Have a Nice Day

by Mick Foley

  Vince then hit me with words I never expected to hear. “Mick, I don’t mind when you do it, but Al ruined an entire segment by talking about you.” I basically had carte blanche from the boss to ruin Al, to embarrass him and make him suffer. I don’t think I will, but it’s nice to know I can. Oh, by the way, I invented the whole “head” thing.

  Heading into June, Mankind was gaining momentum. The office had pushed me hard, and people were responding. I was getting a chance to cut some pretty decent interviews, and my matches with Undertaker had been stealing the show around the country. I sometimes think about where my life would be if the Undertaker had chosen to be an asshole. I had seen guys put a wrestler in a hole that can be damn tough to dig out of. Shane Douglas had been living proof. He’d come to World Wrestling Federation with huge hopes and had been miserable right off the bat. His lame Dean gimmick didn’t help, but neither did opponents who went out of their way to make him look bad. Undertaker had been completely the opposite. His professionalism had been beyond reproach and, as a result, both of our careers had benefited.

  I arrived in Milwaukee for the King of the Ring Pay-Per-View, not knowing what to expect. I was hoping for a continuation of the quality work we had put out, but beyond that, I really had no idea. Shane Douglas had been real critical of my decision to join the World Wrestling Federation and didn’t seem impressed when I told him of my imminent feud with ‘Taker. “When push comes to shove, Cactus,” he had warned me, “whose shoulders do you think are going to be on the mat?” Well, Shane, in this case, they weren’t mine. In what had to be considered a major upset, Mankind clearly defeated the Undertaker in seventeen minutes of one hell of a match. I think this match was actually a corner turner for the Federation, as it applied liberal use of chairs and outside-the-ring brawling that actually enhanced a rivalry instead of blowing it off. The match also featured the amusing guest commentary of Owen Hart.

  I have been trying to think of the best time to speak about Owen. As I write this, it has been eight days since his tragic death in Kansas City. I have been writing every night, usually between the hours of 10:00 P.M. and 4 A.M., and often when I put my pen down, it seems for a few fleeting seconds that the whole thing was a bad dream. Unfortunately, it wasn’t, and I usually walk over to a photograph of me, Owen, and Terry Funk and say a prayer for Owen and for his family. I am, as of this writing, on a plane from Calgary, where earlier today I attended Owen’s funeral. I told a story on Raw a week ago about how my son felt so proud to look like Owen Hart after they had both gotten matching crewcuts three years ago. “Dad, guess what,” Dewey had asked me during a long-distance phone call. “I look like Owen Hart.”

  Colette got on the phone and said, “Your son is so happy to look like Owen.” I went on to say that I would be proud if my son could grow up to be a man like Owen.

  Several of the Hart family mentioned how touched they were by my words, as they knew they had come from my heart. I had the privilege of meeting Owen’s wife, Martha, and she told me how much Owen had thought of me, and how I was one of his favorite people. I will always treasure that brief meeting with Owen’s wife and will truly hold her kind words within my heart for the rest of my life.

  Owen was an excellent wrestler. He had won an athletic scholarship to the University of Calgary as an amateur wrestler, where he went on to compete in the Canadian national championships. He left after three years to compete for his father Stu’s Stampede Wrestling company. Stu himself was a legendary wrestler but was perhaps even better known for training wrestlers in his basement “dungeon,” where screams of pain were as much a part of the home as the furniture. Owen was at one point the greatest flyer in North America, and with his added knowledge of amateur wrestling and Stu’s dungeon knowhow, was one of the best all-around wrestlers in the world. Even after injuries grounded his aerial skills, he went on to be a big star in the World Wrestling Federation, where he was a four-time tag champ, two-time InterContinental champ, and European champion as well. I had watched Owen for years before meeting him and had been greatly entertained by many of his classic matches. Little did I know upon meeting him that I would enjoy his bad matches even more.

  I had been with the Federation only a few months when we came to Scranton, Pennsylvania. We were working at the Catholic Youth Center, which is a great building for atmosphere but a terrible building for morale, because of the low payoffs that the tiny gym always resulted in. There was a little hallway by the wrestlers’ entrance where you could see the action, so I walked out to take a look. Owen was in the middle of a match with Marc Mero and had just shot the Wildman into the ropes. Mero hit Owen with a shoulder tackle, and instead of taking a crisp flat back fall, which is the norm, Owen slowly fell as if he were a tree. “Man, that’s terrible,” I thought, especially for someone as good as Owen Hart. It got worse. Mero shot Owen into the ropes and prepared for a hip toss. Owen took off across the ring using three giant, slow, high steps and then took a hip toss, which could more accurately have been called an ankle roll. It was horrible. I was in the middle of thinking, “Man, maybe he’s having a bad night,” when I heard the British Bulldog laughing. “Look at Owen, look at Owen,” Bulldog hooted in his thick English accent. “Oh, that’s too much. That’s too fuckin’ much.” Now I understood. Owen was definitely stinking up the place, but he was doing it on purpose. I had done that a few times myself, but, unlike me, Owen wasn’t doing it as part of a story line or to anger the fans. He was doing it simply to amuse the boys.

  There was nothing like a bad Owen Hart match. The strange thing is, most fans didn’t pick up on it. He was subtle enough about it that only the other wrestlers knew. Sometimes, however, when I was actually a part of these hideous performances, it seemed like the whole world could tell. In addition to an offense consisting of multiple rakes of the body, kicks in the ass, horrible-looking karate chops that were always preceded by a loud “hi-yah,” and cocoa butts (the big, fakelooking version of the popular head butt) so fake that they made Lou Albano look like Carl Gotch, and he was equally terrible on the defensive. For example, a few months later in Kuwait, I was teaming with Owen and Bulldog against the Undertaker, Barry Windham, and Owen’s brother, Brett “Hitman” Hart. Barry had Owen in a rear chinlock and was really arching up on it. I didn’t think anything of it until I heard Bulldog’s familiar cry. “Look at Owen, look at Owen.” I did indeed look at Owen and immediately began laughing. While Barry was going through a series of grimaces and growls to accentuate his hold, Owen’s face was completely motionless. He wore not the slightest facial expression, and his body moved not a bit until he casually lifted his arm to smoke an imaginary cigarette. “He’s too much, he’s too fuckin’ much,” the Bulldog said, laughing. I had to agree.

  Later in the match, Brett was tagged in and made a comeback that culminated in his sharpshooter submission hold. The sharpshooter is a legitimately painful hold that places a great deal of stress on the lower back and quadriceps, but if Owen was in pain, he certainly wasn’t showing it. As Brett cinched up on the hold, Owen, who had his head facing away from Brett, looked to be in about as much pain as a clam in deep sand. He rubbed his eyes sleepily and checked his wrist for an imaginary watch. Brett cinched up further, and Owen yawned. Finally, Brett rocked back even further, and Owen finally yelled out in pain. But Owen had pleased his biggest admirer. “Oh, that’s too fuckin’ much,” Bulldog repeated.

  I was reminded of just how much Davey Boy Smith (Bulldog) had revered Owen when my son rented a video of the 1996 Slammy Awards (the World Wrestling Federation’s annual awards show). Owen had won a Slammy the year before and had carried it with him to every match. His tights were adorned with the words “Slammy Award Winner,” and he was even introduced for his matches as “The Slammy Award-winning Owen Hart.” Now, a year later, Owen was not even nominated, and I felt a little sad to see one of my favorite gimmicks ended. The nominees for Best Bowtie, a prestigious award if ever there was one, were announced, but before a winner co
uld be declared, Owen jumped on stage. “Yes!” he yelled in his overbearing little way. “I did it! I won. I’m a winner-whoa! Bulldog, you might have two titles, but you don’t have two Slammys … but I do, because I’m a winner-whoa!”

  The camera showed Davey Boy, who was literally beaming. He always got the biggest kick out of Owen. Owen continued his little speech threatening Vader and me, who would be facing Owen and Bulldog in the next evening’s WrestleMania. As he stepped offstage with his new Slammy in hand, he walked toward Vader. A waiter happened to be passing by, and Owen dumped the entire contents of his tray-ten pitchers of iced tea-onto Leon. Vader stood up, not knowing what to do. He was smiling, but he sure as hell wasn’t happy. Finally, he ran after the two-time Slammy winner but tripped and fell, and actually missed a few shows due to injury.

  I had heard of Owen’s reputation as a “ribber” but couldn’t appreciate it until I saw him in action. We were in Colorado in July 1996. Business had been up, but this particular crowd was uncharacteristically small. I felt like part of the reason was the show’s promoter, a likeable but somewhat goofy-looking cowboy, who seemed content just to hang out with the guys-good house or not. Midway through the card, I looked at Owen and saw him wearing headphones and yelling into the accompanying microphone. “Do it,” Owen yelled, “just do it!” I saw Owen listen, and then he yelled some more. “I don’t care if there’s a match going on … I’m the promoter, and I say play the damn music now.” This was vintage Owen-attempting to get the sound guy to play the wrong music at inappropriate times. Except not only was this sound guy not cooperating, he was getting hot. But this just made Owen happy. He loved a challenge. “Oh, yeah, well come on down, tough guy-I won’t be hard to find. I’ve got a big cowboy hat and a pair of cowboy boots that I’ll stick right up your ass. Oh, yeah, come on down, you bastard, so I can smash my big-ass belt buckle right over your head.” I looked over and saw a man who looked exactly like the man that Owen had just described. Same hat, same boots, same big-ass belt buckle. It was the affable promoter, grinning goofily, without a clue that Owen Hart was attempting to arrange an impromptu meeting between him and an angry soundman.

  Sometimes Owen’s ribs didn’t seem so funny at the time. We were in the middle of a ten-day tour in the summer of 1997 and were touching down in St. John’s, Newfoundland. Because this was not a usual Federation stop, we were met at the airport baggage claim by a large number of fans. One of them had a camcorder, and I could see on his video screen that he was zooming in on fellow wrestler Chyna’s breasts. I went over right away and told the guy that not only was he to stop filming, but he was to rewind his tape and retape over the offensive part. I was hot, and the guy looked like a sheep molester anyway. In a flash, Owen was there to lend a helping hand. “Hey, you two,” he said in his phony overexaggerated way. “How about I get some footage of you two together?” I was hot and getting hotter.

  “Stop it, Owen,” I demanded. “This guy’s a little pervert.”

  “Oh, come on, Jack,” Owen cheerily answered back. “Come on, he’s a big fan. Let’s get some footage. Maybe you can put your arm around him, Jack.”

  I was still hot, but I knew I was fighting a losing battle. “Owen,” I pleaded with him, but it was no use. I’d lost the fight. Now when that little pervert from Newfoundland watches his home videos, he not only has clips of Chyna’s breasts, but tape of me with my arm around him as well. He could drive you crazy, and tick you off, but I find myself laughing out loud when I think of Owen now.

  He was the undisputed king of the prank phone calls as well. He would drive the guys crazy by calling their rooms, pretending to be an autograph-seeking fan. “What are you … too big a star to come down here and sign?” he’d yell into the phone. “Never mind, just give me your room number, and I’ll be right up to get them myself.” Inevitably, he’d offer to fight them, and many was the time a furious wrestler came running to the lobby … only to find a calm Owen saying, “What’s wrong, you look upset!”

  Owen got me one night in Toledo, Ohio, after I’d bragged to him about what a great rate I’d gotten at the Red Roof Inn. We would always tip each other off as to where the good deals were, because, like me, Owen liked to save his money, but also like me, he’d spare no expense on his family. I was just about to drift off when the phone rang, and a pleasant-sounding man with a soft English accent said, “Hello, Mr. Foley, how are you this evening?” I could literally picture this guy with gray hair and glasses, and a thick wool sweater. The man continued in his pleasant way. “Mr. Foley, I’m afraid that after checking our accounts, we have found that we did not charge you enough money for your room.”

  I was stunned. I had been in wrestling for over thirteen years at that point and had never heard of raising a rate after checking in. “Sir, I don’t think you can do that,” I politely stated.

  “Oh, young man, I’m afraid I can and … wait, wait, wait … are you one of the wrestlers?” the old gentleman wanted to know.

  “Yes sir, I am” I was glad to tell him.

  The old man spoke again. “Wrestling … hmmm … isn’t that all fake?”

  I was kind of perplexed, but I wasn’t about to lose my rate, and besides, I knew how to handle this. “Well, sir,” I pleasantly began, “it’s about sixty-seven percent real, one guy got down to sixty-two, and they had to let him go.”

  But the old man wasn’t buying my line. “Oh, Mr. Foley, you’re very funny, but just last week, I saw you stomping your foot on the mat instead of really hitting somebody. I used to box, you know.”

  Now I was starting to become perturbed. “Sir, I really don’t think you should be calling up customers and insulting their livelihood.”

  The old man instantly apologized. “Oh, Mr. Foley, I’m so sorry … please forgive me.” After I did and assured him everything was fine, he spoke up one more time. “I’m afraid I’m still going to have to raise your rate.”

  “What?” I yelled, when suddenly I heard laughter on the other end of the line. I knew I’d been had by the best. “Owen,” I yelled, “you prick!”

  Everything he did seemed to be done with a sense of both innocence and mischief. In a beautiful column that Brett wrote in the Calgary Sun, he said, “Owen never stopped looking at the world through the eyes of a child.” That trait made every day a new adventure for Owen. Whether he was “accidentally” marking up your hand during an autograph session, writing a sappy “Let’s be friends” over where you’d just signed your name, or pulling the emergency brake on poor fan/friend Ronnie Gaffe’s truck in the middle of traffic, he truly seemed to love every day.

  He had a seriousness to him as well, but far from being a dark side, it may have actually been the part of him I enjoyed most. He didn’t drink, disdained drugs, and was the only guy in the company who went out less than I did. He truly loved his wife and kids, Oje and Athena, and his face used to light up when he spoke of them, which was often. He spoke of simple pleasures, like hot chocolate on a porch swing with his wife and planning Disney vacations for his family. His wife said they had not only their next day planned together, but their next month and year, and the next forty years as well. I used to tell my wife that of all the guys, Owen was the most like me. I realize now that it was probably wishful thinking on my part. He was better than me. He was the best of us. He was probably the nicest, funniest, most moral man I have ever met. As I write this, I am reminded of a song titled “Reflections” that was written by Charlie Daniels over twenty years ago, and which I will paraphrase just slightly for Owen:

  And Owen, my buddy, above all the rest

  I miss you the most, and I love you the best

  And now that you’re gone, I thank God I was blessed

  Just to know you.

  I can’t interpret every line literally, except for the last one, for there were people who knew Owen longer, loved him better, and will miss him more. But, Owen, I do thank God that I was blessed just to know you. Rest in peace, my aggravating, instigating, w
onderful friendand may God bless your beautiful wife and children.

  Chapter 34

  Business was rolling along as we looked toward Summerslam, which was traditionally the second biggest show of the year. Shawn Michaels was getting over well as champion and would be facing Vader as half of a double main event. The other half would pit me and Undertaker in a boiler room brawl. The concept of the boiler room brawl was simple but somewhat unusual. The match would start with the two of us inside the boiler room at the Gund Arena in Cleveland and would continue until one of us could leave the room and gain possession of the Undertaker’s urn, which Paul Bearer (‘Taker’s manager) held in midring.

  I love the concept and had actually given similar ideas to WCW, which, not surprisingly, had fallen on deaf ears. By having a match that was unique to television and could not be replicated in arena shows, I felt we had a great ratings draw on our hands. We actually taped the boiler room part of the match the night before the Pay-Per-View and filmed everything else live. Undertaker had been out most of the day in a promotional appearance and was exhausted when he arrived. He then dressed and walked into an empty boiler room.

  The match was either a classic or a disaster, depending on whom you talk to-there was really no middle ground. I believed the former and in many ways, the boiler room brawl felt more like an unloved child, whose goodness only I could see. I had read interviews in which actor Billy Crystal felt much the same way about his movie Mr. Saturday Night, which was a personal favorite that had met with poor response. I told a mutual friend, Barry Blausteen, who has been working on a wrestling documentary for the past four years, that Mr. Saturday Night had been a particular favorite among several wrestlers, including myself, and was told that Billy really appreciated it. So if any fans want to stop me in an airport and heap praise on my unloved child, I would feel much the same way.