The Best in the World

by Chris Jericho

  The plot thickened when Vince told me after the show what was going down. He had brokered a deal between the WWE and Mickey Rourke’s agents for Mickey to have a match at Mania . . . against me. Rourke had just been nominated for an Academy Award for Best Actor and was the hottest thing in Hollywood. Vince felt I was the perfect guy workwise, promotional-wise, and acting-wise to wrestle him and get the angle over but was annoyed that Rourke had announced the match already since he wasn’t planning on starting the story line until after the Oscars in February.

  It was a lot to process during one sitting, but when I had a moment to think, I knew how huge an opportunity this was going to be for me. As Rourke’s opponent, I was about to be thrust into the Hollywood mainstream as well as having a guaranteed main-event spot for the biggest show of the year. I was ecstatic, until I heard the next day that Rourke’s people were furious about Mickey’s premature announceulation and wanted him to pull out of WrestleMania. They were concerned that if the Academy knew that Mickey was about to get involved with the low-life denizens of the WWE, it would affect his Oscar chances. I did some digging and found out that their concerns were legit. Apparently, a few years earlier, when Eddie Murphy was up for Best Actor for his performance in the movie Dreamgirls, he was considered a shoo-in to win. Then Norbit was released and the Hollywood cognescenti balked at giving the prestigious Best Supporting Actor award to a guy who was currently starring as an overweight racial sterotype in a shitty movie, no matter how amazing his performance was in Dreamgirls. Maybe that’s the actual reason why Murphy ended up losing to Alan Arkin in 2006, but either way, Rourke’s people didn’t want to take the chance of having the same fate befall their client.

  With Rourke’s involvement in Mania now in jeopardy before it had even begun, the WWE went into survival mode. The next night on Raw, Vince had me do a promo about how everybody was talking about the movie The Wrestler and how all of the washed-up wrestlers hanging around the fringes of the WWE loved it, including Ric Flair. I commented on how Flair had given the film a rave review to get over with Rourke, since even though he’d retired a year earlier, he still craved the spotlight. Then I claimed Flair had gotten what he wished for because he’d become friends with Mickey (which was true), but now he needed to teach his buddy to shut his mouth. I rolled the clip of Mickey’s comments from the SAG Awards the night before and said, “Your comments have offended me, Rourke. And the last thing you want to do is offend Chris Jericho.”

  The promo was part damage control, part preventive medicine, as Vince figured since the Rourke was already out of the bag, it was a good idea to tie in Flair and start the angle on our own without Rourke’s physical involvement. This way if Mickey (or more accurately, his people) agreed to the match, we would have the jump-start, and if they pulled out, I would already have something going with Flair. But I had no idea what that something would be, since he had been retired by HBK the year before in an incredible match at WrestleMania 24. Vince was adamant that Flair would never wrestle in the WWE again, so how would he fit in if Rourke pulled out?

  Mickey still hadn’t made his final decision because he still wanted to do the match even though his managers were insisting he cancel, but we moved forward as if he was going to do it. I went and saw The Wrestler as research and thought it was excellent. Mickey’s performance was mesmerizing, the script well written, but the sad thing was I knew many guys in the business who were like Randy the Ram. Guys whose glory days were long gone but who were still waiting for that last big break. It reminded me of my time in ECW when the roster included up-and-comers like me and RVD, main-eventers like Taz and Sandman, and former major stars whose time had come and gone, like Terry Gordy and Bam Bam Bigelow. The only difference was I wasn’t breaking lightbulbs over my head or stapling dollar bills to my face in ECW. (Although I did have a barbed wire death match in Calgary in 1993, so I shouldn’t throw stones. Or fireballs in this case.)

  What made the movie so special was Rourke’s acting, which brought life to such a horribly flawed character. Randy the Ram’s eventual fate was a stern warning for me to make sure I never ended up at the bottom of the barrel. However, Mickey already knew what it was like to be there both professionally and personally. At the beginning of his career he had been christened the next Marlon Brando, but after a great start he had made some bad choices with both his roles and his lifestyle and had been banished from leading-man status. He had bounced around for years in B movies and had even gone into professional boxing, but The Wrestler gave him a new life and was deemed his big comeback. As a result he had changed his rebellious fuck-you ways and decided he was going to listen to his managers and agents for the first time in his career. It was for that reason that he finally called Vince and told him he wasn’t going to do the match.

  I was really disappointed; over the last few weeks I’d set my heart on working with him. After watching him actually wrestling in the movie, I knew we could put together a decent five-to-eight-minute match and have some fun. I wished he had just kept his mouth shut and stayed the course with Vince’s original plan, but what was done was done. However, all wasn’t completely lost, for there was still one last chance to try to talk him into doing the match.

  Weeks earlier, Mickey and I had been booked on Larry King Live to discuss WrestleMania. Even though Rourke had pulled out, Larry still wanted us on the show. I thought it would be fun to do, as I always enjoyed being Larry’s guest and he liked having me on. He even referred to me as “my boy Chris Jericho” when promoting the episode.

  Vince wanted me to fly to L.A. to do the show live in the studio, but I had already made plans to see Metallica on the World Magnetic Tour in Chicago. So he arranged for me to do the interview backstage in the Allstate Arena via satellite. And gave me one simple mission:

  “I want you to try to goad him into accepting the match. See if you can use his bravado against him and bait him into doing WrestleMania.”

  That was a challenge I could sink my teeth into and I decided to play it to the fullest extent of my heelness. There would be no kowtowing or ass kissing for Mr. Hollywood. No friendly ribbing or niceties. I was going for the throat and would use all of the dirty tactics I had learned over the years to try and get him to snap.

  I got to the Allstate Arena early with my best friend and partner in crime, Speewee, and was escorted to the exact room in the backstage area that we used for catering when we did WWE shows there. It was empty except for the cameras and the equipment that was set up to beam me across the country onto Larry’s show. I was able to watch it live on the monitor as I anxiously awaited my turn, which was scheduled near the end of the show.

  Mickey was introduced and came across great in answering questions about his start/stop career and his subsequent storied comeback. He was personable and humble, everything he should’ve been, considering this was the first in-depth interview he’d done since he seemingly fell off the face of the planet years earlier. After a good twenty minutes of banter, Larry brought up that Rourke had been in negotitations with the WWE to actually work a match at WrestleMania, and then introduced me to the show.

  I started by saying that I respected what Rourke had done in The Wrestler but that he was out of line in challenging me to a match. Mickey was in great spirits and politely admitted immediately that he was a visitor in my world and he had indeed put his foot in his mouth when he challenged me. I’m sure he was coached to say those lines, but I wasn’t letting him off that easily and I told him flat-out that if he stepped in my world for real, I would teach him a lesson. Larry, ever the journalist, asked him if he was going to wrestle me. Mickey almost let it slip that he still wanted the match and replied, “If it was up to me . . . ,” then paused as his better judgment took control.

  King, always a pro, picked up on where this was going. “If it was up to you, Mickey, you’d wrestle him?”

  But that bird had flown as Mickey changed his course and smiled. “Like
I said, I’m a visitor in his world. Wrestling isn’t my thing, but I was a professional fighter. Would I box him in a boxing match or a bare-knuckle match? Yeah.”

  Jackpot! He had taken my bait, hook, line, and sinker, and it was better than I could’ve imagined. Jericho vs. Rourke in a bare-knuckle brawl at WrestleMania . . . Now, that was money!

  Grasping my opportunity, I replied instantly, “Hmmm, a boxing match, huh?”

  King muttered, “Ah, here he goes!” but Rourke backtracked and tried to end the segment by calling me brother and wishing me luck at Mania. I didn’t have much time as the segment was ending, so I made one more last-ditch effort.

  “Like I said, Mr. Rourke [was I on Fantasy Island now?], you may respect me and what I do, but I don’t have respect for you. I really don’t.”

  Rourke’s demeanor changed slightly and I knew I’d gotten him. He was pissed off. I’d barged in during his interview and completely ignored his apology and his attempts to play nice. I’d punked him out and disrespected him to his face on live national TV and there was nothing he could do about it.

  “I’m going to take the high road, brother, and wish you luck. You go do your thing.”

  But I’d drawn blood, so I stayed on him, reminding him of his boxing match or bare-knuckle fight challenge.

  “I’ll be here, Mr. Rourke . . . waiting. You know where to find me. But be careful what you wish for, because it may come true.”

  Rourke was over being nice and was stewing as Larry told me to have a good night and enjoy Metallica. Just as we went off the air, Rourke threw out a thinly veiled insult with a straight-faced glare. “You’re looking sharp tonight, Chris,” something you would say when you’re about to take the first swing and start a barroom blitz. When I reminded him I was waiting, his retort was simple and direct.

  “Have a good night . . . son.”

  Aha! He called me son, which was one step away from calling me boy, the ultimate manly cutdown. Had I been sitting next to him in Larry’s studio, I think Mickey would’ve taken a swing at me and that was good enough for me, even though I hadn’t been able to get him to agree to a match. Mission accomplished!

  The next day, I asked Vince what he thought and he said both he and WWE executive producer Kevin Dunn thought I’d been a little too stiff on Mickey.

  “Once you knew he wasn’t going to take the match, you should’ve smiled and let him off the hook.” I disagreed and was very satisfied with how I’d stayed in character and hadn’t let him off the hook. But I still wanted to thank Mickey for the segment and asked Flair for his number. Flair texted me back and said that I could send all messages to Rourke through him. I found it kind of strange that he wouldn’t give me his digits himself, but I wrote a text thanking him and forwarded it over to Ric anyway. I never heard back from him, but I later found out that was because the last thing Mickey wanted from me was a thank-you.

  What he wanted was my head on a platter.

  —

  After the Rourke confrontation, I took Larry’s advice and enjoyed Metallica. They put on an amazing show as always, and afterward I was escorted back to the dressing room area for the VIP after-party. I was a little nervous as they were one of my top three all-time favorite bands (Do you know the other two? Answer at the end of this chapter) and I’d never really met any of them before. Would they be in a bad mood? Or would it be the greatest moment of my life? They always say you should never meet your idols because they may disappoint you, but I was ready to take the chance.

  The room was crowded with fans, friends, and dignitaries (where’s your crown, King Jericho?), all waiting to say a few words to the band. I noticed guitarist Kirk Hammett, who I’d kind of met once before in 1994 in Atlanta. I had asked him to sign the cast on my broken arm (I’d broken it trying a shooting star press in Knoxville) and he said he would if “I could use his boner as a speed bump.” I’m still not sure what he was getting at, and he wasn’t either when I asked him about it fourteen years later in Chicago. He said, laughing, “I was really drunk on Frangelico that night.” I could relate, considering I had crashed my car and split open my forehead whilst under the influence of said spirit in Calgary back in 1995. (Full versions of both of these stories are available in my book of medieval poetry entitled A Lion’s Tale, available at a Renaissance fair near you.) Then I saw Lars Ulrich and he was even friendlier. The thing I love about Lars is, when you talk to him, he seems really interested and engaged in the conversation. He’ll stand there, head cocked like a cocker spaniel, eyes locked on yours, paying attention to every word you’re saying. It also seems that he has a story to tell about every city in the world.

  “You’re from Winnipeg? River City, right? Cool, that’s the home of the Golden Boy. I checked it out once back in ’89.”

  I went into total fanboy mode and told him how much I’d loved them since I was a teenager as he looked on and nodded with a smile. I asked him if he was sick of hearing people say such things and he replied, “In the nineties I was, but now I realize how much of an honor it is to mean so much to people and have such a special place in their lives.” It was a really interesting thing to hear, because I feel the same way.

  Whenever somebody recognizes me and tells me how big a fan they are or says thanks for all the years of entertainment, I never take that for granted. It really makes me happy to know that I have made somebody’s life a little better and means the world to me to hear it. As a matter of fact, if you ever see me on the street and want to say hi, please do!! Tell me Chris sent ya. . . .

  I shot the shit with Lars about our favorite heavy metal bands for a few minutes, until I saw the man I’d been waiting to meet for twenty-five years walk into the room.

  The mighty Hetfield had arrived.

  Ever since I started listening to Metallica in 1984, I’d been enamored of one James Alan Hetfield, the leader, the singer, the main song writer, and the frootest-looking guy I’d ever seen (especially after Cliff Burton died in 1986). I had always related to James’s lyrics and knew he’d grown up in a broken home with a sick mother the same way I did. I felt the same pain and in turn was able to harness all the emotions I felt after my parents’ divorce and my mom’s crippling accident by finding solace in their music. I’d been a die-hard fan since the day I first heard them and my commitment to the band had never wavered through any of the band’s phases. I remember going into Records on Wheels (there used to be these things called record stores, kids) in 1984 and looking at the back of the Kill ’Em All album, at the picture of the four scruffy-looking bums with zits and teenage mustaches, and liking them instantly. Because they looked just like me. Since that day, Metallica were my indisposable heroes, my gods that never failed, my phantom lords . . . and James was their leader.

  And now he was standing only a few feet away from me. I’d been in this position before, when I met Wayne Gretzky in 2002, scared and nervous to approach him but dead set on doing so. However, Hetfield was different, he was . . . well, he was JAMES HETFIELD! I didn’t want to come off like a blathering fanboy, but how could I not? I was going to have to play this one frootly.

  I approached him slowly and quietly, like Steve Irwin advancing toward a rare poisonous snake.

  Crikey, here is the elusive Hetfieldus maximus, only seen in the catacombs of arenas worldwide. Approach slowly or he will growl in your face and disappear back into hiding, crikey, crikey!

  He glanced at me as I got closer and I knew I’d reached the point of no return.

  “Hey, James,” I said calmly. “I’m Chris Jericho. Nice to meet you, man.”

  “Hey. I know who you are,” he said with a smile.

  Wow . . . James knew who I was? That was an unexpected plus; this was going to be easy!

  Then my mind went blank. I felt like I should say something, but I had no idea what. I couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off my face or stop shaking his hand. It was awkward and un
comfortable and after being in the public eye for twenty years with millions of fans of my own, I was now totally starstruck.

  James knew it too and, thankfully, broke the silence. “Did you have a good time tonight?”

  That was all it took to break the floodgates open. I told him that I’d had a blast and proceeded to say everything I’d wanted to tell him since I was thirteen years old. How much Metallica’s music had meant to me, how much I related to his lyrics and his story. How he and his band had helped me through so many hard times. How much I admired him as a person for turning his life around in a positive way. After a five-minute soliloquy, I finally got around to saying what I really wanted to say.

  “I just want to thank you for all you’ve done for me.”

  James continued to smile as he nodded his head and thanked me right back. My confession finished, I put my arm around him and Speewee snapped a picture. I said thanks again and took my leave. Trying to stay froot, I headed toward an empty corner of the room on trembling legs. When I was sure no one could see me, I put my hands on the wall to brace myself and took a deep breath. My heart was pounding and I felt like I was going to cry, because no matter how much I’ve done or how many places I’ve been, I’m still a fan. That’s why meeting James for the first time was one of the best moments of my life and the memory remains.

  Rookie “The Dagger” Sweatboat

  After my appearance on Larry King as a straight-up heel, Mickey Rourke never responded to my text Flair had forwarded to him. Plus, Vince and Kevin were annoyed at me, and I received tons of backlash from fans via e-mails and social media posts. Due to the deluge of insults and disrespect I showed him, people felt sorry for poor old Mickey and felt I had gone too far.

  I disagreed and thought I deserved an Emmy for my acting performance, even though nobody seemed to understand or appreciate my dedication to the craft.