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

by Mick Foley

Just one round. Three more minutes. A small price to pay for the lifetime of peace of mind that would have followed.

  I realized why "Smokin"' Joe had been on my mind. I felt a strong connection between his career and mine, and it bothered the hell out of me. In a way, I felt as if I was Joe Frazier, and I was going out of my career sitting on a stool.

  Now, I know true sports fanatics will probably think my analogy to be near blasphemous, but they haven't lived my life. They haven't hitchhiked to the Garden as teenagers to watch the "Superfly" soar off the steel cage. They haven't slept in their cars en route to barely attended armories or sat in an emergency room while their own ear was thrown in a garbage can as they stared with open eyes. Most of all, they haven't decided to end their careers by taking the easy way out, by sitting on a stool.

  I saw the "Thrilla in Manila" as if it were my career, with each round representing a year. Fourteen years of reaching for the stars followed by one last year of reaching for a sock.

  Steve Austin's injury had left a big void in the World Wrestling Federation that had yet to be filled. The Big Show had just won the World Wrestling Federation title and had been slated to face Triple H at the Royal Rumble. Logic seemed to dictate that Triple H and The Rock would lock horns at WrestleMania, a little over two months after that. WrestleMania is touted as the biggest show of the year, but in truth, without the proper buildup, it is just another Pay-Per-View. Nineteen ninety-seven's 'Mania had proved that, as injuries had destroyed the buildup and buy rates plummeted.

  The World Wrestling Federation, as I saw it, was in trouble. The Big Show was trying hard, but the fans were just not behind him as a champion. Triple H was fast becoming the best heel in the business, but without the proper promotion he would arrive at 'Mania flat for the biggest match of his career.

  I spoke with Colette at length about my life and career, and about how, when it was all over, I didn't want to be saddled with a lifetime of "what-if's." I felt in my heart that I could come up with one more big match. I needed the World Wrestling Federation, but in truth, the World Wrestling Federation needed me as well. Give me Triple H at the Royal Rumble, I thought, and in return I would give the World Wrestling Federation plenty of heat and the Triple H they wanted, ready for The Rock at WrestleMania.

  I called Hunter aside on November 29 in Los Angeles and told him of my plans. His eyes lit up. Together, we planned and plotted, and pulled Vince aside to tell him about our big idea. He shot it down. I honestly don't remember why, or even what was said, but I do remember feeling the agony of defeat as I left his office.

  Meanwhile, The Rock 'n' Sock was entertaining as hell, and unlike our first incarnation, The Rock seemed to be showing small signs of actual warmth for Mankind. Maybe I could still get in my one last big-money match with the People's Champ.

  I did a lot of thinking on my way home from California. I came up with a Plan B. Whether I liked it or not, I was going to get booed when I fought against The Rock in Fort Lauderdale. Hey, if I was going to be treated like a heel, I might as well be a heel. Besides, I might be able to get that one truly big payoff that had somehow eluded me for my entire career. I had heard of monstrous checks given out for the main events at blockbuster shows but had never been the recipient of one. A matchup with The Rock, fueled by what had happened during the "I Quit" match of January 1999, which in truth still bothered me, could possibly be my way.

  Plan B was foolproof. Instead of a match against each other at the December 12 PPV (which had yet to be announced), The Rock and I would team together against the Outlaws. At that show, I would turn on The Rock's candy ass, and then, using some deep-down feelings of real pent-up anger, would promote the hell out of the return of Cactus Jack for the January 23 Rumble. A furious contest at the Rumble would lead to a return match in February, where odds were I would leave without my arm in the air. I would then announce 'Mania as my last match, and the fans would be able to say good-bye to the hardcore legend in a classy way.

  I visualized the entire scenario, until I could literally feel it, and then sprung it on Vince at the December 4 house show in Madison Square Garden.

  He shot it down. I was frustrated as hell. I knew deep down that I had at least one good match left in me and hated Vince for not allowing me to have it. "Why, Vince, why?" His answer hurt me perhaps worse than any chairshot I've ever received, but at the same time it opened up my eyes to the logic of his answer, which made hatred a great deal more difficult to feel. "Mick, you're huge." I tried to defend myself, but with a body that seemed to support his accusation, I was left speechless. He continued his assault but did so as gently as possible. "Maybe you two could have a good match at the Rumble if we promoted it correctly, but a rematch in February would require you to put in a lot of time"—he was referring to the length of the match—"and I really don't think you can do it."

  My weight had been steadily increasing for the last few years, and on December 4, at around 320,1 certainly was terribly out of shape. I had always been able to get by on a blend of guts, knowledge, and luck, but now, as I looked at Vince, I felt like my luck had just run out. For most of my time in the World Wrestling Federation, heavier wrestlers had been encouraged to lose weight, but somehow I had always seemed to slip by. "Hey, it's your gimmick," other wrestlers used to say, and at 280 pounds that may have been true. Cactus Jack and Mankind had not gotten over because they looked good. Cactus Jack and Mankind had gotten over because they were wild, they were funny, they were smart, they had guts, and they gave the fans a hell of a show. Nowhere in that list of accolades, however, does "fat" appear.

  Wrestlers spend a great deal of time at the gym. Historically speaking, so have I. My body is not genetically predisposed to carrying large muscles, and I have never taken any pharmaceutical steps to change that. As a result, my gains in the gym have been minimal. Poor genetics combined with a slow metabolism and a ring style that over fifteen years has made working out secondary to trying to heal my injuries have seen to that.

  When I did show up at the gym, I would get ribbed by the boys. "Hey, you're going to kill your gimmick," they would joke in a friendly way, and would respond similarly if I was caught with a protein bar, or any other such health food. Over time, I began to rationalize my dwindling appearances at the gym and more frequent trips to the buffet line as a way of actually helping my career. Also, by an odd coincidence, my pay seemed to expand with my waistline.

  When my body began showing greater signs of wear and tear from years of abuse, my greater weight made recuperation more difficult. I had always prided myself on being in shape for the big matches, but injuries made putting forth the effort necessary for cardiovascular training almost impossible. While I was completing my career by writing Have a Nice Day!, I was actually ruining the last year of it by neglecting my body. Once I was back on the road, things got even worse. Partially due to my overindulgences at the dinner table, my pain became even greater. While I refused to take pain medicine, I certainly agreed to a slice of pecan pie at 2 a.m. at the Waffle House. Maybe I could "just say no" to drugs, but I simply said yes to jelly doughnuts. And Hershey bars and cookies, and above all else, I said yes to virtually anything that had the word "pumpkin" in it.

  I think pumpkin is to me what shrimp was to Forrest Gump. Maybe he could rattle off seventy-eight things to do with shrimp, but I could come up with about forty recipes that employed pumpkin—and I loved them all.

  My experience with drugs is very limited. I never used marijuana or cocaine, even though one of my best friends was a dealer in college. I have sat around while people I like snorted it, licked it, smoked it, and rubbed it inside their gums and butt holes. I have never smoked crack, and the sight of people doing so makes me sick to my stomach. I have never used hard drugs, nor have I had even the slightest urge to try.

  I didn't even have a cup of coffee until I was twenty and barely drank alcohol a dozen times until I turned twenty-one. Despite a ring style that was revolutionary in its perceived recklessne
ss, I didn't take a pain pill until my sixth year in the business. Since then, my use of them has been minimal. I have thrown out entire bottles of pills that have passed their expiration date, and was able to get through my entire double knee surgery and rehabilitation period with only one pill.

  This past year, though, has been tough, and I have had to use pain medicine with slightly greater frequency to get through it. On rare occasions, I have borrowed a pain pill from a friend, which I guess technically makes me a criminal, so that I won't have to wait for several hours at a doctor's office to be given the same damn thing. I even tried GHB a few times, back when it was sold in health-food stores and was supposed to build muscle and burn fat. Then Colette found it in my bag and made me throw it out, because she knew intuitively what all GHB users know deep down: if it makes you feel good, it's a drug.

  I see an actor like Robert Downey Jr., who has been jailed and is ruining the peak years of his career because of drugs, and I am at a loss to understand it. This guy has lost millions and has been sent to jail simply because he can't control himself, because he can't say no to drugs. I look at a guy like that and have no empathy, until I realize ...if I had to give up pumpkin pie for an entire fall and winter, with the threat of jail time if I lapsed ...I think you'd have to lock me up.

  I now have a great deal of understanding for drug addicts, because just as they crave a joint or a snort or a needle or a spoon, I crave those damn pumpkins. Got to have my pumpkins.

  When I look back, I will always consider my September 1996 "Mind Games" match with Shawn Michaels to be the greatest of my career. Not coinci-dentally, it was also the only time in the last ten years that I knew I was in shape. Sure, I still looked like hell, but at 280, after a brutal cardiovascular training regimen, I was able to go full tilt for twenty-seven minutes with a smaller, quicker, better athlete than me. I wonder how many good matches could have been great, and how many great matches could have been all-time classics if I had only won my battle of the bulge. My career certainly has given me a great many things to be proud of, but the ability to "just say no" has not been one of them. After a fifteen-year battle, it seemed that food had not only kicked my ass, but had made it wider and decorated it with dimples.

  Fortunately, I had an angel on my shoulder. A seven-foot-tall, 450-pound one named the Big Show. This is going to break the poor guy's big heart, but the sad truth (at least for him) is that the lack of reaction for Show from the Garden fans had caused Vince to reconsider the Rumble main event.

  "Mick, can I talk to you?" Vince's voice sounded stern, as if I had screwed up, but in truth, his succeeding words became something of a professional salvation to me. "I'm not going to go with Triple H and Show at the Rumble," he said. "The reaction's just not there. I'm going to go with you and Hunter, but not as a retirement match, we can do that later." I thanked Vince up and down for his decision, but he wasn't quite through yet. "Mick, I want you to get in shape," he then told me. I had six weeks to get there.

  28: Drugs and Choices

  There is a drug problem in wrestling. With that being said, this will probably be the most difficult chapter I will ever write. Difficult because it may be perceived as casting a negative shadow on a business I love and people I care about, and difficult because in order to write it I've had to ask myself questions for which there are no easy answers.

  Yes, there is a drug problem in wrestling. There are also drug problems in football, baseball, hockey, and basketball, all of which have been well documented. There are drug problems in Hollywood, drug problems in music, drug problems in cities, drug problems in schools, and drug problems with everyday citizens as well. I read about them every day, and I see them every night on the evening news. Drugs are by and large a societal problem, and wrestlers are a part of society. But that doesn't let us off the hook.

  I have no desire to write a tell-all book about drugs, nor am I the man to write such a book. I think it's low class and a breach of trust to go that route, and it's not what my life or career has been about. I don't go out to bars, and I don't know who's taking what. The only time I hear about someone's drug use is if it's bad or if their behavior seems suspicious, including telltale physical signs.

  For years, heavy drinking was considered a sign of a wrestler's manliness. I don't think wrestlers have gotten any less manly, but at the same time I don't hear nearly as many stories of drinking prowess. Sure, I hear a few, but I'm much more likely to hear wrestlers comparing the merits of their protein shakes these days than their favorite beers. Maybe the guys still jam the bars and just don't tell me about it. But as a guy who keeps his ears open all the time, I just don't hear a whole lot about heavy drinking.

  I don't know a single wrestler who uses hard drugs. I think a heroin user would be an extreme rarity in the business. Personally, I don't know of any. Cocaine was huge on all levels of society in the eighties, and therefore was huge in wrestling. Guys who made $300 a week would snort $300 a week, and guys who made more snorted more. Guys snorted in the dressing rooms and guys snorted in their cars. It has literally been years since I've seen or heard of anyone in our business snorting cocaine.

  Crack was on the rise when I was in WCW. I used to hear a few of the boys talk about it, and even was in a car on a road trip when the driver made a detour through M.L.K. (Martin Luther King) Boulevard in a strange city to "get some rocks." I started picking my driving buddies a little more carefully after that. I did ask the driver how he knew where to buy crack in a strange city, and his answer was simple: "You just go to M.L.K. in any city, that's where all the rocks are."

  For some reason, when Dr. King said, "I have a dream," I don't think having streets named after him where "all the rocks are" was quite it. The people I knew who used crack spoke about the experience as if it was heaven, literally. That's the word they used, "heaven." I wonder if they feel the same now, as most of these crack users have lost their homes, families, and jobs as a result of their fondness for the heavenly stuff. I can honestly say that I don't know of a single crack user currently in the World Wrestling Federation.

  Marijuana . . . well, that's a different story. I know some of the guys in wrestling smoke a little pot, and as soon as I see evidence that its effects go beyond making people happy and mellow, I'll let you know. Professional wrestling is a high-stress job that causes its participants to be on the road a great percentage of the year. Without a release mechanism, some would find it unbearable. Maybe my thinking is a little too liberal here, but in my book (and this is my book) there are bigger problems in today's world than a grown man smoking a joint in a hotel room after being thrown around a ring and driving a couple hundred miles.

  I would be a fool to think that there's not some steroid use in the World Wrestling Federation. In my opinion, if someone looks too good to be true, he probably is, but again, I am probably the worst person to pass judgment because steroids have never been part of my life.

  A lot of the guys in the business today—not just the World Wrestling Federation, but WCW and ECW as well—make their bodies their top priority. The dedication they put into their training and diet is incredible, as is their attention to dietary supplementation. To hear some of them talk is like trying to use a computer for me; it's a foreign language. The World Wrestling Federation at one time included a bodybuilder who had placed fifth at the Mr. Olympia contest, the bodybuilding industry's most prestigious showcase. He may have been a terrible wrestler, but would have made a fine scientist, as his knowledge of anatomy, kinesiology, chemistry, and physics was phenomenal.

  This knowledge is what makes testing for steroids so difficult. A steroid test, even a surprise one, is not going to catch all steroid users, only the chemically uneducated ones. Only a complete idiot would fail an announced test. The users are too smart now, and their methods for passing drug tests border on ingenious. In his 1996 book, The Dark Side of the Game, former NFL football player Tim Green described the extreme measures that players sometimes resorted to in order
to pass drug tests, including catheterizing clean urine into their bladders. If someone wants to beat a test bad enough and has the knowledge to do so, they will.

  Look, when I see a wrestler who looks a lot better in a big hurry, I guess that he's on steroids. But that's all I do—guess. The same way I guess that a Hollywood actor who muscles up dramatically for a role is on the gas (steroids) as well. The same way that I guess the reason the average NFL lineman's weight has gone from 250 to 300 over the past twenty-five years, while his time in the forty has decreased, is chemical in nature. But they're all guesses.

  When I broke into wrestling, steroid use and talk about it was in the open. Guys jabbed each other in the ass with needles and compared dosages and effects as if they were exchanging cake recipes. If there is steroid use in the World Wrestling Federation, I don't in all honesty actually know about it. I have not seen an injection, discovered a discarded needle, or even heard someone admit to taking steroids in the nearly six years that I have been there.

  Someday someone will come along and write the definitive history on drug use in professional wrestling. He will name names, remember dates, and document dosages. To do so, that person will have to have firsthand knowledge of such drug use and a willingness to destroy people's lives. I have neither.

  If putting a finger on the steroid use in wrestling is difficult, pointing a finger of blame on the real drug problem in wrestling—prescription drugs—is even more so. Why? Because such drugs are legal. They can also be deadly. Four wrestlers of prominence have died in the last five years as a result, at least in part, of the effects of prescription drugs.

  A recent article on ABCNews.com listed sixteen wrestlers' deaths in the last seven years, with the insinuation that wrestling was a deadly business. I found the article to be extremely biased, especially since most of the wrestlers listed were either retired or had died of causes ranging from cancer to suicide to domestic violence. Surely the wrestling business cannot shoulder the blame for all of these.