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

by Mick Foley

This match employed the "Hell in a Cell" cage which contained within it the standard steel cage that, as most fans know, is built directly onto the ring. This left a four-foot space between the two structures that would be patrolled by vicious, wild attack dogs. The object was to escape from both cages, which meant that Al and the Boss Man would be risking life and limb with these wild animals running amok. That, at least, was the theory. The truth was that the cameras could barely show the animals, which spent the match peeing and pooping and at one high-point actually humping. Yes, indeed, actual canine carnal knowledge in front of 20,000 fans.

  Still, even with the general consensus that it set new lows, deeper even than any Test has ever sunk to, the "Kennel" match did nothing to tarnish the reputation of Al's rib. The rib took place during the "kidnapped" part of the angle when poor Al appeared on television with a poster of the missing Pepper that featured a reward and a number to call with information on the dog's whereabouts.

  A bunch of the guys watched the interview from the dressing room with moderate amusement. Almost immediately, Val Venis's cell phone rang. "Hello," Val said, in his deep Val voice, followed by, "Sorry, you've got the wrong number!" A moment later the phone rang again. "Hello . . . sorry, wrong number." Val seemed to be confused as he walked from the room.

  The next day he showed up looking for Al. "Okay, you got me," he said, "but payback is going to be hell." The number that Al had given was actually that of Val's cell phone, and apparently over the course of twenty-four hours, Val had gotten almost a hundred calls, all offering information on Pepper's whereabouts. As of this writing, no revenge has been exacted.

  The Al Snow jokes in Have a Nice Day! were actually my own way of reaching out to Al and attempting to mend our friendship. By 1999, our private game of insult one-upmanship from back in 1997-98 had turned ugly when we took it to the World Wrestling Federation Internet show and then made the giant leap onto World Wrestling Federation television. There, I had the clear advantage because I had the privilege of more microphone time, and it was with that advantage that the camel's back was broken in East Lansing, Michigan. Let me tell you about the straw that did it.

  First, the background behind the straw. "Selling," as I mentioned earlier, is the art of making a move look more devastating by . . . um . . . uh . . . pretending it hurts more than it does. For example, it might be used in, "Wow, did you see Hunter sell that punch?"—or as my son Dewey has said, "Dad, why does Big Show only sell for Billy Gunn?" Of all the things a wrestler "sells," a chair might well be the easiest. Why? Because it really does hurt. Believe me, you don't need to be Sidney Poitier to sell a chair. On one memorable occasion, however, Al sold four chairshots as if he were Superman taking a Lex Luthor punch to the solar plexus. Bam, the Road Dogg nailed Al with a chair, and down he went. Amazingly, Al was up within seconds and was laughing. Bam—another shot, another fall, another laugh. Then another, then another.

  The boys in the back were irate. When Al came back, I was the first one to ask him about his new superhuman powers. Amazingly, A] pleaded innocent. "I don't remember a thing after the first one," he said with a slight slur in his words. "I was knocked out."

  Hey, maybe he was. But that didn't stop me from ribbing him about it. I told him that he should challenge the Undertaker to a "No Sell in the Cell" match, and that he and I should shelve Kevin Kelly's ridiculous "Best Friends" moniker for the more dynamic tag-team name of "The Sellers, Best and No." Unlike most of my jokes, Al didn't take these well and asked me nicely not to rib him about the ridiculous chairshots in front of the boys. At one point he even got down on his knees and begged me. Damn, I was going to make a comment about this not being the first time that Al was on his knees, but out of respect for younger readers I'm not going to do so.

  I knew Al was sensitive about the incident, but I pushed too far, and will admit right here in print that I was out of line for burying Al in a national television interview.

  The scene was East Lansing, Michigan, and the event was Mr. Socko's birthday party, although in reality it was more of a "birthplace" party, as Mr. Socko was still a few months shy of the big day. Yurple was there, and there were balloons and music as well, and amidst all the hoopla, Jim Ross stepped into the ring to congratulate me. "Thank you, J. R., but the man who really deserves our congratulations is Al Snow, for landing a lucrative endorsement deal with the La-Z-Boy company, which is strange, because Al usually doesn't sell chairs."

  Yes, it was a pretty good line and a definite one-punch knockout, but I scored the KO at the price of breaking my word. Even worse, Al felt pressured to respond, and when he did so the following night, he was not only unfunny but was reprimanded by Vince for ruining an entire segment of the Raw show.

  So yes, there was some tension there for a while, but the insults and jokes about Al in Have a Nice Day! seemed to build a bridge between us, and even though Al will never publicly or even privately admit to it, deep inside his soul he knows that the book helped his career. I'm glad thai: he and I are on good terms, or else I wouldn't dream of exposing the truth behind the legend of the Penis Suplex!

  26: TheLegend of the Penis Suplex

  Until now, the events of November 21, 1999, have been shrouded in mystery. Until now, no one has had the courage to come clean about just what they saw inside that arena in Montreal on that chilly afternoon.

  The seeds of the mystery had been sown several weeks earlier, when, inside a rented Chevrolet Lumina somewhere along a lonesome stretch of Interstate 71 that runs between Columbus and Louisville, a voice had been heard. Not just any voice, but a majestic one, a voice of love and understanding. The voice of Nat King Cole.

  Nat was singing about a night, but it was not just any night that he sang of. It was a holy night. A night where the stars were brightly shining. A night divine. The words were truly beautiful, until two not-so-beautiful voices joined in on the chorus. "Fall on your knees; O, hear the angel voices."

  A third voice then made itself heard, a voice of anger. Its corrosive energy cut through Nat's "O Holy Night" like a sword of vulgar lethality. "Goddammit, it's too early for Christmas music!" The voice belonged to Bob "Hardcore" Holly, and its owner was not happy about what he perceived to be an error in holiday etiquette. The two voices in the front seat were momentarily silenced, and a quick turn to the left on the dial marked "volume" nearly silenced Nat's voice as well.

  The voice on the passenger side of the Lumina spoke up, but in contrast to Holly's near-Neanderthal nitpicking, this voice was filled with kindness and reason. The voice was mine. "Bob, it's only ten weeks before Christmas, that's certainly not too soon for Christmas music. Besides, 'O Holy Night' is appropriate for year-round listening." I then tried to expound my philosophy of Yuletide music, which allowed that while such songs as "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer," "Frosty the Snowman," or "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" were more in tune with a December time frame, spiritual hymns like "What Child Is This," "Silent Night," and Nat's song in question were suitable for all-season entertainment. I then pointed out that they just don't make good songs about adulterous Christmas Eve voyeurism like "I Saw Mommy" anymore.

  Holly was not swayed. "Turn that crap off." I looked into the rearview mirror at this modern-day Ebenezer Scrooge. Beneath his soiled NASCAR cap lay a receding line of close-cropped, bleached-blond hair. But what lay beneath that? What caused him to eat almost thirty egg whites a day? Why did he refuse to go on even the most innocent of midway thrill rides?

  Some speculated that he had grown curmudgeonly after being saddled with a World Wrestling Federation gimmick that resulted in him being called "Sparky." Others felt that he had never completely forgiven office management for forcing him to lose to Mankind back in 1996 without getting any offense in. Whatever the cause, I made a solemn vow to myself in that rented Lumina at that very moment. I would find a merry prankster living deep beneath his regimen of two-hour daily workouts and a three-to-one protein-to-carbohydrate ratio.

  We traveled in sil
ence for several minutes, at which time I decided to make a stand. I wanted Christmas music, I wanted it now, and I didn't care about Bob "won't go to the carnival" Holly. "Al, pass me the Elvis Christmas" Suddenly a voice boomed out from the backseat. A happy voice! A "you've got Elvis!" voice. Five minutes later I looked in the rearview mirror at Bob. He was bobbing his head and snapping his fingers. And the mouth that had been so angry only minutes earlier was now curled up in an Elvis-like sneer and was singing "Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus lane."

  Over the next few weeks a change seemed to come over Bob. It was almost as if he were Scrooge and Elvis had been the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. "Hey, Cactus, tell the story," he'd say, and then would stand there as giddy as a schoolboy as I did my "Bob doing Elvis doing 'Here Comes Santa Claus' " routine. The smile on his face let me know that he was indeed capable of helping me in my quest for Al Snowtopia.

  Let us go back now to the day of November 21, 1999, and the events that until now have remained hidden deeper than the reasoning behind the boolo ing of Brisco and Patterson in an evening-gown match.

  When wrestling in Montreal, all the boys share one room, but it is a large one. Unlike our fictional television scenarios, and unlike WCW's real-life hierarchical star system, there are no "star" dressing rooms in the World Wrestling Federation. Everyone more or less piles into one or two dressing rooms and coexists rather peacefully. Even if such star dressing rooms did exist, it is unlikely that Al Snow would be allowed in one.

  So it was in this close dressing proximity that I noticed something rather odd as Al pulled up his one-piece wrestling singlet. He wasn't wearing any underwear beneath it. Strangely, I felt compelled to ask him about this rather unusual choice in costuming. "Underwear shows lines, and it doesn't look good on television," Al explained, which didn't explain too much since this was not a televised show. "Well, aren't you afraid of. . ." I started to say before breaking out into a big grin. "What?" Al asked, but I just shook my head as if to say "never mind."

  I had an idea, but I needed an accomplice. Someone who could get in the ring with Al. Who were we wrestling that night? I looked at the lineup for the show. A four-team elimination match with Snow and Mankind vs. the Dudlez vs. the Acolytes vs. Crash and Hardcore Holly. Bob! He was the man.

  "Bob," I began, laughing in a really transparent phony way as I sat beside him. "Hey, do you remember that time when I asked Al for the Elvis tape?" Bob burst out at the mere mention of the wonderful story. "Hey, tell it to Bubba," he exclaimed, and in accordance with Bob's wishes, I did my best to entertain Bob and Bubba, that blatant Cactus Jack rip-off. Although as blatant Cactus Jack rip-offs go, he is pretty damn good. The cool thing is that Bubba will take this as a compliment.

  As soon as Bob finished saying, "Isn't that a great story?" I made my move. "Jeez, I love that story, Bob. Hey, you want to help me out tonight?" Al actually caught us in mid-conspiracy but gave up easily when we assured him that our laughter was not about him. He hadn't been so wrong since he believed that Avatar would get over back in '95.

  I was still laughing when my music played. "I know you're up to something," Al kept saying, but I denied it as if I was a big-tobacco executive being interviewed on 60 Minutes.

  The bell rang, and I watched Acolyte Bradshaw sell Crash's punches as if he were Al Snow taking a Road Dogg chairshot. Bubba came in and brought Crash into a corner. Once there, he seized the five-foot-six Elroy Jetson look-alike up for a chop and smack brought his big hand down on Crash's pec-toralis major with full force. The smacking of hand on flesh that echoed throughout the arena gave me an idea. "Keep him there," I said to Bubba, and moved to the timekeeper's table as fast as I could. In other words, it took me forever. I climbed up on the apron and headed for the corner. Bubba seemed somewhat apprehensive as he wondered what the hardcore legend might do. "Chop him again," I yelled, and as Bubba reared back, I placed the house microphone right next to the approximate area where contact would be made. WHACKKK! The sound was awesome and the crowd went BANANA!

  Bubba then tagged me in, and the current and future hardcore legends shot young Elroy into the ropes and combined with a devastating multigenerational, um, something or other. I then proceeded to go to work on Crash in a style eerily reminiscent of the early-eighties Lou Albano, which is not exactly a good thing to be compared to. I wasn't concerned about my effort, however. I was only concerned about the next two tags. I took Crash into my own corner and gave him a good old-fashioned "Beale toss" toward his. Crash got up and tagged in Bob. I walked over and tagged in Al. Innocently, the poor bastard walked in, unaware that his life was about to be turned upside down, literally. He was smiling his stupid "look at me, I'm nuts" smile and had his stupid help me painted backward on his head, so it read em pleh. It should have read rethguals ot del gnieb bmal, because that's essentially what he was.

  Bob greeted Al with a stiff boot to the stomach. Everything Bob does hurts like hell, so why should this boot have been any different? I saw Bob hook Al's arm around his head in preparation for a vertical suplex. He then grabbed the short legging of Al's singlet, as most people do to execute the move correctly. Al suspected nothing. In an instant Holly made his move. With one quick yank, he moved the left legging over to the right side of Al's crotch, exposing his privates in the process. It should have been a milestone in my life, Al being publicly humiliated, but it wasn't. Instead, I felt strangely sad. A singlet, you see, is tremendous for protecting the testicles.

  A singlet is not tremendous, however, when it comes to displaying the dimensions of the male reproductive organ in a complimentary way, which is why the first thing a singlet wearer does when he removes that particular article of ring attire, is give the organ in question a quick but firm tug to free it from its "childlike state." Unfortunately for Al, he was locked in suplex position by the powerful Holly, and was not able to get a secret tug into the night's agenda. Therefore, as Holly lifted Snow into the vertical position, it became obvious that, as George Costanza once put it on Seinfeld, "there had been significant shrinkage."

  To make matters worse for Al, he didn't subscribe to the rather new male trend of grooming his bush, and as a result, in front of 20,000 fans, I saw what appeared to be a sparrow's egg peeking out of a vulture's nest. A small family of koala bears could have lived in there.

  Part of me wanted to put an end to it. Bob wasn't just administering a simple suplex. He was holding him up there. For seconds ... maybe ten of them. Al was trying to pull his singlet back over, but Bob was just too strong. It was almost as if every workout suffered through and every fourteen-egg-white omelette ever ingested had led him to this one moment. At that instant Bob was sporting perhaps the biggest smile of his entire miserable life.

  Al's body finally crashed to the canvas. I looked to see his expression, which I was sure would be one of fury. Instead he was laughing. If he had seen things from my vantage point, I'm not sure he would have been.

  After the match, we gathered in the locker room. Together, all of us vowed never to reveal the tragic events of that afternoon. We looked almost like the kids, vowing never to tell of the body they found in Stand By Me, another film directed by Rob Reiner, the guy who had snubbed me at the End of Days premiere. True to my word, I have kept that vow until now.

  The story you have just read is true. Not even the names have been changed to protect the innocent. Pass it on to your children, and to your children's children. Teach them the legend. The legend of the Penis Suplex.

  27: A Second Chance

  I announced my retirement on Canadian television on the day that followed the legendary suplex. I knew the show would be broadcast two days later and that the news would be somewhat old by then, as I planned to announce the same decision on Raw later that very night. USA Today even wrote, "Mankind makes shocking announcement" in their television schedule. My announcement was not made that night, as a last-minute decision pushed the speech back another week. I look at that deci
sion now as a blessing, because as I went home for the Thanksgiving holidays I was bothered by a persistent feeling that something about the retirement wasn't quite right.

  For some reason I kept thinking about a boxing match from more than twenty-five years ago. The "Thrilla in Manila." It was a fight that many consider to be the greatest of all time, and the images of it haunted me as I tried to sleep that week in late November. An exhausted but jubilant Muhammad Ali, with his arms in the air, in a gesture of victory. A battered and beaten "Smokin' " Joe Frazier, sitting on his stool in the corner, his head hung low in defeat.

  I was eight years old when the historic fight took place in the Philippines. Back in those days, world title fights took place in cities other than Las Vegas and Atlantic City. I remember glancing at the pictures of the ring warriors in one of my dad's Sports Illustrated^. With swollen eyes and blood and sweat, they had earned their way into my memory long before I had ever seen the actual fight. Now, late in 1999, those same memories kept me awake.

  I saw the fight several years later, and my respect for the two men grew even deeper. The battle seemed to drain the very life out of both fighters, and quite possibly could have been the last great fight in each man's career. The Thrilla in Manila might very well have made a great movie, except for the ending. A movie would have seen both men throwing punches as the final bell tolled. It would have seen the brave fighters fall into each other's arms in a gesture of true respect. Except this wasn't Hollywood, it was Manila, and the reality of the fight is that Joe Frazier had been too badly beaten to continue.

  Or was he? Frazier was and still is a man of enormous pride, and I wondered how he felt deep down about the famous fight. I wondered how he felt about finishing his greatest fight sitting on a stool. And I wondered how many times over the last twenty-five years he wished he could have gone that one final round.