We already expected the crowd to be really into it because the PPV was in San Antonio, the home of Shawn Michaels. It always amazed me that even though the WWE booked PPVs months in advance, they always seemed to take place in the headlining babyface’s hometown. Like when Cena came back from an injury to beat me for the title at Survivor Series 2008, it was in his hometown of Boston, or when The Rock challenged Cena for the title at WrestleMania 28, it was in his hometown of Miami. And the last time Raw was in Winnipeg, I won the first WWE Musical Chairs championship (documented in my Kama Sutra manual, Undisputed, available at sex shops everywhere), so I had that going for me.
The TLC was quite the spectacle and since there’s nothing like a hometown crowd, we had them on the edge of their seats with our roller- coaster ride from the start. It all culminated with a breathtaking finish, where we trapped the two of them between a giant ladder and slammed it down multiple times in unison. Then I grabbed a chair and hammered the DX sandwich another half dozen times. At this point, Show freaked out and ripped the ladder in half, throwing all of the debris, both human and inanimate, to the floor. We had the perfect chance to grab the titles suspended above the ring, but alas we had nothing to climb. So I clambered up to the third rope and stood on Show’s shoulders while he held my hands for balance. Then he slowly walked forward until he was standing underneath the titles and I let go of one of his hands and reached up to to grab the belts.
We had rehearsed this earlier in the day and it wasn’t an easy task; as a matter of fact, it was a lot scarier than it had seemed when I thought of the idea. Just to stand on top of a seven-foot man’s shoulders and keep my balance was hard enough, but to keep that balance while he was walking was almost impossible. When I let go of his hand and reached up for the titles, my equilibrium was thrown completely off. Looking up into the lights while shifting my weight on one leg and trying to stay stable with the other was like trying to cut the Gordian knot.
We tried it a few different ways and found the best way to make it work was to not rush it. Once Show ambled far enough out to where I could brush the titles with one hand, Shawn was going to come back into the ring and superkick him and Show would take a step back toward the ropes on the sell. I would then jump off his shoulders and crash through a waiting table that had been set up on the floor earlier in the contest. It was the only big stunt spot in the match, but I knew it would blow the roof off if done right because it had never been seen before.
But once we got into the heat of the moment, fired up by the energy of the crowd and the surge of our adrenaline, we moved too fast and I wasn’t properly balanced when I stood on his shoulders. We gingerly walked to the center of the ring, but I didn’t have my bearings when I let go of Show’s hand and tilted too far to one side, almost falling to the mat. I steadied myself by bending my knees, but then I wasn’t even close to reaching the titles when I reached up to grab them. It was obvious there was no way I’d be able to take the titles off the hook, so we were kind of just standing there waiting for something to happen as the crowd got quiet.
They came back to life when Shawn entered and connected with a massive superkick to Show’s chin over six feet in the air, which was impressive enough on its own. The big man turned around on the sell, but forgot to take the step toward the ropes that I needed to be on target for the table. Timing was everything and I only had a second to decide how I was going to take the bump off his shoulders. It was the last fall of the night for me and I figured, “Fuck it, I’m going for it,” and launched myself as if the momentum from HBK’s kick had thrown me off balance.
The moment my feet left the solid base of Show’s traps, I knew I was in trouble. I was too far away to clear the top rope, but I found myself already starting my descent. The only chance I had was to try to stand on the top rope and, to my surprise, I landed directly on that bitch, perched perfectly like a Persian parrot.
“Polly want a fuckin’ cracker?” I said to no one in particular, feeling prouder than Kelsey’s nuts. Then gravity took over and I lost my balance for the second time, jumping in vain to try and hit my target. The rope wasn’t stable enough to get a good push-off and I hung in the air like Wile E. Coyote for what seemed like forever before plunging straight down. I had planned on landing in the middle of the table, but since I was plummeting toward the ground headfirst, I could see that wasn’t in the cards. It seemed like I was going to miss the table completely, so I stretched out my arms, hoping to collide with some part of it, any part of it, and I did.
With my face.
I landed mouth-first on the corner of the table and I know this because I actually tasted it. It had a vaguely dirty flavor, like I had just licked a leaf. My hands bounced off the flat top, and my knees collapsed the second I landed, which made things look much worse. I’m not sure how I didn’t break my leg, tear a pec, or recapture the coveted Lloyd Christmas look I had after I broke my teeth in the HBK ladder match, but I came out of it intact. It’s funny that the four of us agreed to do the TLC only if there weren’t any “dangerous bumps,” yet the fall I had just taken was easily one of the worst of my career.
With me out of the picture and barely alive, HBK superkicked Show for a second time, and Hunter knocked him over the top rope with the mangled ladder. Then HHH held up the one-sided piece of hardware so Shawn could climb to the top, unhook the titles, and make DX the tag-team champions for the first time ever.
Meanwhile, I was lying on the floor, trying to get the taste of Lemon Pledge out of my mouth.
Mean Mr. Mustard
Shortly after the PPV, we left for a European tour, with DX vs. Jericho/Show headlining most nights. The tour consisted of a grueling twelve shows in twelve nights airport-hotel-arena-airport grind, which made it quite easy to burn out. The best way to avoid that was to break out of the routine and do some different things, so I decided to go check out Abbey Road, the site of one of the most iconic album covers of all time.
Our first show was in London, so referee Marty Elias and I navigated the intricate tube system and met my old high school chum Wallass, who’d moved to the UK from Canada years earlier. Wallass and I had discovered the WWE together and formed our own wrestling league, the BTWF (Big Time Wrestling Federation) along with our own technometal band, the BTWF Orchestra. We were also huge Beatles freaks, so walking across Abbey Road was on both of our bucket lists.
Now, when you see the famous photo of The Beatles walking across the intersection, the street looks so big, but in reality it’s really quite small and stretches maybe twenty feet across. I was surprised that the crosswalk was in the middle of a busy intersection, with cars flying by rapidly every few seconds. The regular commuters who had to drive through it every day were probably sick and tired of the goofy tourists trying to stroll across while having their pictures taken. I bet they would’ve had no problem playing a little Death Race 2000 if they knew they could’ve gotten away with it.
There were a ton of gawkers congregating on both sides of the street, waiting patiently for their precious few seconds, and it was funny to see how they marched across when they finally got their turn. The Beatles weren’t posing when the cover was shot; they were merely walking across the road with their arms swinging naturally. But these people were trying to reenact exactly how it looked on the cover, arms jutting stiffly from their sides and knees locked out, like nerdy tin soliders wearing khaki shorts with fanny packs.
Wallass and I showed up dressed appropriately: he in an all-black Sprockets ensemble complete with black beret, me in an open-throated McCartney-esque suit. Marty stationed himself on a corner of the intersection and waited until the traffic cleared. When it was our turn, I took off my shoes and socks for the pièce de résistance and marched across the most famous road in rock ’n’ roll history.
Those three seconds were some of the frootest of my life. Abbey Road was my favorite Beatles record and cover (I love it so much, I got it tattooed on my left arm; ask me nex
t time we meet and I’ll show it to you), and here I was experiencing something most superfans never would. I stood in the middle of the street and drank in the special moment until a Fiat come scorching toward me and I had to take my leave.
“Hey, Jericho!” I heard the driver yell as he drove by.
I was such a worldwide superstar, I’d been recognized on the Beatles’ own street!
“I’m gonna be famous, a star on the screen,” I hummed to myself as I hopped up on the curb and stepped into a pile of fresh dog shit with my bare feet.
Happiness is some warm dung. Bang bang poop poop.
Wallass and me crossing Abbey Road. Note that I’m wearing a suit and have bare feet just like Paul. All I needed was a cigarette between my fingers and a Volkswagen Beetle with the license plate LMW-28IF parked behind me.
I continued my magical mystery tour a few days later before our show at the Echo Arena in Liverpool, when Marty and I visited a tourist attraction called The Beatles Experience. It boasted such gems as the original Sgt. Pepper uniforms and the reassembled remnants of the actual Cavern Club. There was so much history there that I was shocked when Marty told me it was already six P.M. I was in the main event that night (there it is again), so I wasn’t late, but the doors had already opened and I had to walk across to the arena in plain sight of the thousands of wrestling fans who were now roaming the grounds. With no security, this could have turned into a real mob scene (or even worse, Victoria, British Columbia, Part 2—Electric Boogaloo). I needed a plan.
I told Marty to beeline it to the arena and not slow down no matter what. I would follow behind him with my head down, staring at his feet to guide me the whole way. We left the safety of The Beatles Experience into the walking live like Rick and Glen but without the benefit of zombie entrails hanging around our necks to camouflage ourselves. I stared down at Marty’s sneakers as he led the way and as a result saw all types of shoes out of my peripheral vision. Cowboy boots, Doc Martens, loafers, dress shoes, high heels, wooden clogs (WTF?). If the WWE ever needs to do a survey on what kind of footwear their fanbase wears, I’m bouty bouty and rowdy rowdy.
It was funny how many hundreds of people were walking past me with no idea that the guy they’d be booing the shit out of only a few hours later was right in their midst. With all the concerts I’d been to over the years, I wondered if I’d ever walked past Bruce Dickinson or Mick Jagger in the parking lot before a show. It reminded me of the time I cruised past a kid wearing a Y2J shirt outside of the arena in Memphis and yelled, “Nice shirt, dude!” The kid barely glanced up and missed his chance forever. Too bad, junior.
Our luck held as we weaved through the oblivious crowd and made it to the side door of the arena. Marty went inside as I lingered behind reveling in the fact that I’d hidden in plain sight and fooled everyone.
“Sorry, suckers,” I mumbled, and strolled like a boss through the sanctuary of the backstage door, ready to—
“Can I see your pass?” the security guard asked with arms crossed.
Pass? I vaguely remembered getting some sort of laminate on the first day of the tour but hadn’t seen it since. After assuring the guard (who looked old enough to have worked for the actual Beatles) that I didn’t need a pass, I attempted to walk inside for a second time.
“No pass, no entrance into the backstage. You’ll have to go around front,” the guard said wearily, his face stonier than a beefeater palace guard.
I’d come so close to safe passage and didn’t have time to argue with Rip Van Wanker, especially since there was a small crowd starting to congregate around the door.
“But I’m Chris Jericho and I’m in the main event tonight, so I need to get in.”
“No pass, no entrance.”
The small crowd had grown and their ears perked up at the mention of my name. I was running out of time.
“Listen, man, do you see that poster on the wall behind you?” I pointed at a large event placard with my face plastered on it. “That’s my face, ya dig? Do I look like I shouldn’t be back here? I don’t even have an English accent!”
“Hey, is that Chris Jericho?” a fan said excitedly. Uh-oh.
“No pass, no entrance.”
“That is Jericho!” another bloke shouted and the chase was on. I gave Mean Mr. Mustard the stink eye and power walked away with the group of fans now in tow.
The unwanted entourage (great song title) grew larger and it was time to bail, so I broke into an all-out sprint. The crowd quickened their pace and suddenly I was having my own Beatle Experience as I ran around the side of the arena with a gang of screaming chicks (aka giggling guys) following closely behind me. I had no idea where I was going or how I would escape, but when I saw another side door, I threw it open and barreled inside.
“Don’t ask me for a pass!” I yelled at the pimple-faced security guard sitting in the hallway.
“You’re Chris Jericho, mate!” he said excitedly. “You don’t need a bloody pass!”
Another day in the life of Y2J.
Humbled
After the show in Liverpool, we took a charter to Paris and I was drinking Crown Royal, which is pure firewater for me. It was the only thing I drank at the time although I have no idea why, as the wicked elixir turned me crazy and the nights never ended well.
That’s why Drunkicho was in full force when we arrived at our hotel at six A.M. There was always food awaiting us when we checked into our overseas hotels, and everybody went to grab a bite before crashing out. Most of the crew was sitting at the various tables eating quietly, except me—I was swearing up a storm.
Everything was “Fuck this” and “Fuck that,” until finally Hurricane Helms pointed out that HBK was sitting at the next table with his family. He’d brought them on the tour for a working vacation, and to his credit, he didn’t expect us to act any differently around them. Shawn, of all people, knew that boys will be boys on the road and didn’t expect any of us not to party. However, Drunkicho was an obnoxious buffoon and didn’t care about shielding the children’s young ears from profanity. Hurricane warned me I was swearing too much and that I should think about toning it down a little.
“I’m not swearing that much! Besides, he shouldn’t have his kids out this late anyway,” I bleated belligerently.
Hurricane told me to keep my voice down and I said defensively, “I wasn’t talking loudly.”
But I was wrong, for Shawn and his family got up and left their table. I hoped I hadn’t insulted them and yelled out, “See you tomorrow, man!”
He walked out the door without saying anything, but ten seconds later, he stormed back into the room, his eyes ablaze. “You shut your damn mouth,” he warned me. “Yeah, my family is up late and if you’ve got a problem with that, go to hell!”
He let his words hang in the air as he glared at me and left the room.
“Shawn, wait!” I yelled after him. “You’re my hero!” I pleaded, as if that was going to make a difference. I turned back to a dozen silent faces, feeling like the motherfucker of the year, and wondered what I’d done to make Shawn so angry. Sure I had cursed in front of his kids, but what was the big deal?
“It wasn’t that you swore,” Hurricane explained. “He’s mad because you said he shouldn’t have his kids here.”
“I didn’t say it that loudly,” I protested.
“Uh, yeah, you did. You’re too drunk to notice.”
I got up from the table totally ashamed of myself and staggered guiltily back up to my room. I wrote Shawn a long, detailed text explaining how awful I felt and how embarrassed I was about what I’d said, hoping he’d still be awake. He didn’t return it, so I figured he’d fallen asleep and would get back to me in the morning.
I slept most of the day away and, when I woke up, had the worst feeling in the pit of my stomach. I vaguely remembered what had happened, so I grabbed my phone to see if
Shawn had texted me back. When he hadn’t, I knew we had a serious problem. I paced around my room trying to figure out how I was going to smooth things over. Obviously I had to apologize, but how was he going to take it? I wanted to call his room, but I knew he was with his family and I thought it was smarter to speak to him in person. I spent the rest of the day worrying so badly that I thought I was going to give myself an ulcer.
Finally the moment of truth arrived; it was time to go to the venue.
Heels and babyfaces traveled on separate buses during overseas tours, so I had no contact with Shawn as I rode to the arena in silence. I was still too embarrassed and ashamed to talk to anybody else, and besides, this was between the two of us.
The heel bus arrived first and when I stepped off, it was darkly cold outside, which matched the way I felt inside. I stood at the entrance waiting for Shawn to arrive and when he walked in, I asked if I could have a word.
“In a few minutes,” he said curtly and walked into catering. I was too wound up to eat, so I waited anxiously in the corridor for half an hour, waiting for him to finish. Finally he left the hall and went up the stairs to the dressing room. I waited a few seconds and followed his lead. After knocking on the door, I summoned up the last of my courage and walked in.
He was sitting by himself and told me to close the door.
“I don’t really have much to say to you, but let me be clear about something. All I care about is my family and I don’t give a damn about you or what you think about them being here with me.”
I hung my head like a whipped dog and tried to stammer out a stilted apology, reiterating what I’d texted him earlier.
“I don’t care about your apology,” Shawn cut me off bluntly. “Now, you listen to me. I’ve stood up for you so many times when people said you were a pain in the ass, but never again. You think you’re untouchable, but you’re not. This Best in the World shit is going to your head and you need to get yourself straight.”
The Best in the World Page 20