute impromptu celebration in the ring that took place after the show went off the air.

  The feedback the following day was phenomenal. The wrestlers loved it, the Internet was buzzing over it, and most important, Vince loved it. This was going to be an incredible pairing that would translate into incredible heat and box office when the dastardly turn took place.

  Yes indeed, Rock 'n' Sock mania was running wild, and as it turned out, at the next night's SmackDown! taping in Worcester (SmackDown! is taped on Tuesday and aired on Thursday), it was running everywhere. "Seven times?" I moaned to The Rock. "They have us on the show seven times." Together we went to Russo with our concern about too much of a good thing and came to an agreement that we had to limit our appearances. That night, however, we gave Worcester enough Rock 'n' Sock to last them for quite a while.

  A memorable promo occurred when The Rock went to the ring to address the issue of Shane McMahon's forcing the connection to fight each other on that night's program. I guess Shane felt that the People's Elbow and Mr. Socko would be simply too much for the rest of the Federation to withstand. While he was out there I strolled to the ring and told him that I thought it would be cool if he threw the match and allowed me to win in Worcester, the same city where I had beat him for the title. The Rock saw it differently.

  "Yeah, that would be cool," he said with a smile. "But you know what would be even cooler? If The Rock took your tag team
belt"—oh no, I could smell what he was cookin'—"shined it up real nice"—the crowd smelled it now too—"turned that sumbitch sideways"—this was going to hurt—"and stuck it straight up your candy ass!" The crowd loved it. The Rock had gotten me with one of his classic lines, and the audience roared its appreciation. The Rock, you see, threatened to turn everything sideways—Triple H's nose, the Stanley Cup, his foot, and a plethora of other things never meant to be used in the sphincteric vicinity—and shove them up people's asses. Apparently, he still had that ass fixation that I had diagnosed several months earlier.

  Everyone sold this threat in the same way—with anger. I decided to sell it a little differently—with fear. As if I was afraid that he would actually make good on his threats of anal anguish. I looked at my belt in disbelief and slowly picked up the mike. Slowly I spoke. "Rock . . . um ...I don't think . . . — that this thing will fit up there."