The scramble match was supposed to include Rey Mysterio, Batista, Kane, JBL, and World Champion CM Punk, but Punk was taken out of the match by a Randy Orton attack earlier in the show and nobody knew who was going to replace him. Every five minutes a new competitor came into the fray, until I eventually staggered out last. I was only in the match for a few minutes but was able to pin Kane for the three-count after he was powerbombed by Batista just as the clock ran out. That was enough to earn me the World Championship for the fourth time.
I clutched the title to my chest as I walked out of the ring with a gloating smirk on my bloody face. The crowd was agog (froot word) over what had happened and silently watched me celebrate my victory, aghast (another froot word) that the most hated man in the company was now the WWE champion.
It was kind of a tradition that when someone was going to become the champion, they would have their family there to celebrate. One of my biggest regrets about winning the Undisputed Championship in 2001 is that none of mine were with me, because I wasn’t completely sure I was going to win the title. I wasn’t told for sure until the day of the show that I was going over (as described in my riveting second book, Undisputed, available now via the barter system), so I didn’t have the chance to fly Jessica or my dad in to witness it. But I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice and it was special to have them in the front row to watch me capture the championship the fourth time. It was even more special to celebrate my victory in the Championship Scramble at the PPV with a Heartland Scramble at Denny’s, which was a hell of a lot better than the cold Domino’s pizza I had eaten after I won the title in 2001.
Broken Teeth
Vince wanted Shawn and me to blow off our feud in a ladder match in the main event of the No Mercy PPV in Portland, Oregon. Neither of us were thrilled when we heard his idea, even though it was a no-brainer as an attraction since Shawn was known as the King of the Ladder match, and I was no slouch in that department either. After all, my ladder match with Chris Benoit for the Intercontinental Championship in the 2001 Royal Rumble is considered a classic as well.
We were hesitant at first because we knew how much of a toll those matches can take on your body, yet we also knew how important it was to main-event a PPV in a world title match. It was the ultimate testament to our work that this angle was going to culminate in a battle for the championship. How much frooter could it get? (It got a little better when “All Nightmare Long” by Metallica was added as the theme song for No Mercy. The thought that one of my lifelong favorite bands was providing the sound track for my main-event championship PPV match was surreal on many counts.)
We had another outstanding thirty-minute match (that’s four in a row for those of you keeping track) that was meticulously constructed to not feature a bunch of crazy bumps. Just like Benoit and I had in 2001, Shawn and I used the ladder mostly as a weapon to focus on the brutality of the match. However, it worked a little too well when my teeth got knocked out.
I forgot just how dangerous a ladder can be, how it can bite you quickly and harshly at any time, and I paid the price for it. When I pulled the ladder over the second rope with the intention of Shawn slingshotting it into my face, I didn’t get my hand up to protect myself quick enough and it hit me square in the mouth. My knees went weak as I spit out large chunks of broken teeth, probing the newly uneven edges with my tongue to gauge how badly they had been damaged.
I looked at myself in the Tron and saw that one tooth had almost completely disappeared and another was broken in two. Even scarier was that with the missing tooth and the intense look on my face, I looked exactly like Chris Benoit. It was if the ghost of his image had morphed directly onto mine, like I’d been possessed. It was an eerie feeling, to say the least.
The legimate loss of my teeth added even more fervor to the match and drew the crowd in even further. This wasn’t two guys “playing” wrestling . . . we had a serious score to settle, and blood had been shed, Jerry.
The match was spectacular as we pulled out all the stops in a unique, inventive way: Shawn pushed me backward off the top rope as I held the ladder and then dropped an elbow onto both; turned my belly-to-back suplex off the top of a ladder into a crossbody, causing both of us to crash through the announce desk. I hit him in the face with a ladder as he was about to superkick me and Lionsaulted onto one that was draped over his prone body.
But the finish was the crème de la crème of creativity, as the two of us stood on top of the ladder, clutching each end of the title in a midair tug-of-war, fifteen feet in the air. I held on to my end of the title with one hand, arching my body backward as the crowd screamed, willing me to lose my grip and fall. Finally, I pulled myself back up and bashed Shawn in the face with the plate of the belt. He held on for a few more seconds before toppling off the ladder, leaving me clear to unhook the title. With that win, the best story line of my career was over.
Doing my best Lloyd Christmas impersonation after having my teeth broken in half by an errant ladder shot. Both Ash and Andy Summers aren’t too happy about it.
I wasn’t the only one who felt that way, as Jericho vs. Michaels won the feud of the year in the Wrestling Observer, Pro Wrestling Illustrated, and WWE.com year-end awards (I think we won an Emmy in Luxembourg as well). The ladder match also won the 2008 Match of the Year in the Observer and PWI awards (I consider it to be one of the best ladder matches of all time), and I was voted the 2008 Wrestler of the Year in the Observer by the fans and my peers, which was one of the most prestigious accolades you can receive in the business.
It had taken me eighteen years, but I’d finally become the Chris Jericho that I had always wanted to be. My work rate, understanding of the business, ring psychology, character, promos, image, attitude—everything had peaked. I had shown flashes of it in the past but truly understood what being a main-event superstar was.
Vince knew it too, for his whole demeanor toward me changed and our relationship strengthened almost instantly. There was no more intimidation, no more insults, no more dismissing my ideas. I had become one of his most valuable players.
Over my fourteen years of working for the WWE, I’ve forgotten more matches than I can remember, but I’ll never forget that angle with Shawn. Yet it was only when I started writing this book and revisiting the details that I realized how damn special it really was. We created and executed a money-drawing feud that organically grew and built for SEVEN months before culminating in a main-event PPV match for the world title. When does that ever happen in this day and age?? It doesn’t. And that’s why I think WWE should assemble all of the matches and promos from our angle and produce a special on it for their network or release it on a DVD.
I’d buy it. Wouldn’t you?
Seven Million Dollars
When I heard WWE head lawyer Jerry McDevitt’s voice on the other end of the phone, I knew something serious was up. McDevitt only dealt with the heavy-hitter legal issues within the company.
“Hi, Chris. Just wanted to inform you that we have recived a deposition from a lawyer in California saying that you’re being sued.”
Sued? Hmmm, that was interesting but it wasn’t the first time. “Really? How much am I getting sued for?”
“Seven million dollars.”
Stop. Hold On. Stay In Control.
SEVEN MILLION DOLLARS!!?? Was this some kind of rib?
McDevitt wasn’t joking as he explained that I had done a “Highlight Reel” back in 2005 with Cena as my guest. During the ensuing brawl, John threw me over the top rope and I landed on a cable runner, who was paying no attention to what was going on and didn’t even try to get out of the way. Luckily, I didn’t hurt myself, but I lost my temper and supposedly dragged the guy across the floor, cursing him out the whole time.
I remembered nothing about the incident and I had to find the segment on YouTube to see just what I’d done. It made me laugh because, besides using my
impressive Manitoban strength to move the guy a scant fifteen inches (at the most skinning his wittle kneesie), I hadn’t done much assaulting at all.
The guy had filed his lawsuit claiming that he wasn’t able to work anymore due to the effects of my “vicious attack” and was asking for seven million clams in quittance. Might I remind you he was a cable runner, so even if I had hung, drawn, and quartered him, there is no way this guy, his mother, his brother, his entire high school graduating class, and the Six Million Dollar Man would’ve made seven million dollars combined in their entire lifetimes. So where did he come up with that figure in the first place?!
Not to mention the guy had hired a dodgy Saul Goodman–type lawyer who had already been disbarred for shady lawsuits. McDevitt assured me the case would get thrown out and I would be free and clear, but there was still that sliver of doubt in the back of my head. What if I lost the case and was legally bound to give this guy seven million dollars? That type of verdict would leave me and my family totally broke.
I would lose everything!
The prospect of bankruptcy horrified me, and I spent the next few days preparing for my imminent financial fleecing. I had visions of my family and me living in the ghetto, wearing barrels around our waists with a pair of rope suspenders holding them up. I’d have to busk in front of the bus station, playing “Kumbaya” for spare change just to be able to afford ramen noodles for dinner. I’d have to teach my kids how to hip-hop dance so they could do street performances as I passed the hat. I’d have to travel in the dead of night in an empty freight train car with a kerchief containing all of my worldly possessions tied to the end of a stick slung over my shoulder! I’d have to . . .
The phone rang and I was told the case had been dropped and wouldn’t resurface again. I was ecstatic, but I wondered how the WWE was able to resolve the lawsuit so quickly. I asked Vince about it a few days later and he explained he had a “no tolerance” policy toward lawsuits.
“Most of these guys file bullshit suits, hoping that we will pay them twenty grand or whatever for them to go away. But if I did that with every lawsuit we got, it would cost a fortune. So we never pay out anything. I would rather spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on lawyer and court fees than voluntarily pay any of these assholes one dime.”
I was glad his policy worked, but if I had known how much stress the little bastard was going to cause me, I would’ve done things differently. Instead of dragging him across the floor, I would’ve given him a hard kick to the stone.
All Sold Out
Winning the world title six years and five months after I had it last was a real monkey off my back. Within my first two years of being in the WWE, I had beaten The Rock and Stone Cold Steve Austin in the same night to become the first ever Undisputed Champion in history (if I had a dollar for every time I’ve said that . . .), but since then, I hadn’t done anything close to that level.
Sure, I won a bunch of secondary titles but I hadn’t reclaimed the big prize, and quite honestly, I wasn’t happy with my Undisputed title reign either. Cleaning up Lucy the Dog’s shit and being Stephanie McMahon’s lackey really wasn’t my idea of how a world champ should be portrayed. If winning that title was my legacy in the WWE, I would’ve been the “Gangnam Style” one-hit wonder of wrestling.
Not to trivialize it, but as much of an honor as it is, anybody could win the world title one time. Look at David Arquette. But winning it a second time, well, that showed that Vince really had faith in you. The first time was almost an experiment to see if a performer could handle it, what they would do with it, and how the crowd would respond to it. But the second time you were made champion was the proof that you really deserved it and could make the company money by holding it. Therefore, by winning the title again, my legacy was now going to be spelled Y2J, not PSY.
But just because I’d regained my world title status, it didn’t mean I was always going to be living in palaces with kings and queens. Sometimes I was still going to be sleeping in the gutter, eating pork and beans (Dusty Rhodes TM) . . . or sleeping on a hotel lobby floor, if you weel.
I had just finished my match in Springfield, Missouri, and had a five-hour drive to Cape Girardeau for a show at five P.M. the next day. There weren’t a lot of places to stay along the journey, so I decided I would just drive all the way that night. But it was a dismal drive along a miserable two-lane back road that twisted and turned through rural areas. It actually creeped me out to think what might happen if I ran out of gas or slid into the ditch in this Albino Farm–esque (cheap plug) terrain, with the trailer parks and weird shacklike houses flanking the road.
Even worse, it was snowing hard and the roads were icy, which forced me to plod along the long and winding road at a snail’s pace. So it was almost five A.M. when I pulled into the Cape Girardeau Holiday Inn as the snow sentries towered over me, watching my every move.
I trudged into the lobby and asked for a room.
“Sorry, sir, we’re all sold out.”
That’s the worst thing you can be told at five A.M. and I’ll tell you why. If ONE hotel is sold out, that usually means that ALL the hotels in the area are sold out. Sure enough, I went into three other places and all of them were booked—a result of the huge snowstorm that had knocked out the power in most of the homes in the area. This was bad news for me, as I was cold and tired with nowhere to go, and even the arena was closed at this hour. I got out the phone book and called the rest of the five hotels listed, only to hear the same answer.
After hearing that yet another hotel was sold out, I asked the lady at the front desk of the Drury Inn I was in if there were any other options in town and she said, “Well I know the YMCA has set up a shelter with cots and blankets. You can always go down there?”
Stay in a YMCA on cots and blankets? I was the damn WWE World Champion and I was going to do no such thing! So I did the only thing left a champion could do. . . . I begged.
“Madame, can you please help me? I’m with the WWE and I’m actually in the main event here tomorrow at the Enormodome and I need a place to stay. Are you sure you don’t have any room at all for me?” I batted my eyelashes and squeezed my tits together, hoping to seduce her with my boyish charm.
It worked and it turned out she did have some extra room for me—in the conference area.
She offered to let me sleep under the big desk they used for meetings in the boardroom, but only until seven thirty A.M. That was when her boss started her shift and apparently wouldn’t be happy if she found out I was crashing in there. I didn’t care what time the boss arrived. She was going to have to pick me up over her shoulder and carry me out herself if she wanted me out of there that early in the morning. Once I crashed, I intended to stay that way until whatever time I damn well decided to wake up.
I followed her into the boardroom, where she grabbed a pillow and blanket and graciously helped me assemble my makeshift bed under the desk. She wished me good night, turned off the lights, and closed the door.
I lay on the hard floor, staring up at the underside of the table, smelling stale cigarette smoke and coffee that had probably been spilled on the carpet during the Nixon administration. In the light of the moon shining through the window, I could see wadded-up pieces of gum stuck there in all colors of the rainbow. What kind of meetings had taken place in this boardroom and why had there been so much gum chewing?!
It wasn’t the most comfortable of accommodations, but it was better than the backseat of a frozen Taurus, and eventually I fell asleep. When I was shaken awake seemingly minutes later, the sun was shining through the windows.
“Excuse me, sir, you can’t sleep here anymore.”
Apparently, this was the dreaded BOSS and, as promised, she wanted me out. I glanced at my phone and saw it was seven thirty A.M. (BOSS sure was punctual), so there was no way I was ready to get up off the floor. I was tired, sore, stiff, cranky, and not interested in wha
t BOSS had to say.
“Lady, with all due respect, after the night I’ve had, you’re gonna have to call the cops to come drag me out of here if you want me to leave.” I closed my eyes, rolled over, and went back to sleep, not caring if BOSS called the cops or not. At least I’d have a heated cell to sleep in if she did.
But she must’ve decided I wasn’t worth the trouble, so I was able to get a few more hours’ sleep after all. When I finally got up off the floor, stiffer than ever, I caught a glance of myself in a mirror on the wall. My hair stood up in corkscrews, there were bags under my eyes big enough to pack my wrestling boots in, and the whites of my eyes were now bright red.
I opened the door and walked out into the lobby, which had transformed into the breakfast area. It was a packed house that morning and every table was occupied with people eating their Cheerios and pressed-egg patties. Every one of them paused in mid-chew to take a glance at the crazy homeless man who had just staggered into the room. If there had been music playing, it would’ve stopped with a screech as the needle was dragged off the record.
I made my way through the packed tables and a little boy about ten years old tugged his dad’s shirt excitedly. “Dad. . . . DAD!! That’s Chris Jericho!! He’s the WWE Champion!!”
I grabbed a bagel off the counter and stared at him with crimson eyes.
“Yes, I am, kid . . . yes, I am,” I said and walked the fuck out of the Cape Girardeau Drury Inn forever.
Angel of Vince
The original plan was for me to hold on to the title until November, when I would drop it to Cena at Survivor Series. But Vince was trying to build the brand name of Cyber Sunday, a show in which the fans could vote for who they wanted to see wrestle. The “fans decide the matches” concept originally started with the Taboo Tuesday PPV in 2004, where I was the Intercontinental Champion, and fans decided on my opponent out of a possible twenty candidates. Shelton Benjamin won and I was forced to call the whole match in the ring (for the full story, check out my classic home improvement manual, Undisputed, available on Craigslist), which ended up being really good. This time I knew Batista was my opponent, but it was the special guest referee who was to be voted on. The choices were Randy Orton, Shawn Michaels, and Steve Austin. Vince was pretty sure that Austin would get the vote (over Shawn) and wanted to reward the fans for their participation. So he made the decision that Big Dave would go over on me at Cyber Sunday and I’d win the title back a week later on Raw. This type of title flip-flopping was in vogue in the late 2000s and even though it seemed like the wrong decision to cut off my momentum solely for a PPV gimmick, it technically meant that I was going to become the World Champion for the fifth time. That was OK by me.
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