Have a Nice Day

by Mick Foley

  I was a little lightheaded and my throat was hoarse from hacking up blood, but other than that, I felt all right to walk and drive. Unfortunately, I was not able to, as the show had just ended and fans were streaming into the parking lot. Unlike other crowds, the Dallas fans were treated to two wrestling shows a weekend, and as a result, knew not only the wrestlers but each other quite well. After a show, they tended to congregate for hours in the parking lot, throwing small parties complete with barbecues and beverages. I really couldn’t afford to have them see my face, as the fall was supposed to keep me out all week. Instead, I climbed up the stairs into the “crow’s nest,” a fenced in area where the wrestlers, their families, and their friends could watch the matches in peace. After the Sportatorium had emptied, Gentleman Chris Adams was having his inaugural class for his wrestling school, and I sat down to have a few laughs at the beginners’ expense.

  My first laugh came when Adams talked about the cost of the school. “Three thousand dollars might seem like a lot of money,” the Gentleman began in his perfect Stratford-on-Avon accent, “but not when you realize that I make that in one day.” Oh man, that was a good one. Next, Adams arranged his dozen or so students into groups and began doing drills with them. “Man, these guys suck,” I thought. “Some of these guys are even worse than I was.”

  All except one guy, that is, who actually seemed to be doing quite well. He was a big muscular kid with long blond hair and he stood out in the crowd like a sore thumb. The more I watched him, the more impressed I was. “Man,” I thought in a slight reconsideration of my earlier harsh appraisal of talent, “that blond kid looks like he’s got potential.” That was the first time I ever saw Steve Austin, who would go on to become the biggest star in the history of the business.

  Chapter 9

  I returned to Texas to hear some strange news-I was booked for the following Saturday night in Fort Worth in a scaffold match. A scaffold match is a wonder of stupidity that some genius thought up in Memphis and that had since made the rounds in Texas and Jim Crockett’s old NWA. The object of the match was simple-knock your opponent off the scaffold. World Class bragged that they had the highest scaffold in the wrestling world. It had to be more than twenty, maybe even twenty-five feet high. I thought back to an offhand comment Embry had made months earlier. “Would you be willing to do a scaffold match?” he had nonchalantly asked, to which I had nonchalantly said, “Sure.” Now, however, it didn’t seem like such a good idea.

  A day before the match, I got a surprise phone call. The voice was frantic. “Jack, please don’t do this match,” it yelled. It was Valerie, the girl who had dumped me, and I paused for a few minutes to get myself in Cactus Jack mode.

  “Why?” I asked, waiting for more of this outpouring of emotion.

  “Because you’re going to get hurt and I don’t want you to get hurt,” was her reply.

  Not bad, a lot of anguish in her voice, but I was going to make her pay for daring to suggest a sexual inadequacy on my part. “I’m sorry, it’s too late,” I replied. “It’s already been booked, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Yes there is,” Valerie cried. “Tell them that you can’t do it.”

  Oh, this was great, and now, it seemed, was the perfect time for a little sarcasm. “What do you want me to do, Valerie,” I asked, “tell them that I can’t do it because me ex-girlfriend won’t let me?”

  “Yes,” she yelled, “tell them anything, just don’t go up there!”

  “I’m sorry,” I replied in much sadness before adding, “and, Valerie, in case anything happens to me up there, I want to say good luck.” She was crying when she hung up the phone. I showed her. No one, and I mean no one, makes fun of my “little buddy” and gets away with it.

  I knew two things about scaffold matches before having this one. First, for the most part, they suck, with very little action being supplied by guys who are usually scared out of their wits. There had been a few exceptions, thanks to guys like Bobby Eaton, who would actually put on a show up there, but by and large most of them were stinkers.

  I also knew that scaffolds were dangerous. Even though common sense and the slightest respect for the human body tells us that no one is actually going to be “thrown” off the scaffold, even a hanging drop was dangerous-especially to the knees. A few wrestlers, with Jim Cornette being the most notable example, had blown out their knees and had never been quite the same. I hoped that I would not suffer the same fate.

  The scaffold match was actually my second match of the evening, as I had already wrestled in the second match of the night. Killer Tim Brooks had quit the company a month earlier and instead of hiring another heel, Joanne Harriss had sewed together a black and red outfit and a hood. Yours truly became “Super Zodiac Number II,” never mind the fact that my hair stuck through the mask and that my distinctive walk and even more distinctive ass (or lack of ass) left absolutely no one fooled. I came back from my match in Fort Worth and asked Eric about the wisdom of me losing in the second match only to come out ready to kick some ass in the main event. Embry looked at me like I had two heads. “Baby,” he said, before adding the words that would forever make me doubt his judgment and sanity, “no one will know-you’re under a hood.”

  I walked out for the scaffold match with General Akbar by my side. At the last moment, Akbar had been added to the festivities as my partner, while Embry had chosen a partner as well-Percy Pringle, who would later become known as Paul Bearer. When I climbed up the scaffold, I immediately felt a rush of adrenaline, partially because I knew that potential for injury was high. I can only compare it to standing atop the Hell in a Cell in June 1998, and unfortunately the results would be comparable as well. Embry and Percy climbed up and the match was under way. Immediately, Akbar and Percy dropped to their bellies and stayed there for the duration of the match. Together, they spent more time on their bellies than most snakes do. I think any fool could tell you that neither of the two would take the tumble.

  Eric and I, however, were eager to duke it out. I really can’t remember a damn thing about it except being pile driven on the scaffold and rolling over on my belly to prepare for the drop. “Are you ready, baby,” Embry asked as he delivered a boot to the head that eased me halfway off the structure.

  “Yeah,” I said weakly, as the ring below me appeared very far away. I may have said “yeah,” but in reality I had no idea what to do. I knew what I was supposed to do-hang until ready, then drop, and crumple upon impact so as not to ruin my knees. Sadly, I sensed that my goal would be unobtainable because as I supported myself with one elbow, I could see that I had nothing to grab on to with which to hang. Everything I saw was much longer than my hand and impossible to grip. I really didn’t see how I could hang. Twenty feet in the air was not the best place to be for a kid who could never do pull-ups in gym class.

  I was swinging my legs when Embry kicked me and my elbow hold gave way. I must have been on a backward swing because when I dropped, I began to free-fall face-first-picking up speed and heading for disaster. As I was about to land, I put my hand down to block the fall, and then landed in a heap. It was a good minute before I moved because when I realized where I was, Akbar was already on the mat. I tried to stand quickly and fell down. Two more wrestlers came from the back and together helped me make my way to the dressing room. The other wrestlers wore expressions of concern as I stumbled in. “Are you all right?” they all wanted to know. I assured them I was, but in reality I was far from okay. After sitting for a half hour, I tried to change but found it very hard to do so. Untying my shoes was extremely painful to attempt. Finally, Cowboy Tony came in and helped me untie my boots. A good hour after the match had ended, I walked out to my Plymouth Arrow with the dented, unusable door, and saw a small congregation of well-wishers gathered there. Among them were Valerie and her two kids.

  It was obvious that all three had been crying. “I’m sorry, Jack,” she cried, “can you forgive me?”

  “Sure,” I said
, and then in a true example of class, I treated her and the kids to Jack in the Box, where against my wishes, the kids ordered sodas instead of free tap water.

  In retrospect, that match at the Will Rogers Coliseum in Fort Worth was the beginning of the end for me. I had my wrist X-rayed and, sure enough, there was a small crack in a bone in my wrist. The doctor gave me a brace and told me to wear it for two weeks. Sixteen weeks later, my arm was taken out of a cast that extended all the way to my elbow. The doctor, who, I later learned, had a less than sterling reputation, had failed to correctly diagnose my cracked bone as being the vernicular bone, which, due to poor blood supply, is one of the most difficult bones in the body to heal.

  I wrestled for three months with the cast and had some good matches. The announcers never even acknowledged the cast. Apparently, they felt it might make me look sympathetic and therefore declined to comment. I was able to have matches for three months without throwing a single punch, which was beneficial in the long run, but I began to lose matches on television with increasing regularity and I began to think of other options in my life.

  I had been quite friendly with Video Bob, our director and producer of the World Class show. Given the restraints on time and money that he worked under, Bob did a tremendous job on the show, and with his help, I put together an impressive music video for me and Gary set to the tune of “Born to Be Wild.” We actually turned the video into a rib on Gary, who himself was known as quite a ribber. After completing the video, Bob and I spent an extra four hours making another special video in which all of Gary’s great moves were edited out and replaced by boneheaded mishaps. Together, Bob and I laughed our ball off (right, Dominic?) and waited in anticipation for Gary to arrive to check out the finished product. When Gary showed up, his reaction was classic, as his face inched closer to the screen with every indignity he suffered, while I, as his partner, came across like Bruiser Brody. “What do you think,” I asked him, and then waited while he fumbled for a reply. Finally, my own lack of body control gave me away and Gary caught on when he saw my stomach rapidly shaking in an attempt to withhold my laughter. “That was a good rib,” Gary had to admit, “that was a good rib.” We then played the real video, which was met with a huge reaction.

  Bob used to always confer with me before a TV show to learn just what move I might come up with and how we could best shoot it. It was in Texas that I began using the flying elbow off the ring apron and within a few weeks, Bob had mastered how to shoot it. Back in those days, I used to get some serious distance on those leaps and Bob would make sure that the camera was right to the offside of my opponent’s head while I prepared to leap. When I took off, it would look like I was diving into the fans’ living rooms, and the cameraman would occasionally shake the camera upon impact for added emphasis.

  My appreciation for Bob’s work, along with my growing concern that I might leave wrestling both financially broke and physically broken down, led me to travel to the World Class studios in Las Calinas three days a week. In the editing suite, I would brush up on the latest technology as well as do occasional voice-overs using my “professional voice.” So for any of you fans who have old World Class tapes from 1989, listen closely for the Hardcore Legend as he says, “Let’s look back once again at the latest misfortune suffered by Eric Embry.” In addition to learning quite a bit, I also had fun in that studio, although I’m glad to say I have never needed to use my technical skills.

  About this time, I received word from my friend “Flamboyant” (Freddie Fargo) that Jim Ross was interested in bringing me into Ted Turner’s World Championship Wrestling. I was thrilled. This, I felt, was the answer to my dreams. I got the number from Freddie and anxiously called Ross, who was the head of the WCW booking committee. Ross informed me that the company was going to be looking for new talent after the summer and that I was high on their list. It was the greatest news of my young career. Yes, yes, yes!

  Two weeks later, I received bad news in the form of a wrestling newsletter, whose headline read, “Ross Resigns from Booking Committee.” My heart sank past my stomach into my testicular region. No, no, nooo!

  With my spirits totally down, it was with great amusement that I read a fan letter sent to me at the Sportatorium. I had received a few nice letters during my stay in Dallas, but this one took the cake. It was five pages of glowing tributes to me, including, “Your eyes are as blue as the clear Texas sky,” which they aren’t-they’re hazel, and something about having the strength of ten men. She concluded her love letter by writing, “If you want me to write again, play with your hair when you get into the ring.” Needless to say, I was flipping my flowing locks for the Sportatorium faithful-and for that one girl in particular. I wanted more of those compliments.

  As it turned out, playing with the hair was probably a mistake, as when I returned to Dallas the next week, there were five more letters waiting for me—each more ridiculous than the next. Someone pointed her out to me in the crowd, as she had written in the past to other guys as well, but not to the extent that she had written me. She looked so sad and pathetic that I didn’t quite know what to say when I saw her standing by my car. “Are you the girl who’s been writing to me,” I gently said.

  “Yes,” she replied with a sad smile. “Is it okay if I continue?”

  I was really a little bit concerned, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings so I said, “Sure, that would be fine.”

  When I came back to Dallas a week later, there were ten letters in my box from her, each signed “Mary Ann Manson” in the return address area. During my time in Dallas, I had been renamed Cactus Jack Manson by Eric Embry, and the implication was very clear-she thought we were married. The contents of the letters proved as much as she wrote about our relationship and our marriage. Uh-oh, this wasn’t good-1 had my own personal stalker.

  I decided that enough was enough and when I saw her by my Arrow with a white rose in her hand, I told her in no uncertain terms that she was not my wife and that I didn’t want to hear from her or receive letters from her anymore. That, I thought, was that.

  When I first got to the Sportatorium on Friday night, I was relieved to find not a single letter in my box. “Hey, I showed her who’s boss,” I thought, just as something caught my eye. It was her handwriting on a letter addressed to World Class announcer Marc Laurence. The return address strangely still read “Mary Ann Manson.”

  I asked Laurence if I could open his letter and he obliged. The contents shocked me. “By the time you read this,” it read, “I will be dead. I was married to Cactus Jack but something went terribly wrong.” There was more, a lot more, but the gist of the thing is that I had killed her. When I got home that night, I called the police station in her hometown and inquired about any recent deaths in the area. They reported none.

  The next week I saw her in the parking lot. I knew she was a sick lady, but I decided to be firm anyway. It was a judgment call. I told her in no uncertain terms that she was not to write to any wrestlers ever again and that if she did I would make sure that she was banned from the Sportatorium forever. I guess the threat of never setting foot in the decrepit, rat-infested, freezing in winter, hotter than hell in the summer Sportatorium was enough to cure her pen-pal-itis, as I never saw her handwriting again. I did see her at the matches, but I made sure never to play with my hair.

  Toward the middle of the summer I started to get the gut feeling that it was time to leave. Part of World Class’s appeal was also its drawback, as its large size ensured good visibility but also ensured a large viewing audience for my recent losing efforts. I really felt like these losses were going to hurt me long-term, and I certainly wasn’t being paid enough to compensate for throwing my career away. Besides, the constant pounding was making it impossible for my wrist to heal. With a heavy heart I approached Embry and told him I thought it was time to leave. I thanked him for his faith in me, and in return he offered me a place to work wherever he happened to be-a promise he actually backed up by calling me a
year later when he took over the booking in Puerto Rico. For some reason, even though I was hurt, I offered to work out a six-week notice during which time he assured me of a great buildup to my departure.

  I saw Frank Dusek, our color commentator and one of our town promoters, a week later when news of my imminent exit from Texas became known. Frank was concerned and called me upstairs to his office to express his feelings. “Why do you want to leave?” Dusek inquired. “Don’t you like it here?”

  “Hey Frank, I love it here,” I was quick to reply. “It’s just that my wrist doesn’t seem to be healing and I’m losing a lot of matches lately.” Dusek nodded his head and then asked when I would be coming back. “I’m not coming back, Frank,” I answered. “I’m going to Alabama to work for Robert Fuller when I get better.”

  Dusek’s expression looked pained as he asked, “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  Now all of a sudden I wasn’t sure-after all, I was just a kid with four years’ experience compared with the forty-year-old Dusek, who had literally grown up in the sport. “Why?” was all I said.

  “Cactus, the people like you here,” he reasoned. “You would be welcome back any time. Why go someplace and start over?”

  His next words chilled me to the bone and would continue to haunt me for years as I struggled to climb wrestling’s ladder of success. The words were not meant in anger; he was telling it like he saw it, which made them hurt even worse, “You’re never going to be a top guy in this business,” he stated simply. “You will always be the bottom of the top or the top of the bottom, but you will never draw big money.” I thanked him for his honesty but told him that I intended to prove him wrong. He smiled and said that he hoped so too.

  I saw Frank Dusek in Greensboro, North Carolina, in early 1998. It was the first time I had seen him since my Texas departure. I was wrestling the World Wrestling Federation champion. He shook my hand, and I asked him if he remembered what he said to me a decade earlier. “Oh God,” he said, laughing, “what was it?” I repeated his “bottom of the top, top of the bottom” speech and saw him wince as if he were John Winger taking a Sergeant “Big Toe” Hulka uppercut to the solar plexus. He then literally got down on his knees and jokingly bowed down to me. “Cactus,” he exclaimed, “I have never been so glad to be wrong in my life.”