by Mick Foley
Or how about a report on "Hansel and Gretel," which would be reduced to child abuse, child abandonment, trespassing, destruction of property, kidnapping, imprisonment, attempted cannibalism, and murder by boiling.
When this book is published, I am going to keep a copy for myself, give one to my mother, and then drive directly to Senator Lieberman's office, where he can feel free to do with it what he wants. But if he is the decent guy that I feel in my heart he is, I hope that he will at least take the time to read it and learn who it is exactly that he's in bed with before he decides to screw around with him any further.
Because Joe Lieberman, your ignorance is Mr. Bozell's bliss, and you deserve better than to be remembered as Brent's lackey. And besides, that kiss that your running mate laid on Tipper at the Democratic Convention was at least as offensive as anything I've seen on SmackDown!
Conclusion
When I look back at my sixteen years in wrestling, I very rarely think of the big matches, or the big crowds, or the hoopla that surrounded the World Wrestling Federation for the past few years. Maybe as I grow older, I'll watch tapes of who I was and perhaps take my career mementos out of boxes.
But for now, I usually think of little things. Fans who touched my heart with their letters or their words. Joey Greynolds, who I gave my Rock 'n' Sock jacket to when he was at death's door, and who sent me a Christmas card saying that his brain tumor had inexplicably disappeared. Tom Bleasdale from England, to whom a match-worn Mankind shirt was a cause for celebration, and whose mother's kind words caused my wife to break down in tears. Even musician Billy Corgan, who wrote me a long letter telling me that my career had somehow inspired him to make better music.
And I think of Mickey Mouse that day at the theme park. Her frightened face. Her way with my children. Not a week goes by that I don't think of Mickey, diving on concrete so as not to disappoint the fans. Mickey . . . diving on concrete ...so as not to disappoint the fans. No wonder I think of it so often. In a way I was looking at my own career.
I am a thirty-five-year-old man with a wife and three children who has done his best to entertain for sixteen years through a strange blend of blood, sweat, tears, black ink, and bad jokes. I may not be perfect, and I'm certainly not God, but neither am I the poisoner of minds or the killer of children. I am Mick Foley, and Foley is . . . Good.
Afterward
Geez, I may have been a little overdramatic at the end there. Actually, I was just being true to my feelings at the time. A year after writing this book, however, I can see that I sound a little overdramatic.
In the introduction to this book, I wrote that I preferred Foley is Good to Have a Nice Day! Now, I'm not so sure. Actually, I am sure . . . sure of the fact that Have a Nice Day! is better. Readers' opinions seemed split. Some went out of their way to let me know they enjoyed this book more. A lot of other fans thought 500 pages of Have a Nice Day! was enough and decided to pass on another 409.
I could go on forever comparing both of them (and chances are, if you catch me drunk in a bar somewhere a few years from now, I probably will). I think above all else, Foley is Good is a wrestling book for its place and time, while Have a Nice Day! is a wrestling book for all time. I mean, I'm looking through Foley is Good a few days ago and thinking, Does the world really need an in-depth look at the Mankind-Big Show angle? The answer I keep coming up with is, "Probably not."
I regret getting so deep into the whole PTC situation. Sure, I think I did some good—and sure, I got a kick out of being an investigative reporter—but damn, those 30,000 words took up seven months of my time. I think that the first two months of little Mickey's life just might have been too high a tab to pay, especially for an effort that I don't feel was ever completely appreciated by the World Wrestling Federation.
Don't get me wrong, I'm very proud of this book, and it brought some wonderful opportunities my way. But after September 11,1 just can't help feeling that the last year of my career really wasn't quite as important as I thought it was.
But here's an important question: Is that last year of my career worth the $7.99 you spent for this paperback? You better believe it is! "The Boy Who Saved Christmas" and the chapters on Owen Hart and Brian Hildebrand will fill my heart long after all memories of the Mankind-Big Show rivalry have faded. And let's be honest here, "The Legend of the Penis Suplex" alone is worth the price of admission. But for those of you who already bought the hardcover, making the book a towering New York Times No. 1 bestseller, I have another question: Is this bonus chapter alone worth the extra $7.99 it will take to own it? Probably not. Why? Because I simply lack the energy and testicular fortitude to throw myself headlong into another hard-hitting, brutally honest, behind-the-scenes expose. So instead, I'll give you some shallow observations on wrestling, an update on Al Snow, Test and the Mean Street Posse, and I'll shamelessly plug my upcoming first novel, Antietam Brown. But above all else, I'll give you "Reflections on Katie." I know you won't want to miss that.
Damn, I just felt a little twinge of guilt. I've got to at least tell you why I left the World Wrestling Federation, don't I? Well, here's the Cliffs Notes version: When I was beaten, embarrassed, bludgeoned and fired from my position as World Wrestling Federation Commissioner in December 2000, I really thought I'd be back in a couple of months. After all, in the world of sports-entertainment, that incident was merely my excuse to take a short paternity leave. I wanted to be there to welcome my son into the world (and also spend ridiculous hours researching and writing my PTC dissertation).
Well, that vacation took longer than I expected. After bowing out of my proposed WrestleMania match-up with Mr. McMahon, I found myself still at home until the May release of Foley is Good. I returned only to plug the hell out of my book, which skyrocketed to the top of the New York Times bestseller list—until John Adams pulled me back down and administered a literary ass-kicking the likes of which hadn't been seen since Have a Nice Day! did likewise to the Dali Lama in 1999.
I had actually engineered a brilliant plan to use the Foley book as the impetus for a titanic McMahon-Foley showdown, but unfortunately the plan pulled up lame coming out of the gate. Instead, I decided to shoot the whole damn scenario in the head and put it out of its misery. In other words, I bailed out again.
I really felt like maybe I had one more good match left in me, but the setup had to be perfect. To be more specific, I felt like I had to be "forced" out of retirement—kind of like Creed did to Balboa in Rocky II.
So from this, we can establish two very important truths:
1. It's okay to go back on your real-life word, as long as it makes sense in a fictional storyline.
2. Every wrestling idea I have ever conceived has, in truth, come from the seven Rocky movies— at least it seemed like there were seven.
From there, I returned as the only man capable of refereeing the legendary "Bra and Panties" match at Summer Slam. Lastly, I returned as a commissioner, but it seemed my sole purpose in that role was to play Hungry Hippos in William Regal's office.
It was during this Hungry Hippos stint that I began writing my novel. In truth, it was the novel, more than anything else, that led to my ultimate departure from the World Wrestling Federation.
You see, I love writing. Antietam Brown had been in my mind for close to a year. When I finally put pen to paper in October, the whole story kind of came flowing out. Foley is Good seemed to indicate to the world that my first book wasn't a fluke. And to my surprise, the very idea of a Foley novel had actually garnered some interest in the literary world. So I asked for a release from the World Wrestling Federation to pursue that endeavor, and they agreed.
So there you go. The condensed version. There are far too many details to delve into here.
Now, let's get to some updates.
Mean Street Posse
Damn, talk about poor timing. These guys were gone by the time the book came out and never got to come back. I don't know why. Personally, I got a kick out of them, and I thought th
ey were making great strides as a result of their dedication and hard work. Hopefully, I'll see them on TV. Granted, they may not have been fully polished as performers, but if talent is, indeed, a prerequisite for World Wrestling Federation employment, would somebody please explain how the hell Test keeps his job?
Test
Actually, Test has come a long way. Although it hurt me greatly to do it, I even told him so. I even think I told him that . . . God, this is hard ...he had the look of . . . don't make me say it...a main-eventer. Whew, I made it. I saw Test the day before the book's release, and he said, "Hey Mick, good to see you."
"I don't think you'll be saying that tomorrow," I said.
"Oh man, what did you say about me?"
In truth, he took the jokes well. After seeing how my similar treatment of Al Snow had catapulted him all the way to middle-of-the-card status, Test willingly played his role as the guy-who-pretended-to-be-mad about the jokes.
Sure, the Test jokes were juvenile. Sure, I overdid them. But in spite of that, I will always and forever consider my Test joke on page 150 to be one of the greatest accomplishments of my career.
Al Snow
I hate Al.
No, I don't hate him as a person, I just hate him for being so damn good on Tough Enough. He was so talented, genuine and even—dare I say it—charismatic that I can't find it in me to make jokes about him anymore. I'll even go out on a limb here and say that the World Wrestling Federation missed the boat by not making him a big star on their programs.
So I guess that in much the same way that Linus had to give up his blanket, I have had to give up my Al Snow jokes. But while I have moved on, Al's name will remain firmly entrenched as the most repeated punch line in literary history. Besides, I still close every college lecture I give with "The Legend of the Penis Suplex." (By the way, I'm not sure Linus ever did give up his blanket.)
Senator Joseph Lieberman (Democrat- Connecticut)
Back when I was in my "taking-myself-really-seriously" stage, I claimed that I was going to keep the first copy of Foley is Good, give the second to my mother, and then drive to Lieberman's office and present the senator from Connecticut with the third. Did it work out that way? Well, not exactly. I did keep the fir^t. I did give my mother the second. And I did drive directly to Hartford to present the senator with the book. But before I got to Lieberman's office, I stopped at a hotel for the night. I stayed up all night reading Lieberman's book In Praise of Public Life. The next morning I headed to a radio station in Hartford, where I proceeded to give the heralded third copy to former Twisted Sister front-man and rising radio personality, Dee Snyder. Which, I guess, is how things should be.
I dropped the fourth copy off at the senator's office. Joe wasn't in, but one of his representatives granted me quite a bit of time to air my grievances and I've remained in touch with his office for several months. Unfortunately, I never got to speak directly to the senator, but I would like to think that my words have affected him in some small way.
In a touching footnote to the Lieberman saga, Dee Snyder and I hit it off instantly and I have been a guest on his show several times since then. He actually lives in the town I grew up in and has become my only famous friend outside of wrestling. While I have met many famous people in my life, Dee Snyder is the only one whose name (with one notable exception) I drop on a regular basis.
My late-night reading of Lieberman's book was by no means an isolated incident. Indeed, mv research on the PTC had the odd effect of turning me into something of a political fanatic for the first time in my life. I'd always enjoyed history, but I discovered that it's impossible to appreciate history without knowing about the politics responsible for it.
So it really was a short step from the PTC to McCarthyism, from McCarthyism to the Cold War, from the Cold War to the Civil Rights movement, and on and on. I read partly for enjoyment but also out of necessity. I was hoping that my book would capture the attention of the media, and if it did I would need to be prepared. Personal experience has shown me that much of the media is all too willing to take a cheap shot at a pro wrestler. I figured they would be even more inclined to do so with a wrestler passing himself off as some kind of political expert. I was determined not to let anyone catch me unprepared, so I went about trying to learn as much as I could—in a hurry.
I read everything I could get my hands on, about any subject that I felt was even remotely connected to my book. I mentioned Ted Kennedy in one paragraph of my book. One tiny little paragraph. I could just imagine some interviewer calling my bluff on Kennedy. I couldn't let that happen, so I read a 500-page biography.
Was it worth it? No, not at all. The media actually did come, but even the tough questions were based solely on subjects that I'd researched for my book. But, by golly, if someone had wanted to know about Ted Kennedy's actions in the war between Nigeria and Biafra in 1968,1 was ready.
Actually, I was asked one question that almost made the whole studying-up thing worth my while. Almost. ABC World News Tonight was doing a piece on my book and Don Harris asked me the fairly tough question, "Do you consider the PTC to be a McCarthyist organization?"
This was it, the big one. The moment I'd studied hundreds of hours for. The reason I'd highlighted political tomes. The motivation behind notebooks full of my scrawled notes. A tough political question, and I was ready.
"Well," I said, "consider this: The PTC told our sponsors that the public can't distinguish between the sponsors and the shows that they choose to support. Consider the fact that L. Brent Bozell III was Pat Buchanan's aide during Buchanan's presidential campaign. Consider that Buchanan's autobiography Right from the Beginning features a chapter entitled 'As We Remember Joe' in which he speaks reverently about Senator McCarthy. And when you consider that Bozell's father was a speechwriter for McCarthy who wrote a very pro-McCarthy book entitled McCarthy and His Enemies, then yes, I don't see how you could consider the PTC to be anything but a McCarthyist organization."
Harris looked up at his producer and said, "We're going to need to do a longer piece." Unfortunately, that particular clip never aired. The piece that did air was fairly positive, although I did think that there was an unnecessary—and out of context—clip from Beyond the Mat shown, but man, I wish they'd aired the McCarthy stuff.
The Media
I spent quite a bit of time blasting the media in this book. For the most part, I feel justified. In retrospect, perhaps there were a few instances where I was either a little harsh or possibly didn't quite understand how things worked in their world.
Maybe I was a little rough on Margaret Carlson. So she didn't know The Rock is black. Everyone makes mistakes, right? Besides, she seems to be nice, and I find myself agreeing with her most of the time. I'm sure she took the criticism from a professional wrestler mighty hard. Hopefully, these words will pacify her. Besides, I'll give credit where credit is due—she must have a strong stomach to deal with Bob Novak every week.
Of all the media I assailed, I was most vocal about the New York Times. So it was with some surprise, and just a little fear, that I learned that a reporter from the Times was coming over to my house to do a story on my book.
"Is this good news?" I asked my publicist Jennifer.
"Mick, trust me, this is the best news you can possibly get," she said. If I'd known how right she was, I probably would have been a little more nervous about the whole thing. But truth be told, I felt pretty good about it and was actually looking forward to our meeting.
What a great meeting it was, too. I swear she felt like an old friend or something, we got along so well. She even told colleagues that it was the most fun she'd ever had doing an interview. She was a kind, intelligent, and fascinating person. And once that article hit the press, man, the phone started ringing.
Suddenly, with the power of the New York Times behind my book, the media that I felt had shunned me, suddenly welcomed me—all in rapid succession. People, Leno, Regis, World News Tonight and even The Today Show.
Which leads me to . . .
Reflections on Katie
Sometimes I'm guilty of doing stupid things just to entertain myself. And I'll be brutally honest with you: I didn't really feel like writing this bonus chapter. If it weren't for Katie, I probably wouldn't be doing it at all. But I just kept thinking of the words "Reflections on Katie" and how surreal they would look in a wrestling book. The thought always made me smile. (Actually, it's making me smile now, as I write.) I think that's pretty much Katie's secret— she has the unbelievable propensity to bring forth human smiles. She is kind of like a real-life Mary Richards; she can "take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile."
I received a call from Jennifer the day the New York Times piece came out. Jennifer is so cool, she's always genuinely happy when something good happens to me. On this day, something really good was happening.
"The Today Show wants you," she said.
"Wow." My distinguished reply.
"And Katie's going to do the interview."
"Cool." Yet another wise retort from the two-time, No. 1 bestselling author.
Jennifer didn't want to burst my bubble, but she also didn't want me to go blindly into the interview. "Katie can be tough," she said.
"Hey, Jenn, I'm not concerned with tough. Tough is okay, I'm just concerned with fair. And Katie's definitely fair."
"Yes, she is. So you're cool with doing the show?"
"Definitely. And Jenn, don't worry about me. I'm definitely not afraid of Katie Couric."
No, indeed, I wasn't afraid of Katie or her tough questions. That night, I drove into New York City, got a good night's sleep, and awoke feeling fit as a fiddle—ready to take on America's sweetheart. (Actually, I wasn't fit at all, and haven't been for a long time, but I think you know what I'm saying.)