I couldn’t believe what he was suggesting, but I loved it. Vince agreed it was a great idea (but nixed the kids) and gave it the go-ahead. I knew it was so controversial that it would put me even deeper in the doghouse with fans all over the world, but I never expected it to work as well as it did. It ended up being the final catalyst that made Jericho-Michaels one of the classic WWE feuds of all time . . . but it came at a steep price.
—
Shawn stood in the ring at SummerSlam with his wife by his side, giving one of the best promos of his career. He talked about all of the amazing things he had done in the WWE and how many obstacles he’d overcome to be the man he was today. The fans held on to his every word, hoping against hope he wasn’t going to deliver the news they were dreading. He gave another outstanding performance, as he reflectively, regretfully, and tearfully explained that after consulting with his doctors and his wife, due to all the injuries he had suffered during his career, he was going to have to retire from the WWE. The crowd gave him a huge standing ovation and an even bigger “HBK” chant, as the cameras zoomed on people actually crying. Just as the chants reached their crescendo, my music cut them off and the cheers turned to boos. The fans knew something was coming, but nobody knew just how heavy it was going to be.
I told Shawn I wasn’t going to allow him to end his career without admitting the real reason he was retiring was me. He was being forced to quit the WWE because of the eye injury I had given him, and he would forever have to remember that Chris Jericho was the one who drove the final stake through the heart of the legendary HBK. Shawn responded that I was a “vile and selfish human being,” who would have to go home and tell my family that no matter what, “I would never ever be Shawn Michaels.” The crowd erupted and I sold the indignation with a vacant glare.
As Shawn and Rebecca turned their backs to walk away, I spun him around and threw a punch at his head. He ducked out of the way, leaving his wife directly in the line of fire, and I smacked her full force in the mouth.
For real.
Earlier in the day, we had gone over the whole scenario and I timed my punch to stop right before it made any contact with her. I’ve thrown thousands of “working punches,” as we call them, but this one was a little more important because it wasn’t another trained worker I was swinging at; it was Shawn’s wife we were talking about. In order to time it right, I told her not to move so I could judge the distance and throw the punch accordingly.
Even though Rebecca had been in WCW for a short time working as Nitro Girl Whisper, she had never wrestled or taken a bump as far as I knew. But that didn’t matter because if I executed the punch perfectly, it was going to look vicious.
But I didn’t execute it properly.
When Shawn ducked, I leaned slightly forward and so did Rebecca. Neither of us meant to shift our positions, but we did, and in a total fluke, my fist smashed her right in the mouth. It wasn’t a glancing blow either. I nailed her hard. I felt her lip mash against my knuckles like I’d popped a grape.
She went down fast as the crowd gasped in horror. Shawn dropped to his knees beside her crying and I stood there helpless in disbelief. Before the show, Vince told me to act concerned about what I did, but not exaggeratedly. He didn’t want me to show remorse, but he also didn’t want me to laugh or act cocky. The look on my face said it all, as I was the kid at the birthday party who’d tried to get attention by pushing the cake on the floor but now knew he’d gone too far.
But the look on my face wasn’t an act. I felt like the biggest piece of shit on the planet and I knew I was in trouble. I could only imagine what Shawn was going to do to me when he got back through the curtain. After I had just knocked his wife out, if he wanted to knock me out in return, I was going to let him.
I also didn’t know just how badly she was hurt. Had I knocked her teeth out? Cut her open? Would she need stitches? It was the worst feeling ever, walking through Gorilla as everyone looked over at me in silence, nervously waiting to see what kind of damage I’d caused. The paramedics were in the ring now, surrounding them, and when I saw the blood on her mouth, it made me want to fucking puke.
They carted her out on a stretcher and when they got backstage, I kept repeating over and over again, “I am so sorry, man. I am so sorry.” The doctors tended to Rebecca as Shawn stared at me blankly like he wanted to kill me.
He finally broke the silence. “I never should’ve allowed this to happen. This never should’ve happened. I can’t believe I brought my family into this.” If it was possible to feel worse than me, he did. We were both staring at our feet in silence, waiting to see if Rebecca was okay, when she suddenly sat up off the stretcher and looked me in the eye.
“Is that the best you got, Jericho?” she said with a crooked smile. Shawn and I looked at each other and started laughing as he gave his wife a hug.
Thankfully, Rebecca was all right. Her teeth were fine, and even though I’d given her quite the fat lip, no stitches were necessary. She didn’t make either of us feel any guiltier about what had happened, but I still felt horrible and sent her flowers later in the week to apologize.
But once we knew for sure that she was okay, Shawn and I realized that the accidental punch in the mush was the best thing that could’ve happened to our angle. The story had now ceased to be fiction; it had just crossed over into reality. Wrestling fans have seen everything and experienced everything these days, and when people watch the show, they know deep down inside that it isn’t real. But as Nick Bockwinkle himself once told me, “I could stand in the ring and tell the crowd that wrestling isn’t real for thirty minutes, then have my match and have those same people call me a damn liar afterward.” And he was right. The best workers in the business can make people forget it’s a show with a great match, even though the audience still knows that what they are viewing is entertainment. But this angle was different. There wasn’t one person watching who didn’t feel the impact of that punch, and every one of them had the same reaction.
“I don’t care if it’s a show or not. If that motherfucker punched my wife (or husband, girlfriend, dad, mom, Auntie Elsie, or anybody important in their lives) in the mouth like that, I would kill him.” No ifs, ands, or buts about it: The WWE Universe REALLY wanted to see Shawn kick my ass now.
As a result of my heinous crimes, I was now officially Public Enemy Number One in the WWE, and people wanted to get their hands on me. Literally.
Attack of the Fans
After I assaulted Shawn’s wife, the crowd reactions I was getting rocketed to another level of hatred. The chants of “Jericho Sucks” had a whole different tone, almost barbaric in nature. The kind I imagined you might hear at a lynching. People were legitimately furious and wanted my head on a stick, and they weren’t going to wait for Shawn to put it there.
I was working a live event at the Cow Palace in San Francisco, and before the match, I grabbed the mic and stared angrily at the crowd, not saying a word. I was in mid-silence when a fan threw a beer at me. It exploded across my chest and I shrugged it off as the amber liquid streamed down my torso, but the dam had burst and suddenly I was being pelted with a wave of beer cups, popcorn boxes, and various pieces of trash. But I was lovin’ every minute of it like Mike Reno, because in my world this was a standing ovation.
I was pacing the ring waiting for the barrage to stop, when suddenly I felt a sharp pain at the base of my skull. Stars fanned out in front of my eyes and an intense agony exploded inside my head. I looked down and saw a Duracell D battery (the big ones you put inside a flashlight) rolling across the mat. I searched the crowd furiously wondering who had thrown the battery and, even more important, how did they get it into the arena? I mean, who brings a fucking D battery to a wrestling show? Did they smuggle it into the building inside a talking Teddy Ruxpin doll? Any way you slice it (and I ain’t talking ’bout Gene Simmons), I decided I’d had enough of that shit and stormed to the back,
pissed off that I’d been battered with a battery and that our security had done nothing about it.
I saw our head of security, Jimmy Tillis, backstage and gave him a major bollocking.
“Where the fuck were you? Did you see what happened out there? I got hit with a battery!! I’m not going back out there, you got that?? Nothing you can say is gonna make me go back out there, do you understand? You can’t make me, you can’t make me, you can’t make me!!”
Then I saw The Undertaker standing behind me.
“You’re not going back out there, huh?” he asked with a bemused look on his face.
“No!” I said, even though Taker was the locker room leader of the WWE and not someone you wanted to talk back to.
The big man intensified his glare. “You sure that’s the best idea?” he said, like a colossal Clint Eastwood.
“Yes! . . . No! . . . Maybe! . . .” I pouted, as Taker stared at me with an are you done yet? look on his face, glancing at his watch with his arms crossed.
“Ummm . . . I’m just gonna go back out there now,” I said softly.
Taker nodded wisely and patted me on the back, guiding me on my not so merry way. I think he found my tantrum funny and was curious to see how far I’d take it. I was ready to take it pretty damn far, as I was so pissed off, I would’ve told Vince McMahon himself I wasn’t going back to the ring. But The Undertaker? Nah . . . I’ll take the zero.
I swallowed my pride, ignored the pulsing goose egg on the back of my noggin, and did the walk of shame back to the ring, getting pelted with junk every step of the way.
—
The next time I got pelted in the ring was in England, but it wasn’t with trash. I guess the English are more dignified, so they threw something a little more posh. . . . Glow sticks.
We were in the O2 Arena in London and I was against Cena in the main event. (Why does a wrestler always feel the need to specify when he’s in the main event? It’s not like I would ever say, “I had a match against Funaki in the third match on the card.”)
DX were having problems getting approval to sell their trademark neon-green glow sticks at the show because the O2 brass were afraid fans would throw them and hurt somebody. Eventually they got it worked out and the sticks were selling quicker than molly at a rave.
I was in the middle of a prematch promo explaining how all Londoners were hypocritical, gelatinous parasites with bad teeth, when someone threw a glow stick and hit me right in the eye. (What was with the aim of these Jericho haters? They should all be trying out for the Yankees!)
I was surprised and my eye was pounding, so I angrily surveyed the crowd, looking for the culprit.
“You wanna throw stuff? I’d love to find the son of a bitch who threw that glow stick! You wanna throw stuff? Go for it! Come on, throw some stuff!” I yelled into the mic.
The crowd obliged and showered me with a hailstorm of neon-green glow sticks. If you think I’m exaggerating, go look it up on YouTube now. Go ahead, I’ll wait.
Go on, then! I don’t have all day.
. . .
See, I told you!
It started like most storms do, with just a few drops here and there, but when it kicked in, it was a gargantuan green glow stick gale. I saw the first few flying through the air and batted them away easily like Obi-Wan Kenobi during his Jedi Trials, but as the bombardment built, I stood my ground and took it like a boss. I was the most hated man in Great Britain and it felt jolly good!
Fearing a riot, producer Johnny Laurinaitis hit Cena’s music to bring him to the ring and we went on to have a really good match (as we always did). When I walked through the curtain afterward, instead of receiving salutations and congratulations, everyone seemed to be avoiding me. Apparently, a little boy had been hit by an errant glow stick and had been brought backstage to calm him down and pacify the situation. DX had taken photos with the kid and given him some merch, so all was now well, except DX were not happy with me. Hunter made a point of walking into the dressing room to let me know that he and Shawn had “saved my ass” by taking care of the little guy. I felt bad the kid got hit, but I didn’t understand what HHH was so mad about. It was an amazing heel moment, the best reaction any villain worth his handful of salt could hope for.
I took a shower and was on the bus, waiting to travel to the next city, when I got a call from Laurinaitis telling me that Stephanie wanted to fine me ten thousand dollars for provoking the incident. I couldn’t believe it. I was going to be punished for getting heat? Let’s not forget that I was the one who got hit with the damn glow stick in the first place and had the black eye to prove it! I took a picture of it with my phone as evidence that I’d almost lost an eye, yet nobody seemed to care (cue the playing of the world’s smallest violin). I was so irate that I called Vince directly.
“Listen, Vince, if I’m going to get fined for this glow stick incident, I’m letting you know that I think it’s total bullshit! It was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever experienced in my career and I’ll tell you this, Vince McMahon the corporate boss might not like it, but Mr. McMahon the heel character would’ve loved it! And if you’re gonna fine me for doing my job and getting a reaction like that, well, then we are gonna have a problem!”
I hung up with authority and waited for the shit storm that was sure to follow. There was no way I was going to accept being fined for this. I was mad as hell and I wasn’t gonna take it anymore! I couldn’t wait to hear Vince’s response to my challenge and if I didn’t like what he had to say, I was ready to quit the damn WWE!
My phone buzzed as I received a text from the boss.
“Take two aspirin and call me in the morning :) You get heat naturally!”
I wasn’t sure exactly what he was saying, but I assumed that any text that included a smiley face meant I was off the hook. It turned out I was. Despite what Hunter and Stephanie thought, Vince obviously loved what I’d done and I never heard another word about it.
But as far as I’m concerned, when it comes to DX glow sticks, I’ve got two words for ya. . . .
—
As much of a pain in the ass as it was to get pelted with beer cups, boxes of popcorn, batteries, and rave party favors, it was nothing compared to being physically assaulted. Now, granted it took some audacity to throw inanimate objects at the ring, but to actually have someone lay their hands on me showed a true commitment. I’d heard of guys back in the days of territorial wrestling who’d been stabbed by old ladies’ hat pins, been sucker-punched in bars, and had their cars set on fire by irate fans, but those types of incidents were few and far between in the new and improved PG WWE. But my character was now a different animal as the assault on Shawn’s wife had changed the rules, and people wanted to get their hands on me in any way possible.
I was in Greenville, South Carolina, cutting another promo before my match and threatening to “fight every single member of this audience, man, woman, or child, right here, right now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
One rogue in particular did understand and decided to do something about it. I saw him climb over the rail into the aisleway about twenty rows back and start running toward the ring. I continued talking shit, following the dude in my periphery as he made his way down the aisle. I calmly waited for him to slide into the ring, because when he did, I was going to kick him in the side of the head . . . hard.
Just a note for any idiots out there who are considering jumping into a WWE ring for a joke or a sneak attack: The ring is our world and once you enter it uninvited, there are no rules. We have the right to kick your ass as much as we wish. It’s like entering our house at three A.M.: As soon as you come through the front door, we can hit you in the face with a baseball bat and there will be no legal consequences whatsoever. And this clown running toward me was about to get curb-stomped for breaking and entering.
Bozo slid into the ring, and I prepared t
o kick a field goal with the guy’s melon, but he never made it all the way in. As soon as he got halfway under the ropes, our ringside physician, Dr. Chris Amann, and referee, Charles (Little Naitch) Robinson, grabbed his legs and pulled him right back out again. It looked like Jaws, when the hapless victim breaks through the surface of the water and scrambles up onto the deck of the boat, only to be pulled back down to the depths by the hungry shark seconds later.
My boys held the dummy down until security dragged him back into the bowels of the arena, as I stood in the ring laughing with my arms crossed.
“Take him away! I want that man arrested for trying to assault me! Put him away for the rest of his life. . . . I demand it!! You see what happens when you try to put your hands on Chris Jericho?” I goaded.
This got tons of heat as I didn’t even have to get my hands dirty by touching the solipsistic blowhard (I actually used the word solipsistic on Raw once even though I had no idea what it meant), but was taking all the credit for his arrest.
Unfortunately for me, my next attacker . . . or attackers . . . wouldn’t be stopped before getting to me.
We had just finished a show on a Sunday afternoon in Victoria, British Columbia, one of the most beautiful cities in the world but a real pain in the ass to get to, due to the two-hour ferry ride from mainland Vancouver. I’d just worked in the main event (there I go again) against CM Punk and was under a time crunch to make it back to the boat on time.
Problem was there was a huge group of fans waiting outside to catch a glimpse of us getting in our cars. Nothing new, but the difference this time was the crowd was practically on top of us because there were no barriers or fences to separate them. They stood on the sidewalk a few feet from the cars and as soon as I slowly pulled onto the street, the mob converged on me like a herd of zombies. Now, if I was their hero, it wouldn’t be so bad, but as the guy who had just been antagonizing them incessantly only minutes before, I was in a little bit of a quandary (great word).
The Best in the World Page 6