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

by Mick Foley

  While I lay on the ground, Hunter placed the weapon/stepping device over my head and proceeded to come down mightily on it with several chairshots. No, it doesn't hurt, but it looks impressive and plays havoc with the eardrums. Hunter rolled under the ropes with the chair still in his possession as I gamely struggled to my feet. I too then rolled into the ring. Triple H was waiting.

  Wham—he caught me in the back. Wham— another one brought down with a force that elicited a gasp from the crowd. The second blast had only seemed to piss me off, and as I turned to face my rival, the crowd buzzed with anticipation.

  CRACKKK—a giant baseball bat swung to the side of the face sent me down fast and the crowd's buzz along with it. A good match is like a roller coaster, and we had just brought them up a small lift followed by a steep drop.

  Triple H went for the cover, but oddly, my kick-out elicited barely a reaction. A DDT put me down again. Another kick-out, another barely audible reaction. Why? He picked up the chair again, and as he turned to me I got to my knees. I waved him on with my hands and a nod of my head, as if to say, "Come on, let's see what you've got." The crowd was alive with a "Cactus Jack" chant, which made their lack of reaction to the pinfall attempts seem even stranger. The chant seemed to inspire Hunter, who charged with the chair held high overhead. Boom—I stopped him with a punch to the stomach, which caused him to drop the chair in between his legs. I reached for the weapon and brought it up into his crotch and followed the nut-cracking move with a double-arm DDT onto the chair. One, two, kick-out—no crowd reaction. The lack of response was really concerning me. A Russian leg sweep brought his head down backward on the chair for another two-count and another lackluster response. The response was no longer concerning me; it was downright bothering the hell out of me. What the hell? This wasn't a Posse match. This was "Hell in a Cell" with my career on the line. I knew we were having a hell of a match. So what was wrong?

  I took Triple H into the corner and threw the fast stiff forearm that had helped make this entire angle work. It wasn't as fast or as stiff as it could have been, but by now I was distracted by the crowd. I charged at Hunter, but he sidestepped me and took me down with a drop toehold that brought my head down hard onto the very chair that had already seen action.

  It was good for another two-count and another weak response. Triple H clotheslined me over the top rope to the floor, where, fortunately, business, and the reaction as well, was about to pick up.

  I went to work on Hunter with what is pretty much standard fare in cage matches—head into the cage, punches—but the intensity was tremendous and the crowd ate it up. A Beale toss into the cage left Hunter down for a while, and as he lay there, I finally got my hands on a chair. The audience "oohed" in anticipation.

  With my chair in hand, I climbed the apron. I tried to mount the second turnbuckle that faced Triple H but couldn't gain my footing. I momentarily panicked. Luckily, my second attempt was more successful. I paused to bathe in the warmth of the Hartford fans before going for the chair/elbow. Wham—300 pounds dropping from seven feet with a chair is a tremendous force, and the consequences were steep. Hunter told me later that the force nearly knocked him out. It did its damage on me as well, as my face smashed into the chair and I broke my own nose in the process. The agony of the moment was washed away with chants of "Foley, Foley, Foley." The tepid two-count reactions of only minutes ago seemed far, far away.

  I stood up slowly and basked in the "Foley" glow, and a realization came upon me: this match could be a classic. With Triple H still down from the effects of the elbow/flying nosebreaker, I planned my next move . ..the stairs. Now, with Hunter hurting, was the time for payback. I hoped the crowd would remember the awesome force of the first stair collision, for I wanted the fans to need Hunter to feel that same force. Their reaction as I shouldered the steps let me know they remembered. Hunter stood up slowly and I began my charge, approaching fast and with bad intentions. When I got within a few feet of impact, I threw the stairs with a strength that defied my physique. At the last moment, however, the champion moved to his right and the steel instrument of destruction whizzed mere inches from his head and crashed harmlessly into the mesh of the cell. The crowd, however, reacted with a buzz that grew and grew until it became a legitimate sustained pop. Why? Because the stairs that had crashed into the fence had actually caused the cell to rip. A panel of the mesh was torn. I had access to the outside world.

  I milked that reaction for all it was worth. My promise was about to be fulfilled. I would climb the cage after all. As the milking of the reaction went on, I suddenly realized why our two-counts had garnered such weak reactions. Not a soul in the place believed that the match would end inside that cage. Not until we got outside of it, anyway. Now with access suddenly granted, the crowd was on its feet.

  Despite the huge pop, I was disappointed. I had hoped that the fence would give the stairs a better fight. Richie Posner had seen to it that the mesh would tear, but I was hoping for a better struggle. I wanted to throw those stairs four or five times. I wanted the initial fight to get outside to be nearly as intense as my subsequent fight with the champion. I wanted to throw my body at the fence. I wanted that fence to fight me toe-to-toe. Instead, I knocked it out with one punch. I decided to give it one more blow anyway, and with a running start, I put my shoulder into it and dove into the world outside. When I stepped back in to bring my prey outside, I had blood running down my arm. With a handful of hair, I grabbed Hunter and flung him through our newly constructed exit. I climbed through as well. Chants of "Foley" were there to greet me. In a way, it seemed as if the in-ring action had taken place in dull and dreary Kansas. Once outside, everything came alive. We weren't in Kansas anymore, Toto.

  I pulled Hunter up onto the table and pile-drove him with my own quick stump-pulling style. The table didn't break, but I didn't panic. Instead, I moved my head slowly toward the cage and slowly looked up. I gave that top of the cage a long and loving look. The partisan Hartford crowd was on its feet and was exploding with enthusiasm in anticipation of a promise to be fulfilled. Slowly I began to climb. I was following my own special yellow brick road and was off to meet the Wizard ...when the Wicked Witch cut me off. Stephanie grabbed my leg, then pulled it, and eventually hung on to it until I finally let go of the cage.

  I stalked the Witch to a great response, and caught Triple H with a punch when he tried to intervene. I then threw timekeeper Marc Yeaton to the floor and reached under his table for a surprise. The sight of a two-by-four wrapped in barbed wire brought the crowd to another level. Adrenaline surged throughout my body as I held it aloft in the air—basking in the cheers of the fans as the blood made its way in tiny rivers from my triceps to my wrist.

  Triple H tried to flee into the crowd, but I caught him by the trunks and pulled him back. Whaamm— I caught him with the wood. The roar of approval was monstrous.

  I had regretted using two separate two-by-fours at the Royal Rumble—one wrapped with barbed wire and one wrapped in a different wire with soldering metal taking the place of the barbs. The shots I took to the back and stomach had been done with the legitimate wood, and a shot that Hunter took to the head had involved the other one. Afterward he still had holes in his head and regretted not being hit by the real deal. This time he was.

  The Cactus Jack mystique was alive and well in Hartford, Connecticut, on February 27, 2000. The fans weren't looking at a broken-down, sock-puppet-toting loser. They were looking at an indestructible madman. Hunter couldn't stay and fight—he'd be destroyed. He had to flee. Selling the effects of the beating and the image of Cactus, he began climbing the cage to get away.

  Okay—this is where suspension of disbelief becomes a necessity. Why would Hunter not simply run around the cage and up the aisle? He'd have had possibly the slowest man in sports-entertainment giving chase. I don't have an answer. Fortunately, the crowd didn't demand one, as they were completely caught up in my pursuit (with two-by-four in hand) of Hunter up the ominous
cell.

  As I neared the top of the cell, I made something of a tactical error by placing the two-by-four in a spot that allowed Hunter easy access to it. . . and me. He took full advantage of this by raking the wire against my head, which is more or less a mandatory gross-out move for that particular type of weapon. I resisted the urge to look below me at the table where I knew I'd be landing. The memory of my shoulder and head landing in September '98 was running through my mind as Triple H began stomping on my hands. This is it, I was thinking, time to let go. Crash—the sound of a perfectly broken table was like music to my ears, and I lay on the floor exhausted and hurting, but thankfully not injured.

  "Foley" chants filled the Hartford air again as I struggled to my feet. With fire in my eyes, I picked up a metal chair and flung it up on top of the cell. No, I didn't. I tried, but the chair came up short. Damn, I'd cleared it by several feet earlier in the afternoon, but apparently the twenty-plus minutes of intense action had drained the strength from me. Three more times I tried and three more times I failed, each one accompanied by collective groans of disappointment from the crowd. DAMN, I needed a chair up there; its presence was essential to my future cell plans. I began scaling the cage to the delight of the fans while I tried to formulate a Plan B.

  As I reached the top, Triple H stood ready with the two-by-four. Whack—I took a shot to the back and the crowd reacted with a combination of excitement and sympathy. Wham—another one—this time to the stomach. I wished I had the chair, but as I fell to my back, I decided to resort to an old standby—a kick to the nuts.

  I took the offensive to the tune of "Foley, Foley" and silently thanked Richie Posner for the reinforcement of the cell as I suplexed Triple H on it and followed this up with a double-arm DDT. The cell match of '98 had seen the mesh rip several times by accident, even before the chokeslam that knocked me unconscious.

  With Triple H down, I eyed the two-by-four. The crowd was buzzing. As I picked up the board, the buzzing grew in volume. "Oh no," Jerry "the King" Lawler yelled on commentary, "what could be worse than a two-by-four wrapped in barbed wire?" I had the answer. With a flick of my lighter, the barbed-wire board was set ablaze and the response in the Civic Center was deafening.

  It almost didn't happen. When I had picked up the hidden lighter, my hands began shaking. A few attempted flicks yielded no spark, since my hands were simply shaking too badly to control; in fact, I almost dropped the lighter. Luckily, I found the ability to calm my hands, and the blazing two-by-four was alive and well in Connecticut.

  Hunter staggered to his feet and was met with a shot to the head that sent him back down. The actual blow was a little weak, but as far as shots to the head using a two-by-four wrapped in barbed wire and set on fire go, I felt it was pretty impressive. Not as impressive as our next move, however.

  I placed the burning weapon on top of the cell and signaled for a piledriver. I grabbed Triple H and placed his head between my thighs. The crowd was in a frenzy. I hooked my arms around his waist in preparation for the liftoff. My heart was pounding as the potent cocktail of adrenaline and terror coursed through my veins. There was going to be a landing, all right, but it wouldn't be Triple H on the two-by-four.

  With a quick burst, Hunter lifted me into the air. Oh no, I thought, I'm going over too quickly, I'll never land on my back. I pushed off his lower back, and as his back body drop was completing, I prayed that the cell would give way as I'd been promised. As I hit the mesh, I felt an entire panel give way and I plummeted toward the canvas, which was a good twelve feet away. Twooam—I hit the ring and a good portion of it collapsed, as, fortunately, a team of experts had been preparing diligently for my landing while Triple H and I had fought on top of the cell. The fall knocked the wind out of me but left me in enough control of my faculties to relish the impressive "holy shit, holy shit" chant that echoed throughout the arena.

  For his part, Triple H reacted as if I was dead. He wore a look of shock on his face that continued as he climbed down the hanging mesh panel and into the ring. He kicked at me as if he was checking on the status of fresh roadkill. Suddenly I moved my arm. Hunter was livid. "I don't believe it," J.R. hollered, "the crazy SOB is moving." I was moving, but not so well, as Triple H began putting the boots to me. I got to my knees as the chanting of my name grew louder. Maybe, just maybe, I had a miracle left in me. Hunter hit the pedigree. I was fresh out of miracles. One, two, three.

  As was his custom, J.R. provided the perfect words to complete the scene. "This man gave us everything. What more could any of us have asked for. We have just seen the last match of Mick Foley. At thirty-four years of age, the career of Mick Foley is over."

  I needed only to walk up the aisle. A simple twenty yards. It was a long twenty yards and it may have been the saddest walk of my life. The happiest as well. I looked like Death of a Salesman's Willie Loman as I turned my back for the final few yards. Then I turned to look back at not just the crowd, but at fifteen years of memories. My eyes welled up and my face began trembling. The scene was perfect— looking out at my career with a face full of blood, sweat, and tears. Slowly I turned, and just like the heroes of old, I rode off into the sunset.

  I felt an immediate sense of joy when I walked through the curtain. Vince wrapped me in a big hug despite my bloodied state and his expensive jacket. Hunter was through next and he hugged me as well. Even Stephanie was up for a hug, even with the knowledge that her dress would be history. Al Snow attempted to hug me, but I just said hi instead.

  The first minutes after a big match are a special time. A time to relax and a time to reflect. In some ways, I guess it's like smoking a cigarette after great sex, even though I wouldn't know anything about that. About the smoking, I mean. Also, after sex, paramedics don't come into your room and stitch you up—at least not when it's been done properly.

  While the cleansing and stitching process was being completed, I was informed that my father and brother were outside. I spoke for a while with them, remembering when my wrestling dream was in its infancy and the chances of success seemed so slim and far away.

  My hotel was directly across the street, and at $120 a night was a good $40 above my usual limit. What the hell—a guy only retires once, right? So I splurged for the room, had my car valet-parked, called home, where the kids had stayed awake just to say "I love you," and prepared for my fattening celebratory meal and Pay-Per-View movie. Instead, I had a protein drink and fell asleep with a smile on my face for a match and a career well done.

  In a business where performers often allow their dignity to be stripped for the sake of a few bucks, I had been able to leave with my head held high. In an industry where competitors refuse to acknowledge their own limitations and hang around past their effectiveness to the point of pity, I had left the World Wrestling Federation on top. Not on top of my physical game, but in a blaze of glory that has known few equals. I had walked back through the curtain with blood on my face and tears in my eyes, but with fans on their feet and chants of "Foley" in my ears. (Or at least in one of them.) For the rest of my life, I could look back with pride on my final match.

  34: "Hello, Mick”

  Sixteen days later I called Jim Ross just to say hello and to find out what plans the World Wrestling Federation had for me over WrestleMania weekend, which was still several weeks away. I fully expected to remain a vital part of the company, and in fact had suggested myself for an on-air "Commissioner" role several months down the line. In the meantime, there was the World Wrestling Federation New York entertainment complex to help out in, paid appearances to make, and public relations to lend a hand in. I fully expected J.R. to tell me about helming the Chef Boyardee booth at World Wrestling Federation Axxess, or some other prestigious position.

  Instead, he started telling me about the WrestleMania main event. Everyone in the company was banking on The Rock vs. Triple H, but apparently Vince had a different idea. "What Vince was thinking of," J. R. began, "was a four-way match with Hunter, The Rock, the
Big Show, and ..." For the life of me I couldn't think of who. Maybe Rikishi. He'd been getting an incredible reaction from the crowd, and a slot in the 'Mania main event could make him a bona fide player for years to come. Or maybe Benoit, who had all the necessary tools except big-time interview skills (which he has since improved greatly). Or maybe Test. Or maybe I've taken too many shots to the head. As Dustin Hoffman might have said in Rain Man, had he watched the World Wrestling Federation instead of Judge Wapner, "Not Test, definitely not Test." Who then? Or as legendary one-hit Australian wonders Men at Work once sang, "Who Can It Be Now?" J.R.'s next two words answered that question, but opened up the door for many more: "Mick Foley."

  Mick Foley? He couldn't wrestle. He was the guy who'd just retired. With dignity—on top—in a blaze of glory. Besides, he'd pretty much spent the last sixteen days helping rid the world of pork ribs, one barbecued rack at a time. I didn't know what to say, so I just reached for the obvious. "J.R., I just retired." "I know, Mick, but Vince has got an idea to bring you back for one last match. Give him a call."

  Generally speaking, a wrestler considers finding out he's just been picked to be in the main event at WrestleMania to be good news. Good? Hell, it's the best news possible. It would be like answering your door to find Ed McMahon standing there with a six-foot check in his hands. It would be like stumbling upon a bottle on a beach and finding out Barbara Eden lived in there. For me, however, main-eventing at 'Mania sounded like a disaster, a disaster that would turn me into a . . . prostitute.

  I called Vince and tried to convince him of the error of his ways. Vince can be a little stubborn. As far as WrestleMania was concerned, Vince usually knew his way and committed very few errors. By the time I hung up the phone, I was convinced of the greatness of Vince's idea. About five seconds later doubts began popping up like a teenage boy with a 1978 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. I had two major issues working against me. First, Vince was convinced that this was the way to go. I had tried to remind him of the previous years' "it's got to be a one-on-one matchup at WrestleMania" mentality, but he was ready with a comeback. "Mick, just because that's the way it's always been doesn't mean it's the way it always has to be." Wow. Wasn't that another Nietzsche quote? I was ready with another one. "Vince, I was pretty strong in my interview about never coming back. Don't you think that there will be a backlash against me?" His answer both made sense and boosted my self-esteem. "Mick, the fans love you. They never wanted you to leave. They will love to have you back." He was right about that. They love me ... they really love me.