by Foley, Mick
Sure, it seems ridiculous now, but at the time, I was so focused on my new role in wrestling that I must have seemed like some Jonestown Kool-Aid survivor when I finally did have my talk with Vince.
I’m sure Vince must have been slightly bewildered to learn that my decision wasn’t based on money, because in business, it’s almost always about the money. But I simply had so many things that I wanted to do outside of WWE, including nonwrestling ventures that Vince would almost certainly not grant me the latitude. Vince is a great guy in many ways, but he is not particularly willing to let his wrestlers branch out into other areas of interest while under his business umbrella. I’d learned that lesson the hard way when fighting for my right to party…oops, I mean my right to publish my own novel.
Which reminds me of the Beastie Boys CD that Dewey had received for Christmas. I knew the Boys had been on the cutting edge of hip-hop for a long time, but nonetheless, not being a real hip-hop aficionado, I knew exactly one of their tunes—the song about fighting for the right to party. So I decided to impress the kids by singing all the words to the sophomoric tune while on the way to one of Dewey’s basketball games. It turns out the only kid I impressed was little Mick, who at the age of five, proceeded to walk around the house for the next few weeks singing, “Living at home is such a drag. And your mom threw away your best porno mag.”
Word had apparently gotten around the WWE offices that I’d been looking for a new contract because all of my outside ventures had failed. Which really bothered me, because it wasn’t 100 percent true. More like 80 percent true. Sure, my novels had not sold all that well, and I may have been guilty of greatly overestimating my WWE fans’ willingness to follow me into nonwrestling-related projects. But I had other deals, such as a syndicated radio show and a television reality show, that fell through simply because my heart wasn’t in them. Yeah, I know everyone and his brother has a potential reality show in the works, but this was a legitimate deal, brought to me by Buena Vista Productions, a reputable part of the Walt Disney Company, created by Walt Disney himself as the distribution arm of the motion picture part of his vast business empire. In the end, I just wouldn’t have felt right about putting my kids on weekly television before they were at an age to really appreciate the consequences of such a deal.
Reality TV has been great for a guy like Hulk Hogan, but his kids are at an age where they can make mature decisions about being in the public eye. I definitely could see the potential upside to being part of a successful franchise, but in my opinion, the price to pay would simply have been too steep.
Fortunately, my daughter Noelle thinks I’m really cool, because I regularly get to turn down offers from The Surreal Life, Celebrity Fit Club, and other offbeat offerings from the world of reality television.
Still, being labeled a failure by forces within WWE really bothered me, and I felt that signing with Vince would be tantamount to an admission of failure on my part.
Besides, there were some other things that had been bothering me for a while, so I took what I thought was my final opportunity to get them off my chest. One of them dealt with John Layfield’s overly aggressive treatment of the Blue Meanie on the last ECW show, June 12, 2005.
“Vince, how could you allow something like that to happen on your Pay-Per-View?”
“Well, Mick, according to John, the Meanie went after him, and—”
“Come on, Vince,” I said disgustedly. “The Blue Meanie wouldn’t break an eggshell. That episode ruined my entire night, and by not condemning it, you’re condoning it.”
“Mick, I’m sorry you feel that way, but I assure you, we did not condone that.”
“Vince?” Here it was, the question I’d been dying to ask.
“Yes?”
“In the months before Ric’s book was published, didn’t anyone in the company think it might be a good idea to give me a heads-up, about how negative the book was going to be toward me?”
I think Vince said something about it being an oversight, and taking responsibility for it, but it smelled like curiously strong bullshit from a guy who’s usually a straight shooter. Okay, just a few more things to get out, and then I was done.
“Vince, do you know, it just about broke my heart to read that Triple H agreed with Ric. After all the great matches we’d had, after all the money we’d drawn?”
To be fair to Triple H, he did say something about having a lot of respect for me and thinking I was great at what I did, but that I wasn’t a great hold-for-hold wrestler. Which is true. Except Ric didn’t make the case that I wasn’t a great hold-for-hold wrestler. Instead, he made the case that I was pretty much a talentless piece of garbage who had only drawn money due to the creative genius of Vince McMahon, who in the role of modern-day P. T. Barnum waved a magic wand, and presto, created Mankind, a future WWE champion.
“Vince,” I continued, “every time I turn around, I’m getting bad-mouthed by one of our guys. I don’t get treated like that by the TNA guys. They treat me with respect, like I’m somebody special.”
How Vince may have looked when I told him I was leaving.
I think Vince correctly interpreted that I wasn’t thrilled with WWE, probably figuring that if someone was willing to openly criticize Triple H, they really must never want to work for the company again.
“So, I guess that’s it,” Vince said.
“I guess so,” I said, before thanking Vince for all he had done for me, and reasserting my long-held belief that Vince McMahon should be considered on a level equal to that of United States presidents. Hell, I’ll even put him way ahead of our current one.
The door was really closing on that part of my life. I’ll admit that I was the guy who made the conscious effort to nudge the door open just a little.
“Vince, it’s just that I know you wouldn’t be willing to do what it would take to make me stay.”
“What would it take?”
So I told him what it would take. A lot of freedom. Freedom to pursue pretty much any outside venture I wanted, without the need for approval from WWE. I had told Jeff Jarrett all along that there was always the chance that Vince would make me an offer I couldn’t refuse. In which case I’d have to take it.
I used to travel down life’s highway with an old cassette tape of Bob Seger’s “Beautiful Loser,” and always felt a deep connection to the title song. I’d always felt a deep regret at the song’s refrain, which warned, “You just can’t have it all.”
With the help of Vince McMahon, I was able to prove Bob Seger wrong. I really could have it all. Vince McMahon made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, and I simply had to take it.
So did I make the right choice? Yeah, I think so. In a way, I guess I feel the same way about TNA as President Bush feels about Osama bin Laden—I just don’t spend that much time thinking about it.
I will always firmly believe that the wrestling business would be better off with two healthy national promotions, for the wrestlers’ sake as well as Vince McMahon’s. Hey, I remember the glory days of the Monday Night Wars, when everyone was reaping the benefits of healthy competition—the wrestlers, WWE, WCW, the fans. Okay, maybe Eric Bischoff’s desire to put WWE out of business went outside the boundaries of healthy competition, but I think you get the point. Besides, there are so many talented wrestlers
out there who don’t seem to have what WWE is looking for. It would be nice if they could make a decent living, too.
I don’t feel any guilt for the decision I made, because I was simply not the answer to all of TNA’s concerns. I may indeed have been a nice shot in the arm for the company, but long-term success will ultimately depend on many factors that I would not have played a role in. Besides, the jury is still out on whether or not I can put together a string of quality matches. Chances are, I can’t. And then, where would I be? Out of luck after a year, wondering why I turned on a guy like Vince McMahon for one-sixth the money—less than 17 cents on the dollar. Wow! Just how many concussions have I had?
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nbsp; Yeah, I think I made the right decision. And with TNA’s help, I was able to secure concessions from Vince that would have previously been unthinkable. I have my home and security, and get to live like a sailor at sea. But it hasn’t come without a price. For I believe it has cost me the friendship of Vince McMahon. I think he still respects me. He probably still likes me. But for all intents and purposes, I’m pretty sure all vestiges of genuine friendship disappeared the day I told Vince I was leaving.
June 6, 2006
9:05A .M.—Zanesville, OH
Dear Hardcore Diary,
Sometimes I wonder whatever happened to the old Mick Foley. The thrifty guy. The guy who slept on the cot at the Red Roof when he was WWE Champion. The guy who, in 1990, achieved legendary status by managing a record-low dinner bill of $7.49 at Sabbatino’s, one of the finer restaurants in Baltimore. Does that old Mick Foley bear even a passing resemblance to the guy writing this book—the guy who just plunked down $112 for a Hampton Inn?
The old Mick Foley would have made a point to stop by every front desk in town, trying to secure the best deal possible, trying to perform a financial limbo dance under the $80 top figure he’d set up in 1990. Well, maybe adjusted for inflation, $112 isn’t all that high, especially considering the relative luxury of a Hampton, as compared to some of the rat holes I have laid me down to sleep in.
I think a turning point of sorts came in 1999, back when I was WWE Champion, in the middle of a week-long title reign. By that point, I was being compensated very handsomely by Uncle Vince, even if Uncle Sam seemed to show up with his hand out every three months, looking to take a major portion of my hard-earned cash.
Despite my handsome compensation package (did I just use “handsome” and “package” in the same sentence?), I just couldn’t break my frugal ways, at least until a telling episode outside Indianapolis.
During the course of my travels, I had run into a couple of the area’s independent wrestlers on a couple of occasions. So when one of them offered to put me up for the night, I accepted, partially to spare the wrestlers’ feelings, and partially to save a little extra money. Actually, I think it was mostly a money thing, I doubt I really gave a crap about his feelings.
Nevertheless, I liked the guy, and his girlfriend was cool, so their rented house in a not-so-great part of town became a biannual stop for me. About the fourth time I stayed over, I couldn’t help but notice that visitors were pouring into the house at a fairly rapid pace. Sure, their visits didn’t last too long, but man, it seemed like the open invite to meet the hardcore legend was kind of a breach of trust. I mean, inviting a few people was cool, but on this one day, I thought the guy was overdoing it. Beside, these guys were sleazy, even by my standards.
I had to force myself to settle down, get a grip on things, stop being so judgmental. Things were different now. WWE was a ratings phenomenon. I was the WWE champion. These were my fans, the people who made me, and I had to be respectful and appreciative of them, no matter how gross they were. Still, I couldn’t help but feel slightly used by the sheer number of visitors, perhaps two dozen throughout the morning.
A few days later, I received a call from my friend. “Look, I’m sorry about all those people coming by the house,” he said.
“Look, I understand. I’m the champ now. It’s only natural for people to want to meet me.”
“Mick, they weren’t there to meet you,” he said.
“They weren’t?” I said, trying to maintain my sense of dignity despite the hurt involved in finding out the sleazy guys weren’t fans of mine. “What were they there for then?”
“Um, my girlfriend is a crack dealer.”
No, I haven’t been back to that house in Indianapolis. I haven’t stopped by many people’s houses after that particular eye-opening episode. Not unless I know the people really, really well, for a really, really long time.
From time to time, throughout the book, I may have hinted at my disapproval of President Bush, his administration, his policies, and his use of wrestling interviews to shape foreign policy. In 2004 I did go on record, as part of WWE in their “ SmackDownYour Vote” campaign, as an outspoken critic of the president. I realized my views might alienate some of my fans, but I just don’t think I could have lived with myself, if a state like Ohio had been lost by ten votes, knowing that my voice could have made a difference. I dreaded feeling like Oscar Schindler at the end of Schindler’s List, convinced he could have done more to help.
I even talked Vince into setting up a political debate at the University of Miami, one night before the first real presidential debate at the same institution. Actually, I had suggested a series of debates at a variety of campuses, but Vince, being Vince, decided to do it right, complete with ABC World News Now live coverage of the event.
So I debated John Layfield—or JBL, as our fans know him—before the cameras and several hundred enthusiastic students. John is an unabashed Bush supporter, and a powerful public speaker, and came across very well in his comments. Fortunately, my years of near-obsessive political research served me well, as I was able to fend off many of John’s conservative contentions, and score with a potpourri of progressive counterpunches and some sensible centrist slams. I even came close to knocking out the former NFL player turned wrestler, turned financial analyst, turned radio talk show host, with a historic LBJ quote, “The richest nation in the world can afford to win the war on poverty.” Even a crowd that had been told not to applaud our statements couldn’t help but shower the hardcore legend with cheers after that one. Which, come to think of it, may have been my only showering experience of that entire week.
As in life, just about anything in politics can be more easily dissected by using an example from WWE. Hence, my decision to tell the world (or at least World News Now ) of George W. Bush’s “Suck it” presidency. Years ago, during the heyday of WWE’s attitude era, it seemed to me that thought-provoking promos had gone the way of the eight-track, record albums, or quality Al Snow matches, replaced instead by the slick catchphrase. Sure, Promoland may have closed its doors for good on May 29, 2006, but the whole place seemed to be on the brink of creative bankruptcy back in ’97 and ’98. I mean, why try to get people to think when you could get them to yell “Suck it!” instead?
Sports entertainment, it seemed, had passed me by. But I couldn’t help but think that a day might come when our fans would need more than “Suck it!” from their sports entertainers; that eventually they would require more from our guys than just a simple sodomatic slogan. Fortunately, that day did indeed arrive, issuing a second chance for guys like me who had been swept to the curb during the catchphrase craze.
Sharing a laugh with JBL at our political debate.
President Bush, having learned a thing or two from WWE, knew all about the power of the catchphrase. Hey, why make valid points that might require the patience and attention of our country when you can continually score with the same old stale catchphrases such as, “Freedom is on the march. We’re fighting them over there so we don’t have to fight them over here. As they stand up, we’ll stand down,” and “Bring ’em on”?
These catchphrases, I told the Miami audience, were indicative of a “Suck it presidency.” In time, our country would require more of its elected leaders than just a series of catchphrases, but by that time, I feared, it would be too late. He’d already be reelected.
JBL, during his rebuttal, issued the line of the night: “You just said, ‘Suck it,’ during a presidential debate.”
I hadn’t hung out with John for a long time, maybe years, before that night. But I will always fondly remember hanging out with him after the debate, both of us feeling like proud Americans who had stood up for our own personal beliefs in respect to the future of our country. And I will always have the utmost respect for Vince for allowing me a forum in which to speak my mind.
I was thirty-four years old when I retired from full-time wrestling. Which is fairly young to have time to stand back, get a good lo
ok at the world, and realize it doesn’t all revolve around me. Before that, I was simply too busy to pay much attention to the fate of those less fortunate around the world. I mean, who had time for genocide in Rwanda when there was a big show coming up at the ECW arena? How could I be expected to worry about the uninsured in America when my right ear was being thrown into a garbage can in Germany?
So, at an age when most people are dedicating most of their time and energy to work, I was able to travel around the country, do appearances, meet people, ask questions, and truly see how rough much of America has it. Sure, we live in a great country, but it is also a place where millions of working people simply cannot afford to raise a family with the sweat of their brows. The United States used to be a place where hard work was the key to success. Now, it’s the key to a door leading down the path to nowhere.
Which is probably the reason Senator John Edwards’s campaign involving the story of the “two Americas” resonated so strongly with me. As a fairly well known entertainer, I straddle these two Americas almost every single day. And I realize that the only reason I am able to live in the one America is because so many people in the other America think enough of me to spend their hard-earned money on the books, action figures, wrestling events, and Pay-Per-Views that make it possible. To walk away from them and their problems would simply seem like an act of betrayal. At least, I thought so in 2004. I’m not sure I’ll get as involved in 2008.