Have a Nice Day

by Mick Foley

  Mikey and I had lost the tag belts to the Public Enemy, and I had begun a feud with a guy called the Sandman, who is currently wrestling as Hardcore Hak in WCW. The Sandman character was a beerswilling, cigarette-smoking, cane-swinging Philadelphia guy who was loud and abrasive. We did have good chemistry in the ring together, and in addition to having good matches, I was inspired to cut some of my best promos. Unfortunately for Hak, he was on the receiving end of the aforementioned cast-iron skillet, and was sidelined for two weeks. This left me no one to wrestle in March’s ECW arena show. Paul E.’s mind went to work, and he came up with a winner.

  I was set to wrestle a mystery partner in the main event of the evening. Speculation was running rampant as to who it might be. Abdullah the Butcher, King Kong Bundy, Road Warrior Hawk, and even the estranged Funker were names that were thrown around. One thing was for sure-Paul E. would never let the fans down. I went to the ring first and waited for the mystery opponent. A huge box was rolled to the ring, draped in curtains. Through the curtain and out of the box stepped the legend. The man. The myth. D. C. Drake. Now D. C. Drake was a hell of a nice guy, and a few years earlier had been a mainstay for Joel Goodhart’s TWA, but in the three and a half years that had elapsed, he seemed to have lost some of the zing off his fastball. We stunk up the arena, and the ECW faithful were not happy at all with our five-minute extravaganza. Thankfully, the night was not over.

  Out of the box stepped the Sandman, whose brains, by this point, were in the final process of unscrambling. He was dressed in his familiar attire of red shirt, white tennis sneakers, and red, white, and blue exercise pants. I was waiting for him, and after ducking a swing with his cane, gave him three shots and threw him right back into the box from which he’d come. The curtain fell down on top of him, but I wasn’t quite through. I reached in and pulled him out, curtain and all, and rolled his sorry ass into the ring. I could see him wobbling in his red, white, and blue pants as I prepared to pull the curtain off and inflict more damage. I pulled the curtain off, but to the surprise of everyone, saw not only the Sandman, but the legendary Terry Funk in all his glory. The Funker had returned! The response from the crowd was phenomenal, when the fans realized just who it was that stood before them. We went punch for punch, until the Sandman cut me off from behind, and armed with two Singapore canes (better known as the martial arts weapon, the Kendo stick), the two identically clad grapplers commenced to putting a hurting on me. I took a total of forty-six (no, I’m not kidding) cane shots to the head, arms, back, and legs before Shane Douglas interrupted the proceedings.

  Shane, the self-coined Franchise, was the ECW champ and the most hated heel in the company. Despite our different roles in the promotion, ECW announcer Joey Styles had, in the past, readily acknowledged our real-life friendship and background at DeNucci’s. When Shane stepped slowly into the ring, he motioned for Funk and Sandman to hold me, and readied to level me with his championship belt. Shane started for me, but veered right at the last moment and laid out Funk. He stepped left and laid out the Sandman. The crowd went wild, but more importantly, the Cactus-Funk feud would continue to be big news on both sides of the Pacific. I cut some interviews with Shane, and then rested up for my next tour of Japan.

  I flew to Japan for a short trip-just two shows. The importance of the trip cannot be overstated, however, as our first show would be in the sold-out 64,000-seat Tokyo Dome, as part of a thirteen promotion supercard. For a promotion that was used to doing business in small, freezing gyms, this was a huge opportunity. Thirteen offices would contribute one match each to this card, which would set an all-time gate record of somewhere around $6 million. We knew that the other promotions would each try to steal the show, as we were likewise planning on doing our damnedest to achieve. The match we had booked was an eight-man, barbed wire board, barbed wire bat death match that would pit the team of Funk, Leatherface, Nakamaki, and Ono against me, the Headhunters, and someone I can’t remember. The barbed wire bat was a standard baseball bat wrapped heavily in barbed wire, and the barbed wire boards were simply plywood boards that had loose bales of barbed wire nailed into them. The concept was a little different, but simple nonetheless. All eight men would line up on the stage area of the massive dome. The announcer would count us down from ten, and at zero, we would all make a mad dash for the ring, which contained the deadly bat. The match would then continue, until one of the team’s members was pinned in this anything-goes free-for-all.

  I had my doubts about just what the sprint down the sixty-yard Tokyo Dome ramp might look like-I mean we didn’t exactly look like a track team backstage. On one side, Funk was over fifty and had knees that looked like a cartoonist had drawn them on his body. They certainly didn’t look like human knees. Nakamaki was no athletic wonder, and Leatherface was a 320-pound Canadian who was coming off a severe foot injury. He had tried to catch one of the Headhunters, two 400-pound identical twins from the Dominican Republic, and the fall had not just broken his foot, but crushed it. I myself had been one of the slowest guys on the Ward Melville lacrosse team-long before the ring injuries took their toll. Well, maybe Ono or the guy I can’t remember could run.

  We stood in the waiting area while the match before us went on. To put it kindly, the match was godawful, but the crowd was going crazy. The contestants Rhuma Go and his two masked Americans were putting on one of the worst performances I’d ever seen, but the sold-out crowd was eating up every bit of it. These guys made the Test-Rodney match look like Flair-Steamboat. “This is great,” I yelled to one of the Headhunters. “If they react to this garbage, wait till they see Terry.” The reprehensible match mercifully ended, and four at a time, the two teams took to the stage.

  There was a slight bit of applause when our team showed upvery slight. To tell you the truth, I thought my growing recognition would have resulted in a better response than this. I got over it quickly, and waited anxiously for the huge roar that would greet the legendary Funker. The Funker arrived, but unfortunately, the roar didn’t. It was polite, and far more than our team had merited, but it was far from deafening. I couldn’t figure it out, especially given the reaction to the previous match, and I stood dumbfounded in front of 64,000 fans. What I didn’t realize is that Rhuma Go is a big wrestling joke that the whole country is in on. His matches were supposed to be bad, and the fans loved him for it. This was information that I wished I’d had access to, because to tell you the truth, I felt like a big jerk standing out there.

  As a matter of fact, we stood there for a long time. Someone had forgotten to tell the announcer about the ten-second countdown, and as a result, we had no way of starting our match. Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was probably a good five minutes, I heard Funk yell over, “I guess someone better run.” I took the initiative and took off down the ramp. Because the 64,000-seat dome had all the emotion of the world’s largest funeral, I figured I would be able to hear footsteps on the hard wooden ramp. I didn’t. Instead, I looked back and saw the danger man a good thirty yards behind me. I slowed to a jog, and then finally a slow walk, while I waited for Nakamaki to catch up. When he finally did, I turned around and followed a boot to his midsection up with a DDT on the ramp. “Uhwahh.” It was slight, but I heard it. The rest of the crew still had a lot of catching up to do. I walked into the ring and casually took control of the bat. Seconds later, Terry stepped through the ropes, and I raised the bat over my head to give the impression that I actually intended to use it on him. I was being so deliberate that my body language was literally screaming out to be cut off. I was expecting a boot to the stomach or at worst a wide open back to swing at, but the Funker did neither. Instead he closed one eye and looked up at me with the other. His fists were clenched tightly, and his body was shaking. I could read his body language loud and clear. It was literally screaming, “Hit me.”

  I brought the bat down hard over Terry’s head. I won’t pretend it was full speed, but it wasn’t half-assed either. I had just taken a three-quarter- speed s
wing at a defenseless old man with a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire. “Uhwahh!” I heard the reaction that time. It had hurt me to have to lambaste my own idol, but in fulfillment of my prediction made seven months earlier in the ECW Arena, not as bad as it had hurt him. Rivulets of blood streamed down Terry’s face from four different puncture wounds. Terry had dropped to his knees, and was obviously in great pain. This time, when I lifted the bat overhead, he was quick to react. He kicked me in the stomach, and when I dropped the bat, he was there to recover the fumble. I looked at the blood streaming down his face and knew that payback would be hell. I gave him my back, and he took full advantage of it. Four times the bat went up, and four times it came down. Four times I heard the “uhwahh” from the crowd, as they started to gain an understanding of what the IWA was all about.

  I separated from Terry and turned my attention elsewhere. Nakamaki and I had a big move lined up, and I figured the time was right. I put the boots to the journalist-turned-wrestler and then placed one of the barbed wire boards in the middle of the ring. I took a bottle of lighter fluid from one of the young boys and proceeded to generously douse the board. I returned the bottle, and was handed a lighter. Believe it or not, that psycho danger man bastard wanted me to suplex him off the top rope onto a board of flaming barbed wire. The crowd that minutes earlier hadn’t given a damn about us were now on the edge of their seats. The buzz from the sold-out crowd was giving me a buzz of my own, as I set the lighter to the board. “Uhwahh” went the crowd, but … nothing. Another flick of my Bic, but I couldn’t get the damn thing to light. The crowd caught on, and began laughing at us. It was not a great feeling. Finally, after flicking uselessly, I gave up.

  I could see the disappointment in Nakamaki’s eyes as we quickly came up with a plan B. As plan Bs go, it was pretty good. I slammed Nakamaki on the failed board, and then threw another on top of him. Headhunter B climbed the top rope and completed a perfect moonsault-sandwiching Nakamaki between the boards with his 400-pound frame. “Uhwahh.” We had them back.

  The match concluded with what one wrestling journalist called “the greatest clusterfuck of incredible moves ever seen in the ring.” Bodies were flying all over, and somewhere in the mayhem, I split my left arm open, causing the thick pink scars that have become something of a trademark. I honestly don’t remember who won, but we had all worked extremely hard, and the match itself had been a major victory for our little group of dedicated bloodletters. I wrestled the next night with my arm heavily bandaged. It was a decent match, but nothing memorable. I do remember vividly that I never received a dime out of that $6 million house.

  On a strange side note, I found out later that the fire marshal would have shut down the entire show if the board had gone up in flames. I would have gone down in wrestling history as the guy who killed 1the biggest show of all time. Asano was so mad at us that he slapped the referee, even though he was completely innocent. I guess you cart get away with that if you have $500 million.

  Chapter 28

  When I returned home, Colette had great news. She had been offered a job with Wilhelmina Models in New York, the same company she had done so well with years earlier. Within fifteen months, she had gone from a 180-pound pregnant housewife into something out of the pages of Muscle and Fitness. I’d had my doubts when she started doing Jane Fonda aerobics in the living room, but was pleasantly surprised to see her still stepping and jumping weeks later. She was obviously pleased with the results, and with my encouragement, began coming with me to the gym that Sting owned outside Atlanta. Colette started wearing out the cardio equipment, and her achievements were not going unnoticed, as no less an authority than Diamond Dallas Page declared her an “inspiration.”

  I began talking to Colette about giving modeling another try, as I truly felt that she was more beautiful than I’d ever seen her-modeling photos included. In the years since Colette had left modeling, the industry had changed quite a bit, and girls were no longer “washed up” at twenty-three. She had photos done in Atlanta, and was welcomed back to her old company-albeit in their “mature ladies” division.

  We rented out our house in Atlanta and packed up for my old stamping grounds, Long Island, New York. Colette had some reservations about making us move, but I assured her that the move would also make things easier on me as well. From New York, I could fly nonstop to Tokyo, and could commute to most ECW shows as well. All in all, a move to New York would be easier on me, and allow Colette a second chance to do what she loved. My parents were also thrilled to be close to their grandchildren and loving, Hardcore Legend of a son.

  Months later, Colette thanked me for never once making her feel fat or unattractive, even though she herself had felt that way. I kissed her and told her that she’d always been beautiful to me. Still, I was glad to have my gorgeous, slim wife back. Yesss!

  The next few months seemed to blend together, professionally. I feuded with Funker in the U.S., and I feuded with Funker overseas. Actually, Terry was not on all the Japanese tours, and sometimes it was just me and Leatherface on the gai-jin side of things. The trips were long and the amenities stank, but I was selling my shirts, and getting over with the fans, and the boredom of life so far from home was a price I had to pay. I read a hell of a lot over there, and became better acquainted with my body. I read books of all types ranging from classics like Moby Dick to biographies and Civil War history. My personal favorite was a book I found called Sins, by Judith Gould, which actually featured my wife on the cover (she’d modeled for the painting). The book was definitely not typical men’s fare, but I was fascinated by the idea that my wife was the title character who built her own fashion empire.

  Despite the hard work and solitude, I was proud of my efforts in Japan. Tarzan Goto had jumped ship from the rival FMW, and his addition helped fuel an IWA resurgence. IWA had announced plans for a King of the Death Match tournament for the beginning of August in the 40,000-seat Kawasaki Stadium. The idea had seemed ludicrous at first, but with me, Funk, Goto, the Headhunters, and Nakamaki leading the way, the IWA had become the hottest small promotion in Japan.

  Colette was working steadily-nothing big yet, but enough to make it worthwhile. Dewey was adjusting well to Dad’s long absence, and Noelle’s little personality was really starting to bloom. I remember when she was only weeks old, I said to Colette, “I bet she’s going to have her own little personality,” which was a nice way of saying, “We really don’t have a very good-looking child.” We thought that we were going to have a very plain-looking daughter with a very serious personality, for Noelle seldom smiled as a baby. At about that time in Long Island, however, she began to really blossom, and the beauty of her tiny face is now matched only by the beauty of her little ways.

  I was able to drive to most of the ECW shows, which was a big help, and I’d often drive my buddy Mikey home with me, where he’d sleep on our bed in the basement, before I’d drop him off in the morning. One day I had Colette and the kids with me as we returned Mikey to his home, and we saw a mother cat frolicking with her kittens.

  “Aren’t those kitties nice?” I asked my son, who nodded in agreement. “Can you say that, buddy?” I asked, knowing that like most kids, Dewey had trouble with certain letters.

  “Nice titties,” Dewey yelled out, prompting an unsuspecting Mikey to spit milk all over our dashboard.

  My hard work was paying off-1 had been gone from WCW for almost a year, and although I hadn’t made nearly as much money as I had with the big company, I had actually saved more of it. I didn’t need anybody, I could make my own schedule, and I loved it.

  I pulled into the ECW arena in August of 1995, a few hours late, as I had become lost on the way to the building. I had been to the damn place over a dozen times, but its whereabouts always seemed to elude me. I had Colette and the kids with me, as we were planning on going to Pennsylvania Dutch country afterward. Paul E. ran up to me in desperation. “Cactus,” he gasped, “I’ve got a big angle, and it will change the course
of your career and maybe even your life. You don’t have to do it, and you can think about it for a long time.”

  “What is it, Paul?” The mad scientist was sweating, and was looking older than his thirty years.

  “Cactus-I want to turn you heel.”

  This was indeed a career-altering decision that could very well change the course of my life. I thought about it deeply-for about three seconds. “Okay,” I said, “let’s do it.”

  I was scheduled to take part in an eight-man tag team match. On one side would be Raven and three of the Dudley Boys. The Dudley Boys had started out as a takeoff on the Hanson Brothers, who had appeared in the Paul Newman hockey movie Slapshot. The movie was dated, but the Hansons were timeless. Their taped-up black eyeglasses, overalls, and long greasy hair lent a comedic look that was countered by an aggressive style. In time, the Dudley clan would grow to include an American Indian, a black guy, and Sign Guy Dudley, who should not be confused with the original sign guy-a strange fan who sat first row ringside, and held up a vast arsenal of original signs. The original sign guy had once held up a sign that said “Cane Dewey,” a thought that was supposed to be humorous, but had made Colette sick to her stomach upon hearing of it. Our team consisted of Cactus Jack, Pitbulls 1 and 2, and Tommy Dreamer. Tommy was a personal project of Paul E.’s who was willing to do anything for the acceptance of the fans. He had once been a laughingstock of the company, as no matter what body part he sacrificed, the fans continued to shower him with ridicule. The hardcore ECW fans had despised him partly because he was a good-looking young man, and partly because of his ridiculous ring attire that included green suspenders. Eventually his determination, Paul E.’s ingenuity, and other talented wrestlers got him over to the point where he was at least respected if not completely loved. The fans’ chants to him of “He’s hardcore, he’s hardcore,” seemed at least partially in jest, but nonetheless he seemed poised on the brink of stardom and needed just a little something extra to push him completely over. I was it.