We moved from Tampa back to L.A. for our last week of training and that’s when it hit me how massive a spectacle DWTS really was. Every day, camera crews from the entertainment shows came into the studio to interview us and document our progress, while our own camera crew filmed them filming us. There were costume design sessions and fittings orchestrated by Cheryl, who not only designed all of our choreography but our outfits as well.
We had to film our routine (or our “wides”) every Friday so that the producers could gauge what kind of progress we were making. On Sundays, there was a full dress rehearsal with the forty-piece band. Cheryl warned me that no matter how good or bad the rehearsal went, under no circumstances should we ever stop midway through. There were photo sessions, press interviews, appearances, and of course the nonstop rehearsing that went up to seven hours a day, every day, with no break for lunch. There was no reason to eat anyway since we didn’t have the time or the desire to; dancing was hard enough as is without trying to do it on a full stomach. The training was so strenuous that I began to lose a lot of weight, although it was nothing compared to Kirstie Alley, who dropped over fifty pounds during her tenure on the show.
After a few days, I noticed that (like in wrestling) the producers wanted us all to have a gimmick. Kirstie was the wacky comedic actress, Kendra the ditzy no-filter playmate, Ralph the baby-faced ageless wonder, Hines the quiet yet charming athlete, and I was the wild cartoony wrassler. I think the last time the producers watched the WWE, Hulk Hogan was the champion, because they wanted me to act just like him. But to paraphrase Rob Halford, they had another thing coming.
“OK, we want you to rip your shirt off and growl at the camera,” the director said while we were filming the opening show credits. Rip my shirt off? I’d never ripped my shirt off once during my twenty-year career and I wasn’t about to start now. Besides, if I was going to go anywhere on this show, I was going to have to appeal to dancing fans, not wrestling fans. I doubted many of the WWE Universe were going to be watching me anyway, as DWTS aired on Mondays against Raw, plus I’d been the most hated heel in the company the last time they saw me. So I was going to have to rely on my charm and personality to get over, not my muscles and Y2J character.
“I’m not going to rip my shirt off. It’s not really my thing,” I told the director with a smile. “But just roll the camera. I’ll give you what you want.”
I shuffle-stepped my way toward the camera with an intense look and grabbed it with both hands, shaking it around like a psycho circus clown. The director loved it and had me do a few different takes, gathering the execs around to watch me mug for the camera. They realized right then that I wasn’t their mama’s stereotypical wrestler, I was a totally different animal. I was Chris Jericho.
The day of the season premiere arrived and as I put on my costume and got my hair and makeup done, I was clutched in the terrifying grip of my nerves. I practiced the steps over and over in my trailer and listened to Metallica’s “Battery” to get into the zone (that had to be a first in DWTS history), until I was given the ten-minute warning. I stood backstage shaking and looking for the exit door, in case I needed an escape hatch. But as soon as our names were announced, I calmed down completely because it was now time to do the damn thang.
We hit the lights and the routine began as I leapt off the stage with bursting energy and landed in a perfect powerslide that would have made Jables proud. My nerves disappeared as I spun Cheryl around like a fiery top, both pairs of our feet moving in perfect spiritus mundi synchronicity. Ninety seconds of tight turns and hot moves later, I dipped her into our final pose, and a blast of pyro exploded into the air as the crowd sprang to their feet in applause. I looked around the packed studio with a shark’s grin. Not everything had gone perfectly. One of the removable arms on my costume hadn’t actually removed, and I’d messed up a few of the steps, but overall I was damn glad it was finished and was happy with my performance.
Thankfully, the judges agreed and even though they gave me a few harsh critiques (Len Goodman said my hips looked like they were cemented into place), they praised me overall and awarded us a solid 19 out of 30 score. Not bad for my first try, good enough to put me in the middle of the pack and to give me the confidence I needed to know that I could survive this contest and maybe even thrive in it.
My confidence was boosted even further the next night during the results show, when it was announced halfway through that I’d made it into the second round. Mission accomplished, baby! Funnyman Mike Catherwood was the first one eliminated, and I deemed my Duets denunciation disintegrated.
Kirstie Alley holds up a poster of her lemurs that my kids drew for her. During the DWTS season, she invited us over to her house in L.A. to play with her exotic animals, of which she has so many she has to employ a full-time game warden!
Our dance for week two was the quickstep set to “I Got Rhythm.” It was a total 180 to move from The Clash to Judy Garland, and hearing her song on constant repeat during that week’s rehearsals drove me nuts (who can ask for anything moooore), but after a while it was like working at a bell factory and I just stopped noticing. While the cha-cha was Latin based and revolved around the moving of the hips (which I had trouble with), the quickstep was all about fancy footwork and presentation, and I took to it instantly. Before too long, Cheryl and I were gliding around the rehearsal hall in an intricate syncopated routine that I loved. She had designed a 1940s-style baby-blue outfit to match the vibe of the song, and I slicked my hair back for that suave and debonair look. (It also made me look uncannily like my NXT protégé Wade Barrett.)
We absolutely killed it on show day, and the judges heaped praise upon us, congratulating me on my vast improvement. Bruno Tonioli jumped on his desk, waving his arms excitedly, calling me a dancing beast in his over-the-top Italian accent (which was apparently a high-level compliment), while Carrie Ann Inaba said I was a true contender. As we awaited our scores, I told a few on-camera jokes to show off my personality, which was my goal every week. I figured if I could make people laugh, it might get the people who didn’t already know me from the WWE on my side faster. I felt if I could charm the granny panties off of the Middle American housewives, I’d have a better chance of hanging around longer.
A few minutes later we got our scores, but after all the amazing praise, I was a little disappointed when I only got 23 out of 30. The judges’ scores didn’t match their gushing comments and I didn’t understand why. However, Team Chericho still did well enough to advance to the next round, and we went back to the dancing board.
The third week had a personal story theme and I decided to do a tribute to my mom (Sweet Loretta Modern) with a rhumba to “Let It Be” by The Beatles. The dance was preceded by a video package where I told the story of my mom’s tragic accident and how it still affected me to this day. It was an emotional experience to put together that special dance for her (Cheryl’s choreography was incredible), and the stage designers upped the ante by designing a set featuring a large framed photograph of Loretta on top of an old-time phonograph. The camera zoomed in on the picture as I put the needle on the record and the performance began.
I thought the combination of her story and the raw emotion of the dance would grab the audience by the heartstrings and pull me through to the next round easily, but the judges felt differently. Even though my transitions weren’t as smooth as the week before and the dance didn’t click like the quickstep had, I still felt they were a little harsh. My tango was mildly panned by the judges and given a score of 21 (I feel I was underscored), which led me to the final elimination position with daytime talk show host Wendy Williams.
The two of us stood under the hot spotlights like death row inmates waiting to ride the lightning. Time moving slow, the minutes seemed like hours and my heart raced like Jeff Gordon as I contemplated my fate. Would I stay or would I go? It was the worst mindfuck ever, and when they announced Wendy was eliminated,
I felt no sense of triumph, no feeling of a job well done. I felt like I had advanced by default, like winning a silver medal. I’m assuming they put me in the kill zone to encourage anybody who liked me, but hadn’t voted to get off their asses and pick up the phone next week.
I also noticed that the scores in general were higher this week, almost as if they didn’t want to give out the bigger scores too early in the competition. In my opinion, if I would’ve done the exact same quickstep in week three that I’d done in week two, I might’ve scored a 25 or 26. Had I peaked too early?
My performance the next week proved that wasn’t the case.
If there was anybody watching at home still sitting on the fence about me, I’m sure I convinced them of my prowess after my week 4 Paso Doble. It was orchestra week and Team Chericho performed the famous Latin bullfighting dance to the tune of Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King” (I’d been a fan of Savatage’s version for years) and it was my favorite performance of the seven weeks I was on the show. It was highlighted by me marching across the dance floor on my knees, completely in time with the music, an amazing Cheryl idea that had never been done on DWTS before. I put my wrestling knee pads under my tight satin pants to protect my knees, and the move tore the house down. We got a standing ovation from the live audience, and I had forty-two texts congratulating me when I got back to my trailer, and even a voice mail from my bro Sebastian Bach saying, “Dude, your Paso Robales was fuckin’ great!”
However, once again the judges felt differently, and I was legitimately pissed off at their comments this time, especially Len Goodman’s jab that I “had no idea how to follow the beat.” That was total bullshit, but their disdain for my dance worried me because I HAD to make it through to the next round. If I did, I was going to get the chance to appear on the program I’d been dreaming about being on since I was a kid.
The Tonight Show.
Jay Leno’s producers had agreed to book me as a guest that week as long as I was still an active participant on DWTS. So that had been my motivation for the last seven days: I had to kill the Paso Doble so I could advance to the next round and be on The Tonight Show. Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait until the last elimination again this week, as my score of 23 was good enough to advance me to week 5. It was official . . . I was going to be on Leno!
I was a huge Johnny Carson fan as a kid and had been watching The Tonight Show my whole life. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of going on vacation with my parents and drifting off to sleep while listening to Johnny’s voice in the hotel room while my mom and dad watched him from the next bed. For me, after everything I’d done, to be on The Tonight Show was THE true sign of making it. If you hadn’t been on Carson (or Leno), then you weren’t shit . . . and now that I’d been invited on, I was THE shit.
But I needed some fancy new duds to wear on my big night, so on the recommendation of wise cousin Chad, I went to the John Varvatos store on Melrose Avenue and bought a brand-new suit.
“Can you have this for me by Thursday?” I asked the salesman. “I’m going to be on The Tonight Show, so I need to have it ready.”
Nothing made me feel frooter than saying that, even though the guy barely batted an eye and couldn’t have cared less. It was Hollywood, so I’m sure he heard that line every day.
I did the pre-interview with one of the segment producers and gave her a myriad (amazing word) of ideas for Jay and me to talk about, not wanting to leave anything out. I was the second guest on the show, which meant if I could get five minutes of airtime, I’d be lucky. So I wanted to give them an overabundance of material to make sure I got the absolute most out of the little time I had.
Finally the night arrived, and I was relaxing in my personal Tonight Show dressing room (#bigshot), when Jay Leno himself walked in. He was wearing a denim shirt and blue jeans (The Canadian Tuxedo) and chatted with me for a few moments about our previous meeting at Road Wild 1998, the WCW PPV where he wrestled Hulk Hogan (if you don’t know the story, Google it ’cause you ain’t gonna read it here) and wished me luck. After he left, I took a second to drink in the moment of being in my private room in beautiful downtown Burbank, about to appear on the most famous talk show of all time. I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. Leno.
The first guest that night was the crimson-haired Diane Lane, who I had a huge crush on when she played Cherry Valance in The Outsiders in 1983. She was still hot, but kind of boring, and her segment dragged on and on and on and on. . . .
“I went to sleep the other night blah blah blah with my windows open and ever so softly blah blah the crickets were chirping . . .”
The crickets were chirping all right and tumbleweeds were blowing through the studio, as both the audience and Jay were practically falling asleep. Finally she ended her funeral dirge of an interview and it was time for me to pump up the volume in that mug and steal the show.
I bounded onto the stage with a burst of much-needed energy and the vibe in the studio changed instantly. My game plan was to talk as much as possible to not give Jay any openings to end the interview and my segment.
I began by saying how excited I was to be on The Tonight Show and told a joke about Sammy Davis and Lola Falana that died a death (I also wanted to walk onstage holding a martini like Dean Martin in the ’60s, but that was nixed down by the producers). But I recovered quickly and continued on about how I was used to wearing spandex and rhinestones, so I had no problem with the costumes on DWTS. Then I talked about my penchant for chewing only blue gum (none of that stinkin’ cinnamon) before all of my performances, how my uncle Russ was a dead ringer for Jay (they flashed his picture on-screen and he called me the next day to express how excited he was that he’d finally made it onto The Tonight Show) and how my son, Ash, had told everyone he knew to vote for me on DWTS.
“He knows like ten people!” I said flippantly.
My quip got a laugh, but I felt terrible afterward when Jessica told me I’d hurt Ash’s feelings deeply because he really HAD told all his friends at school to vote for me. He was my biggest fan, and I had insulted him. Ugh, I’m such an idiot and I’m really sorry, Ashman!!
Frankly, all three of my kids enjoyed watching me on the show, and since none of them were big WWE fans, my being on DWTS finally made me froot in their eyes. Cheyenne and Sierra liked the fancy costumes and thought Cheryl was a princess. Ash liked the whole spectacle and had a blast when he came to watch me perform live.
My interview was going great, but I kept gulping water out of the mug on Jay’s desk and buttoning and unbuttoning my suit jacket constantly, subtly showing how nervous I was. But I channeled my inner Robin Williams (my all-time favorite talk show guest) as I got up from my chair, used silly voices, and generally made fun of myself. I kept waiting for Jay to cut me off, but he never did, so I just kept on talking, until finally after nine and a half minutes he thanked me and went to commercial.
Wait . . . nine and a half minutes?
That was the same amount of time Diane Lane got and was unheard of for a second guest. I had just KILLED IT on the THE TONIGHT SHOW and mentally Barry Horowitzed myself as the crowd applauded.
Jay was ecstatic about the interview, thanking me more than once and asking me to come back anytime (I haven’t been invited back since). I thanked him in return and took another sip of fine H2O from the mug on his desk. Then I saw another mug of water on the coffee table in front of me.
I looked back at the mug on Jay’s desk. If that mug was on HIS desk, then that meant it belonged to . . .
“Jay, have I been drinking your water the whole time?”
“It’s OK, I’ve got plenty of mugs,” he said in his famous squeaky voice.
I smiled sheepishly as an assistant hurriedly brought him a fresh water and whisked my cootie-infested mug away.
—
The next week our dance was the Viennese Waltz, a ballroom routine that entailed nons
top spinning and twirling—a big problem for me. These days if I do even one spin it makes me feel a little nauseous, which I’m pretty sure is some sort of side effect from over twenty years of taking bumps. I was feeling sick after the first rehearsal and wondered if I’d be able to pull this one off. But behind every good man, there is an amazing woman and mine pirouetted in and saved the day. Jess suggested I try wearing Sea-Bands, which are cheap woven bracelets with a small white marble in the center that presses against a pressure point and alleviates all motion sickness and nausea. So I gave them a try and, thankfully, they worked like a charm, allowing me to give my best performance of the competition. (Thanks for saving the day yet again, sweetie. You’re the best wife ever!)
It was America week, and while we weren’t dancing to “Sister Golden Hair” (much to my chagrin), our music was Whitney Houston’s version of “America the Beautiful.” We once again stole the show. Our costumes, choreography, and charisma all came together and led to our tightest and best performance of the competition. In weeks prior even during my good dances I’d felt a moment or two of trepidation on a few of the steps, but in week 5, everything was second nature. We were rewarded with a 26, our highest score to date, and even cranky curmudgeon Len Goodman gave us an 8 and a standing ovation.
However, my victory was short-lived and tainted by another final two elimination moment. It pissed me off to have to stand on the hot spot again after such a great performance, knowing there was no way I could be going home but still feeling that little worm of doubt that I might be wrong. Supermodel Petra Nemcova ended up getting axed, but after another mentally taxing torture session, I was angry again (I ain’t talking about Dave Mustaine). I felt like the producers were messing with me, even though in retrospect, I think they were just giving the fans one last warning to vote for me.
The Best in the World Page 30