The Best in the World

by Chris Jericho

  I thought the best thing we could do together would be a face-to-face promo, where I was just as confused about his name as he was about everybody else’s. The idea was I’d mispronounce his handle multiple times and he would keep correcting me until I finally got it right, which would cause Santino to mispronounce his own name.

  Vince liked the idea but nixed the end part where Santino would say his own name wrong, saying it “wasn’t believable.” Believable? Nothing about Santino’s character, or this entire bit for that matter, was believable, but that’s Vince.

  I started the segment by saying, because I had just returned to the WWE, I wasn’t familiar with all the new talent and wasn’t sure what his name was. He answered with great pride, “My name is Santino!”

  “Santito?”

  “No, Santino!”

  “Santana?”

  “Santino!”

  “Sandusky? Santico? Santoco? Santokyo? Santadista? Santamaria? San Luis Obispo? Tuxedo? Suxedo?” (I’m disappointed in myself for not getting a Sussudio reference in there.)

  “It’s Santino, Santino, Santino, SANTINO!!!” he said stomping his feet like a petulant pansy.

  I calmly replied, “Well duh, everyone knows your name is Santino.”

  It was completely ridiculous and got over great specifically for that reason.

  Then we had our match and it was . . . meh.

  Now, those of you who have read my previous books (the madly entertaining A Lion’s Tale and the brilliant sequel, Undisputed) might be thinking the match was JERICHO CURSE worthy. Well, just hold on to your britches, bitches. It wasn’t a bad match, it was just kinda there. It started, some stuff happened, and then it ended when I gave him my new finisher, the Boomstick . . . umm I mean the Codebreaker (thanks to Lance Storm). The fans cheered, but they didn’t roar. I was rusty and I knew I would get better with a little more ring time. At least I hoped so, especially since I had a shot at the World Championship in only a few short weeks.

  —

  My first PPV match after my return was against Orton for the world title. To build up the match I went back into my old bag of tricks and pulled out one of my favorites . . . the funny picture promo. That was where I would find dumb images of my opponent, Photoshop them into comical situations, and flash them on the Tron to accentuate my points. They were designed to get cheap laffs (I ain’t talkin’ about Martin Short) and they usually did. Brian Gewirtz, my old writing partner in crime, and I came up with the idea that Orton wasn’t very smart (not true, although Randy once told me he “wasn’t the sharpest bulb in the shed”) and therefore I needed to relay my request for a title match in a way that even a Neanderthal could understand. I told him very slowly, “ME. WANT. TITLE. MATCH,” while a helpful picture popped up on the Tron illustrating each word: a picture of Jericho for ME, a picture of the Cookie Monster for WANT, a picture of the WWE Championship for TITLE, and a picture of a lit match for MATCH. Fairly obvious, but people laughed and I was slowly regaining some of my old magic. But I started wondering how far I could go as a babyface in this new Cena-dominated kid-friendly climate.

  I had initially wanted to come back as a heel, but Stephanie McMahon was convinced that since I hadn’t been around for a while, people would want to cheer for me. For a few weeks she was right, but the bloom was fading fast off the babyface rose and I knew I’d have to make a change quickly if I had any chance of staying relevant.

  For now, I was still waving the good-guy flag and in Randy Orton I had a great heel to work with at Armageddon in Pittsburgh. He’s an amazing worker and his timing, selling, aura, and believability are all off the charts, plus with the RKO, he has one of the best finishers in the biz. He helped me knock the rest of the ring rust off pretty quickly that day and we had a good match. Despite a dead Pittsburgh crowd, I was starting to feel comfortable in the ring again and hit all of my patented moves with crispness: crossbody to the floor, second rope dropkick to the apron, enziguri, and my brand-new Codebreaker. Toward the end, he threw me over the announce desk into commentator John Bradshaw Layfield, the former World Champion who had decided to make an in-ring comeback. A few minutes later, when I had Randy locked in the Walls of Jericho in the middle of the ring, JBL ran in and gave me his wicked Clothesline from Hell. Orton was disqualified and I got the win, but more important, this was the start of the Y2J vs. JBL program that was going to take us to WrestleMania.

  But something funny happened on the way to the forum . . . or in this case the Mania stadium.

  I’m not sure why our program didn’t click. In John and me, you had two excellent talkers who knew how to build a match and had good chemistry in the ring, but for whatever reason, our feud never took off. Maybe it was because we both had just returned or the lack of a real issue between us, but the bottom line was we only had enough steam to last through one PPV, the Royal Rumble in Madison Square Garden. It was a largely forgettable match, with the only two highlights being me getting majorly busted open (ahhh, the days of blood) and missing JBL completely on a bulldog attempt. He bumped anyway, leading to a huge “You fucked up” chant from the crowd (still THE most embarrassing chant to endure as a performer). Afterward I asked Vince what he thought, and he said, “Well, you lost the crowd on that bulldog, didn’t you? That was pretty rotten.”

  Ouch! After that, I stopped asking Vince what he thought of my matches for a while.

  It was déjà vu all over again. When I first arrived in the WWE in 1999, I had a massive buildup and a legendary verbal duel with The Rock, but a scant few months later, I was feuding with Chyna and losing to Gangrel on Sunday Night Heat. This time I returned with another massive buildup, a top-of-the-mountain big-money contract, and a verbal duel with the World Champion, but a scant few months later I was getting “You fucked up!” chants in Madison Square Garden against a recently returned former commentator.

  As a wise man once said, enough was enough and it was time for a change.

  Team Cock ’n’ Ballz

  When the WWE went to Iraq for the first Tribute to the Troops special in 2003, I had no interest in going. I had nothing against the soldiers or their efforts, but I didn’t feel comfortable heading into a war zone. Plus, I never had to worry about turning the offer down because I was never asked to go.

  But during my sabbatical from the WWE, my band Fozzy was invited to Fort Benning in Georgia for a signing, and the soldiers were so thankful and happy to see us that I reevaluated my feelings. When I saw how much these men and women were sacrificing for their country, I decided I really wanted to do whatever I could to support them. So when Vince personally asked me to be a part of the next Tribute to the Troops tour a few weeks after my return, I answered yes without hesitation.

  After my second RAW back and my match with Santino, we went straight from the arena in Charleston, South Carolina, to a nearby army base where we boarded a giant military transport plane. There was a sense of adventure and nervousness as we filed on; after all, we were going to war. The army had outfitted the inside of the massive fuselage with rows of economy class seats crammed tightly together to accommodate as many of us as possible. Between the boys, office personnel, and production people, there weren’t enough seats for everybody, so the remaining unlucky few sat on benches bolted onto the side of the plane. The back of the massive vehicle was packed with towering pallets of camera equipment, the ring, and our personal baggage, all held together with huge sheets of Saran Wrap. After we were all seated (I snagged a decent seat next to Cena), we received a briefing from our army liaison, who informed us that while we would be headed to Iraq, the exact destination was being kept a secret to cut down on the chances of us being bombed by insurgents.

  Bombed by insurgents?? Yes, kids, this was the real deal.

  Once we received our briefing, we embarked on our sixteen-hour secret journey and the tale of two flights. The first flight was a veritable rock ’n’ roll party. Everybody
was milling around the cabin vocalizin’ and socializin’, guitar screechin’ and hair bleachin’, telling jokes, laughing, listening to music, and having a few cocktails to get their sticks, tricks, and lipstick fix. Jeff Hardy was learning how to play acoustic guitar and was so impressed when I showed him the opening riff to “Crazy Train” that he proclaimed me the best guitar player on the plane. (He was probably right, although I hear Funaki plays a mean “Eruption.”) As the flight progressed, everyone broke up into little groups; some slept, some watched movies, and others hung out on top of the pallets eight feet in the air. But no matter where you went, the plane was brutally cold and incredibly loud. We were all required to bring a sleeping bag for the tour, so I went to the back of the plane and wedged myself between a column of pallets and the side wall of the hull, trying to catch some sleep. I failed miserably since even though I was fully clothed and inside a down-filled sleeping bag, it was still freezing; not to mention, lying on the metal floor was completely uncomfortable with all of the rivets sticking into my various body parts.

  So I went back to the cramped row of seats and tried to fall asleep there, but it was too confining (and Cena snores) which made me 0 for 2 in my battle with the sandman. So I climbed up on top of the pallets and found it to be the only comfortable place on the plane. Not exactly FAA approved, but a good place to crash for a few hours until it was time to gas up in Germany.

  We landed at Ramstein (so that’s where that band got their name) Air Base and everybody shuffled off the plane. While most of the crew headed to the officers’ lounge to have some food and more drinks, Vince, Cena, MVP, and I went to the base hospital where the wounded U.S. soldiers were recovering. Any time you visit a hospital, it’s always a touching and gratifying experience, but it can also be mentally grueling. You never know who you’re going to meet and what condition they’re going to be in, and considering we were going to an army hospital treating casualties from the Iraq war, I was expecting the worst.

  The first soldier we visited half smiled as we came in the room. When I asked him with grave concern how he was doing, he answered nonchalantly that he was fine. I inquired why he was in the hospital, and he said, “Ah, I fell off a ladder outside of the barracks and sprained my ankle. Who are you again?”

  We moved down the hallway to another room, this one occupied by a female solider. After another sensitive inquiry as to why she was in the infirmary, she replied, “Because I had to have my appendix removed.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “Did that happen in combat? “

  “Huh? No, my stomach was bugging me and the doctor told me I needed the operation.”

  We visited another half dozen wounded soldiers who had suffered from such war atrocities as pneumonia, strep throat, and an ingrown toenail. Turns out the Ramstein hospital was mostly used for household injuries suffered on the base, not during the call of duty.

  We took off again and for a few hours the party continued. I was having a conversation on top of the pallets with Ron Simmons and Carlito, when suddenly all of the bright lights in the plane turned off and were replaced by dim red-colored bulbs as an announcement was made throughout the cabin.

  “Everybody take your seats and put on your seat belts for the rest of the flight. We are now entering a war zone.”

  Welcome to the second flight.

  My stomach rose into my gullet (fun word) and I realized while we weren’t in Kansas anymore, Karbala was right next door. I felt like I was in a video game, except this was real and it was serious. Deadly serious.

  I was in a WAR ZONE. People die in WAR ZONES. And there was no turning back now.

  The cabin lights were turned off to make it harder for the enemy (or the insurgents, as the army called them) to target the plane. And the fact that I was part of said target made me feel sick to my stomach.

  I sat in the confinement of my tiny seat prison, not able to move and too nervous to sleep, hoping for the best and waiting to land. We finally did and I was never so happy to get off a plane in my life.

  But when I did, there was nothing there.

  Well, nothing except for a desert that I could see for miles and miles in every direction. No buildings, no trees, no roads, no power lines, nothing. I surveyed the great divide of emptiness as I boarded an old school bus that shuttled us to our accommodations. These digs weren’t barracks or tents like I was expecting, but a palace . . . Saddam Hussein’s palace, to be exact.

  After the fall of Saddam, the U.S. Army had transformed a number of his exquisite palaces into de facto hotels for their guests and troops to stay. This particular one was on the banks of a toxic lake (which didn’t deter Jeff Hardy from jumping in for a dip) and featured a driving range where you hit the golf balls straight into the water. To do something so American from the balcony of Saddam’s former home felt like poetic justice to me.

  Team Cock ’n’ Ballz: Me, Morrison, Punk, and MVP decked out in our battle gear. That rifle is one of the only guns I’ve ever shot in my life.

  But there wasn’t much time to enjoy the fruits of Saddam’s evil labor, as a few hours after landing, we were divided into groups and escorted on to our individual assignments. My team included CM Punk, MVP, John Morrison, Eve, and Alicia Fox. We were issued heavy flak jackets and helmets (WAR ZONE), and taken to the mess hall for a quick lunch. I was expecting a big green tent, like in M*A*S*H, with a chef named Cookie wearing a greasy wifebeater and a ciggie hanging out of his mouth, doling out ladles of hash and gruel. Horse hockey, was I ever wrong.

  This place was like a mall food court with more choices than Polo Park. (Winnipeg represent.) They had everything: stir fry, pasta station, roast chicken, burgers, pizza, salad bars, fresh cookies, you name it. It was like a Golden Corral for gold-star colonels. It made me think how much money we were spending on this war, as the cost of food for the troops alone must’ve been in the millions on a weekly basis.

  After a fine lunch of roasted chicken and salad, it was off to the helicopters to fly to the outposts to greet the soldiers. What makes WWE tours to Iraq different from the average USO visit is that USO tours generally stayed within the bigger base areas, whereas our tours went everywhere. Vince’s motto was that no outpost was too big or too small and if there were soldiers there, we would visit them.

  My group flew across the desert to a tiny post in the middle of nowhere. We were greeted by a four-star general, who took us around the base so the troops could give us demonstrations of their various jobs and responsibilities. Then we had an autograph-signing meet-and-greet with whoever wanted to say hi. The best part was the legitimate joy and excitement that the troops had about us being there. Over and over again I was thanked for coming all the way to Iraq to see them, and over and over again I thanked them right back for being there and protecting our country. It was the least I could do to come to Iraq for four days, when these men and women were there, away from their families, for upwards of eighteen months.

  I realized there was a lot of propaganda on the news in the States about the war. While I’m sure not everybody was thrilled to be there, the majority of the soldiers I met were there to do their job and weren’t interested in leaving until that job was done. I didn’t hear any complaints from any of them about why they were still in Iraq.

  Another thing I felt was a true sense of pride that the soliders had for their jobs. Each one took the time to meticulously point out and explain every detail of what their duties were, whether it was cleaning a missile launcher, repairing a Jeep motor, or disarming an Iraqi land mine.

  We were taken “outside the wire” (beyond the protected perimeters of the base) and were taught how to fire machine guns. We rode in tanks across the desert, and when I asked the driver what his favorite music to shoot missles to was, he answered Metallica and Fozzy. (Shameless pandering that I’ll accept every time!) We stood on top of choppers and swung from a Tarzan rope that hung from the rafters of a massi
ve airplane hangar. We had a blast, and Punk, Morrrison, MVP, and I even christened our group Team Cock ’n’ Ballz, after a cartoon drawing someone had scribbled on the back of one of the bus seats, of a set of male genitalia with a face and little arms (his testicles were his feet).

  Mr. Cock ’n’ Ballz, our illustrious Iraqi mascot. Look how the testicle feet even have pubes.

  We flew across the desert to another outpost and shot machine guns into the salt flats of Iraq as I sat in the open cabin of the chopper, with the wind blasting in my face and the captain relaying information into our headsets. I felt like I was in every Vietnam movie ever made and all it needed was “All Along the Watchtower” playing in the background. It was Full Metal Jericho and I was Private Y2Joker.

  Except this was no joke.

  We were flying over a Third World country that had been ravaged by war, rubble surrounding the small clusters of clay huts scattered about the countryside, each one of them curiously boasting a satellite dish. Apparently, after the fall of Saddam, the people of Iraq were allowed to have them for the first time. I could see random men and women staring up at us from the ground and wondered whose side they were on. Our gunner had his finger on his trigger at all times, watching out for anything unusual, and if anybody on the ground held up anything resembling a gun or a missile launcher, his orders were to shoot them on sight.