A Lion's Tale: Around the World in Spandex

by Chris Jericho

  Dean turned around and stared at me. Everyone in the crowd remembered my digs at his name, his gimmick, and his family. With each passing second, the anticipation built until he finally hit me and the shit was on.

  He totally dominated me and three minutes later he was the new champ. I don’t think I’m out of line saying it was the apex of both our careers in WCW.

  A few weeks later Nitro was in Washington, D.C., and Terry wanted me at the arena early to film a vignette. I had no idea what they had in mind for me to do, but in classic WCW fashion neither did they. Nobody on the crew was quite sure either, so I took charge and mapped out a plan.

  In what ended up being my WCW comedic masterpiece, we spent the day filming me trying to get reprisal for the horrible conspiracy committed against me by the evil Dean Malenko.

  I scoured the Library of Congress looking for the official WCW rulebook. Then I stood on the streets of D.C. in a suit and tie holding a sign that said CONSPIRACY VICTIM with an arrow pointing down at my head. I tried to get into the White House but was sternly turned down for real by Secret Service agents who were not interested in being on TV. It culminated with my pleading my case to an actual conspiracy theorist who lived on the White House lawn.

  “Dean Malenko was illegally registered in the battle royal and entered under false pretenses. Under those conditions, there is no way his victory should stand up in court.” She listened intently and advised me that I had a chance due to the legal precedent set in the 1967 Vandalay v. Mandelbaum case or something along those lines.

  The video was edited down to three minutes and made me look like the most pathetic crybaby on the planet. It also made me look like an entertaining mofo. Go to YouTube and check it out...you won’t regret it.

  I continued to complain at every opportunity about the atrocities committed against me for the next few months. I read a letter on Nitro from Ted Turner himself that started off sympathetic to my cause but ended up with him admonishing me for my complaining and rescinding his invitation to go fishing with him in Canada.

  While we said that the letter was from Ted, in actuality I wrote it. Eric originally insisted on writing it for me, but after giving me the runaround for four hours, I wrote the letter thirty minutes before showtime and read it unapproved.

  Terry came up with the idea of bringing my dad onto a Nitro in Buffalo to further put me in my place. The Baby-Faced Assasin walked out in the middle of one of my tirades and browbeat me on live TV in front of millions of fans. He had never done a live promo before, but wrote it himself backstage and delivered it better than 80 percent of the wrestlers. He pointed to the retired hockey jerseys hanging in the rafters of the HSBC Arena and said I was an embarrassment to my family and an embarrassment to the legacies of Tim Horton and Gilbert Perreault. The crowd loved seeing the pompous jerk get yelled at by his daddy.

  Terry wanted my dad to turn heel and help me to win my matches by hitting opponents with his hockey stick. Neither one of us was very excited about the idea especially when my dad got stiffed on his payoff from the first show.

  Even though I was making decent cash I still had to pay for all my expenses on the road. Wrestling is the only sport or form of entertainment where the performers are responsible for most of their own arrangements. The company provided our plane tickets, but once we flew into the town we were on our own. We were responsible for reserving and paying for our own cars and hotels. There were times when every hotel within a thirty-mile radius was sold out and we had no place to stay at all. I once spent the night with Eddy and Brian Hildebrand (the SMW ref who’d since been hired as a WCW ref) in our rental car in the parking lot of the Greenville–Spartanburg Airport on Eddy’s birthday. I put my alarm clock on the dash and we brushed our teeth with a bottle of water.

  Feliz Cumpleanos, Eduardo.

  I also wasn’t making any money off of merchandise royalties because WCW was horrible at producing it for anybody except for the biggest names. Even though the crowd’s reactions were much bigger for me than for someone like Ric Steiner, he had a T-shirt and I didn’t. While the nWo was making hundreds of thousands off of merch, I once received a royalty check in the mail for 0 dollars and 0 cents. Stamps cost 37 cents...what was the sense in even mailing it?

  So I organized a meeting with the merch guy and came up with an idea for my first T-shirt.

  I’d already started calling Nitro, Monday Night Jericho, so my idea for a shirt was a takeoff of the Nitro logo, with Jericho replacing Nitro. But I needed something for the back of the shirt and I was stumped. Then I decided that I needed a name for my nonexistent fans, the same way that Hulk Hogan named his fans Hulkamaniacs.

  I got a dictionary and a thesaurus and pieced together words that began with the letters CO onto my name. Jeri-Coalition, Jeri-Co-Conspirators. But nothing was really rolling off the tongue until I saw the word alcohol. It took me two seconds to compute Jerichohol into Jerichoholics and biggity bam, my trademark catchphrase was born.

  Eric allowed the shirt to be produced and I wrote and directed a commercial that featured the silhouette of a raving Jerichoholic who needed treatment and a T-shirt to prove his loyalty. Suddenly the boom mike fell into frame, knocking the screen over and revealing that the Jerichoholic in question was really me. The commercial was top comedy and helped me sell some shirts too. I know this because my next royalty check was for 0 dollars and 37 cents.

  If the company would’ve promoted me half as much as they promoted the Nitro Girls, I would’ve made millions. The Nitro Girls were WCW’s version of the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. They would come to the ring in skimpy costumes and dance before commercial breaks and during the show. Nitro was three hours at that point and I guess they needed something to fill the segments.

  The girls were made up of ex-NFL cheerleaders, strippers, and dance majors and they were gorgeous. They were also like lambs being led to the slaughter when they were set loose amongst the crew. They didn’t have a clue how charming and lascivious wrestlers could be, but they found out pretty fast. I dated two of the seven myself. That’s a 28.57 percent success rate.

  Eric heard rumors and asked me, “I heard you dated that Nitro Girl with the nice rack.”

  That pretty much described all of them, and I didn’t know what to say. I was afraid I’d get her (or even worse myself) in trouble.

  Awkward silence.

  “If you tell me you banged her I’ll give you a raise,” he offered, still awaiting my answer.

  Uncomfortable awkward silence.

  I came back with the same line he gave me when I’d asked him who the third member of the nWo was in the CNN Center a year and a half earlier.

  “Eric, if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

  He flashed his award-winning John Davidson smile and walked away muttering, “If you did, you’re my hero.”

  I wasn’t his hero, and I still didn’t get a push.

  CHAPTER 49

  CRUISERWEIGHT PURGATORY

  Eddy Guerrero and I were in the same boat in WCW. We both had good heat and could produce a good match with almost anyone in the company but we still couldn’t break into the next level. We also traveled together a lot even though we were usually at odds. When it was my turn to rent the car it was always too small. When it was his turn to rent the hotel room it was always run-down. He needed the TV on to sleep, I needed it off. We drank a lot to stay sane and would end up arguing or rolling around on the floor of a Denny’s somewhere over a leftover scrap of steak.

  But for the most part we got along really well. We both liked Rush and watching movies in our hotel room on days off. Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion was our favorite. Got a problem with that? Stop laughing then.

  In the political quagmire of WCW, we could trust each other and be ourselves with one another. Once we were driving through the wooded hills of Pennsylvania and when I glanced over to the passenger seat, Eddy was looking back at me with a goofy smile on his face and a plastic water bottle cap stuck
in his eye like a monocle. It’s one of my favorite memories of him, because that was the real Eddy before the weight of the world dragged him down.

  We thought it would be a great idea for us to form a tag team and one week we found out we’d been booked as one. It wasn’t supposed to be more than a one-shot deal, but we instantly clicked. We were almost a modern-day Gringos Locos (Eddy and Art’s team in Mexico) because what I didn’t have, Eddy did and vice versa.

  We had extensive debates over our team name but we could never agree. I liked Bro, he liked Manzier.

  I thought North and South of the Border was perfect as I was from Canada and he was from Mexico. He liked Eh and Wey, a combination of Canadian and Mexican slang words. But we really should’ve been called the Greatest Tag Team That Barely Ever Was.

  We worked together every week for a month and stole the show every time. We were both kick-ass heels and complete cowards at the same time. After meticulously picking apart our adversaries, as soon as the tables were turned, we’d run into each other’s arms and hug to a chorus of boos.

  Our chemistry was so far off the charts that Ray Charles could’ve seen that we were championship material and a moneymaking act. But WCW was run by a team of Helen Kellers and we were broken up, never to be paired together again.

  Eddy and I had made the cardinal mistake of getting over, which was a punishable offense for most of the roster in WCW. It seemed that some people didn’t like the fact that we were making heads turn, so they simply chopped off our heads instead.

  Our clique at that point included Eddy, Dean, Chris, Brian Hildebrand, Chavito, and me. We had some great times, the best of which went down at a biker rally in Sturgis, South Dakota.

  Eric was an avid motorcycle rider and every year he booked the Road Wild PPV from the world-famous rally. The atmosphere was rotten because the bikers didn’t give a shit about watching wrestling and most of them didn’t even get off their bikes during the outdoor show. But it was Eric’s yearly vacation and he and his buddies rode their bikes through the Black Hills to get to Sturgis.

  The main event of the PPV that year involved the fierce Jay Leno. Eric was on a stunt casting kick and surprisingly Leno was better in his match than Dennis Rodman was in his. Rodman (who made around $3 million for the match) showed up an hour before his tag match and fell asleep on the apron while waiting for a tag. But since he’s had sex with Carmen Electra and I haven’t, he’s the better man.

  The night before Road Wild we went to see a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert. Skynyrd were big WCW fans and invited us to watch the show from the photo pit (free beer included) in front of 20,000 loaded bikers.

  It was one of the best times in my life, seeing Skynyrd throw down “That Smell” and “Free Bird,” with my closest friends jamming out beside me. Brian had just beaten cancer and as a huge fan of 1970s music, he was having a blast. Eddy had stopped drinking and was playing air guitar on a water bottle, while Dean, Chavito, and I picked up the slack and were hammered. Dean peed on the ground of the pit and Chavo’s leg got caught in the crossfire. Hilarious for us, wet for Chavo.

  I wish I could’ve bottled that night to carry around in my pocket forever. Being in the wrestling business is like fighting in a war: Some of your unit make it and some of them don’t. It brings a tear to my eye to know that I’ll never enjoy a night like that with those guys ever again.

  There were still other guys in the company that I could’ve done without; Scott Hall seemed like a nice guy deep down inside, but the combination of power and substance had turned him into a real asshole.

  For some reason he set his sights on me. He made me feel like I did when I was in the seventh grade receiving a daily beating from the school bully, Chuck Fontaine. I’d like to meet Chuck in a dark alley now...so I could run away screaming.

  It was no secret that Hall enjoyed being a dick and he said on more than one occasion, “They pay me to wrestle, not to make friends” and “It doesn’t say anywhere in my contract that I have to be nice to anyone. This is the wrestling business not the friendship business.” He sure practiced what he preached.

  One night after Hall’s constant badgering, I got sick of it and finally stood up for myself. “You got something to say, Jericho? Don’t sing it, bring it,” he taunted. “I’ll put an end to your little Terry Taylor push.”

  That pissed me off huge, because I’d worked my ass off for my little Terry Taylor push and I’d be damned if he was going to mock me about it. But I was intimidated by him and the nWo’s influence within the company, so I held my tongue, much to the chagrin of my old pal Scott Norton.

  Norton had taught me the fail-safe arm wrestling trick years earlier and we’d become friends while touring Japan. He let me escape with minimal injuries after he drunkenly dared me to rub Yaku Yaku (Japanese Icy Hot) in his eyes...and I did. He was blind for fifteen minutes, although I’m sure the multiple shots of straight tequila had something to do with it.

  Norton looked me in the eye, man to man, and said, “You better shut his mouth right now. Because if you don’t stand up to him I will and you’ll look like a pussy.”

  Norton weighed about 350 pounds and looked like he could Hulk-smash his way through a wall, so hearing his words gave me all the backup I needed. I walked up to Hall and got right into his face.

  “Leave me the fuck alone. Next time you mess with me, I’m coming at you. Understand?”

  Hall looked at me in disbelief and said, “I don’t have a problem with you. Come on, man, everything’s cool.” In classic bully fashion, as soon I stood up to him he left me alone. He was really friendly to me after that. Where was Norton when Chuck Fontaine was on my case?

  The nWo had expanded to ridiculous proportions from its origins as a three-piece. How many of you remember Virgil, Ted DiBiase, and Mike Rotunda as nWo members? How about Horace Hogan (Boulder), Buff Bagwell, and Bryan Adams?

  Most of the group was made up of ex-WWF superstars and it was obvious that Eric was enamored with Vince’s old employees and wanted them in his top heel group. But his idea backfired when all of the new additions caused the nWo to lose its edge.

  That’s why I turned down Eric’s offer to join. After all of my bitching about not getting a fair shake it was crazy to say NO to the nWo, but bear with me, constant reader.

  I was booked to win the WCW Television Title in Rapid City, South Dakota, which was a big deal for me on many levels. Winning the TV title would give me my ticket to ride out of cruiserweight purgatory and into big boy land.

  But the decision for me to get the big win over champion Steve Ray was made a scant twenty minutes before Nitro went live to air.

  Eric told me that the Giant was going to assist me with my victory and I would then join the nWo.

  But the dilution of the nWo meant that the majority of the members never had anything to do. When they came to the ring for their weekly endless opening promo, there wasn’t enough room for all of them in the ring. They stood around laughing amongst themselves, knowing that they were rarely on camera because there were too many of them to be in one shot.

  At that point, I was doing just fine on my own. I got interview time and segments that revolved around me. I was over despite the nWo’s dominance and I would only get less over and lost in the shuffle if I joined them. So I thought about it and respectfully told Eric my thoughts on his invitation.

  “I think it would be cool, but I’ve got a good thing going and I don’t want to give that up by joining the nWo. I don’t want to ride on your coattails and I don’t want you guys to ride on mine.”

  It was a brash statement, but Eric didn’t seem to care and he said, “If you don’t want to be in the nWo, that’s fine. But I still want the Giant to help you win the TV title so let’s keep the same finish. We’ll figure out why he helped you later.”

  They never did. Hope that answers your question.

  CHAPTER 50

  DWARFBERG

  My next program started as a joke and ended up sealing m
y fate in the company.

  Bill Goldberg was an ex-NFL player who’d stumbled into WCW. But with unmatched charisma and presence, he quickly became one the biggest stars of the 1990s. WCW booked him perfectly when he entered on a tear and went on a huge winning streak. The Streak became more famous than the Ray Stevens song (dated reference number three) and the fans followed it with bated breath.

  However, Goldberg would have to have been wrestling a Mexico City ten-match-a-week schedule to even come close to the number of matches they were claiming he’d won. One week he’d be 42-0 and seven days later he’d be 58-0. Did stepping on bugs count?

  Despite that, he was totally believable as a destroyer and his gimmick of tearing his opponents apart and spitting them out in less than three minutes had the fans eating him up with a spoon. When he beat Hulk Hogan in front of 50,000 fans at the Georgia Dome to become the new WCW champion, he became the biggest star in the business.

  That’s why I was surprised when I arrived at the Fall Brawl ’98 PPV show and Terry told me I was going to be wrestling Goldberg. I was the TV champion and I thought it was strange that they would feed me to Goldberg in a three-minute throwaway match.

  But Terry explained that I wasn’t going to be facing the real Goldberg, but a midget version of him instead. I asked him why and he said, “No reason. I just thought you’d have some fun with it.”

  So I challenged Goldberg to a title vs. title match in my typical over-the-top Paragon of Virtue (that should’ve been another T-shirt) fashion and out came a dwarf. He looked like a Goldberg who’d spent the night in a trash compactor, right down to the famous tribal tattoo. I beat Dwarfberg in three minutes to a chorus of boos and that was the end of it.

  Except it was only the beginning.

  The next day I showed up in Greenville, South Carolina, and saw Goldberg in the backstage area. He came up to me with fire in his eyes and a defiant grin and said, “Well, Jericho, I hope it was worth it.”