Undisputed: How to Become World Champion in 1,372 Easy Steps

by Chris Jericho

  After we finished, the judges stared at us noncommittally as the Losers began performing Neil Young’s “Old Man.” I was surprised at how good Howard sounded and how good the Losers were, especially since I figured it was a given that we were going to blow them away.

  The judges were all music business snobs, and the first one said, “Well, these guys are too loud. Howard’s band was much better.”

  Too loud? Who was this guy, Huey Lewis in Back to the Future? The fix was in.

  Losers 1, Fozzy 0.

  The second judge said, “Well, Fozzy’s song was more contemporary than the Losers’ was, so I guess I’ll vote for them.”

  Not exactly a rave review, but for the first time ever the Losers had dropped a vote. Chalk one up for the Fozz!!

  Losers 1, Fozzy 1.

  It all came down to the third judge’s vote. By then my competitive fire had heated up, and I really wanted to win this bitch.

  “Well, both bands were really good. But Fozzy, you guys are doing a heavy metal vibe, the devil horn vibe or whatever you want to call it. You ran over to Howard and made him bang his head. It’s so old-school and so out of date. Howard’s band has got more of the grunge feel. Neil Young is much hipper than metal right now so I’m giving it to the Losers.”

  My bubble burst and I was pissed. It was 2003. How was grunge hipper than metal? Who cares if I made Howard bang his head? It was a radio battle of the bands. Wasn’t it more important who sounded better? I wanted to walk over and give this douche the Fistful of Metal treatment right then and there. We had been hornswoggled, and for the second time in my life I had lost a battle of the bands: first with my high school band, Scimitar, now with Fozzy.

  But our loss was not in vain as Howard came to talk to us after the show and admitted that we were the better men.

  “You guys blew us away and the only reason we won is because it’s my show. Consider the Losers officially retired, because I’m not going through that again.”

  We had lost the battle (of the bands) but won the war. And as long as we did better than Corey Feldman, I was happy.

  Our next gig was at the Palladium in Worcester, Massachusetts, and in the weeks leading up to the show I’d done quite a bit of promotion. I was sure that we’d have a good crowd as we’d never played the Boston area and had good record sales there.

  I was almost at the venue when I got caught in a traffic jam, but I was pumped to see so many cars heading in the same direction I was. This gig was going to better than I expected! I inched my way to the traffic light, where all the cars were turning left even though the Palladium was to the right. That’s when I realized all those cars weren’t making their way to see Fozzy, they were on their way to see Good Charlotte, who were playing the arena next door.

  The Madden brothers played to 15,000 people that night. Fozzy played to fifty.

  But fifty people was fifty people and we were there to rock their fucking socks off. Rich and I had a good rapport onstage that night, bantering back and forth like a couple of stand-up comedians. We sang “Happy Birthday” to one fan and had a beer-chugging contest with another. We did the thrash metal polka, the jelly doughnut chant, and the human mic stand trick. We claimed that the music you hear in porno movies was played by Fozzy, and then launched into a funky jam as I pretended to have doggy style sex, in a move that became known as the Porno Dance.

  If you want to see it just ask me, and if I’m feeling frisky, maybe I’ll show it to you.

  We always made sure that people had fun and worked overtime to get the crowd involved. I considered myself the party host, and each gig was a chance to spread the word and build our following, the same way I did when I was wrestling in western Canadian Quonsets thirteen years earlier.

  Building the Fozzy name was a marathon not a sprint, and we were in it for the long run—and I ain’t talking about Don Henley.

  We did a show in Calgary after a Raw that happened to take place during Game 7 of the first round of the 2004 Stanley Cup Playoffs between the Flames and the Vancouver Canucks. The timing was terrible, but we still had a good crowd and we made sure that the game was playing on the giant big screen behind us, so our audience (and me) could watch it during the show. Calgary was holding on to a one-goal lead with ten seconds remaining in the game and the hometown crowd (and me) was going nuts. The last ten seconds played out like the New Year’s countdown. We stopped the show and I screamed out, “Okay! Ten seconds until we make it to the next round! Ten, nine, eight, seven …” The crowd was counting down with me and everyone was screaming and yelling victoriously—until Vancouver scored with four seconds left and tied the game.

  The place went silent and the party was over.

  Nobody knew what to do and I was so pissed off that I walked straight off the stage and into the street. I stood there for a few minutes kicking vagrants and cursing. Then I remembered we were in the middle of a gig and I went back onstage. We didn’t want to play during overtime because no one was going to be paying attention, but if we stopped playing entirely, the gig would be ruined. So we launched into AC/DC’s “TNT” for the 20 minutes until the game came back on, and sure enough, everyone was ignoring us. So we just kept playing “TNT,” turning it into the Phish extended blues jam version. That’s show business— you gotta roll with it, baby.

  But after only a few minutes of overtime, the Flames scored and won the game. The party restarted instantly and the mighty Fozz were there to lead the way. I was so happy that the Flames had won—and even happier that we could finally stop playing “TNT.”

  Our next gig was in Giants Stadium—well, it was technically in the parking lot of Giants Stadium, but that’s just nitpicking, isn’t it?

  The New Jersey State Fair took place every year on the grounds of the stadium, and we were booked to play a show for the fairgoers. Earlier in the day we had an autograph signing beside the massive stage and the line was huge. Hundreds of Fozzy fans, wrestling fans, and one Anal Cunt fan stood in line to get our signature and take pictures. It was a beautiful sunny day and we were looking forward to a great gig.

  Our dressing room was a trailer behind the stage, and an hour before the show, the parking lot was packed. I put on my stage gear and primped as our tour manager gave me the update.

  “We’re on in ten minutes, Chris. But it’s raining a little.”

  Nothing wrong with a little rain, it’ll just add to the ambience, right? But when I opened the door a gust of wind ripped it out of my hand and I was drenched by a torrential downpour. Raining a little? This was a damn tsunami!

  When I got to the stage, our crowd had dwindled down to about twenty-five drenched die-hards standing underneath umbrellas and looking miserable. But the amps were covered in plastic and the fair still wanted us to play. So we had a quick band meeting and decided we wanted to play too. There was a small smattering of applause from the crowd and a big smattering of rain from the clouds as we hit the stage. I always started our shows by running onto the stage and cheerleading to the crowd, whipping them into a frenzy before the first song began. So when the intro tape finished I sprinted out from the wings. The stage was an impressive structure made of stainless steel, and when my feet connected with the smooth surface, it was as slippery as a sheet of ice. I lost control after the first few steps and slid across the stage like Clark Griswold descending down his roof in Christmas Vacation.

  I careened past Rich, who mouthed, “Oh shit,” and continued on past the safety of the microphone stand. I clawed at it like a drowning man trying to grab a root growing out of the bank of a river, but to no avail. I saw the edge of the stage approaching as if in slow motion and was certain I was going to plunge over the edge to my death. (It’s irrelevant that the stage was only about eight feet above the parking lot—deal with it, it’s my book.)

  Then fate took over and tangled up my feet, causing me to take one of the best bumps of my career. I hit the steel hard but the fall stopped my momentum, and in true Indiana Jones fashion
I came to a screeching halt just as my feet glided over the lip of the stage.

  It was one of the worst/best lead singer entrances of all time.

  Due to the slick conditions of the surface we were playing on, we were forced to tone down our usual high-energy set. Any movement at all and I once again faced the danger of flipping off the stage like Shaun White on a half-pipe. So we did our Gamma Ray impersonation and stood there glued to the stage. As we sopped our way through the set, I could count each fan one by one and felt like David St. Hubbins playing a blues/jazz odyssey.

  I love festival crowds.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Undisputed Champion of the World

  In October 2001, I beat Rob Van Dam to become the number one contender for The Rock’s WCW title, for a match to take place in St. Louis at the next PPV, No Mercy. The WWE and WCW titles were two separate world championships within the same company, the same way that the Raw and Smackdown! world championships are now. The angle leading up to the match saw The Rock claiming that I had never won the big one. He was right—with all of my bragging and bravado, I’d never come through in the clutch. I’d never officially worn the world title around my gorgeous waist.

  Rocky and I had great chemistry at this point, and the match at No Mercy was one of our best. We worked so well together in keeping the crowd on the edge of their seats with our various false finishes: I kicked out of the Rock Bottom, Rock escaped from the Walls after I had thwarted the People’s Elbow. No one knew who was going to win until Stephanie distracted Rock and I gave him a face plant onto a steel chair using my new finisher, the Breakdown. (It was an awkward move and I stopped using it a few months later. It has since been resurrected by The Miz, who doesn’t do it half as well as I did.) I watched the ref’s hand smack the mat three times and just like that I was the World Champion, and unlike my tainted victory in State College, this one was for real. The irony that I had to leave WCW and come to the WWE in order to become WCW Champion wasn’t lost on me.

  WWE.com interviewed me after the match and asked me if there was anything I’d like to say as the new World Champion.

  “Yeah, I’d like to tell Eric Bischoff to fuck off. And you can print that.”

  It wasn’t the classiest of statements, but I felt such vindication. And I was still angry at Bischoff, as I’d heard after I left WCW that he had told people that Vince wouldn’t know what to do with me and I would be a colossal failure in the WWE. Now that I was wearing Bischoff’s own title in Vince’s company, I wanted to shove it right down his throat. But instead of telling Eric to fuck off, I should’ve thanked him—after all, if he hadn’t let me leave WCW, I never would have ended up as WCW Champion.

  I was only the champ for a few weeks when Rock and I had a rematch for the title on Raw. The second match was almost as good as the first, despite being hindered by lack of time. We were the last segment on the show, and as we were building up to the finish we were told that we only had three minutes left until Raw went drop dead off the air. The only way to make the deadline was to rush through to the finish (which saw Rocky regain the title after surprising me with a rollup) and rush through the aftermath (where I attacked him with a chair to gain revenge). The problem was I panicked when the ref gave me the time cue, and instead of waiting for Rock to set himself up so I could smash him in the back, I pulled a complete rookie mistake and carelessly hit him on the side. He recoiled and held his arm in pain, and I hit him again in the back as the show went off the air.

  I was embarrassed at my faux pas, because instead of protecting my opponent like I was taught, I’d carelessly swung the chair with no regard for his well-being. It was like when I threw the cup of tobacco spit in his face. I lost my composure under the pressure and Rock paid the price both times.

  I stood over my fallen victim and then milked the boos from the fans as I marched up the ramp. When I walked through the curtain I heard Vince barking, “What’s wrong with him, how could he be so careless?” so I made a beeline toward him. The combination of the embarrassment I felt for what I’d done to The Rock and the anger from hearing Vince talking about me behind my back made me blow my stack.

  “Come on, Vince! We were running out of time, what the fuck was I supposed to do?”

  Everybody in Gorilla fell silent and I realized I’d just sworn at the boss in front of his employees.

  Heavens to Murgatroyd! Time to exit stage left …

  I hurried out of Gorilla and waited for Rock to come back from the ring. I apologized profusely when he came down the steps, and he was cordial, but I could tell he was pissed, and rightfully so. His arm ended up being okay, but I couldn’t sleep that night thinking about what Vince was going to do when I showed up at work the next day.

  When I arrived at the arena, I went straight to his office.

  “I apologize for lashing out at you, Vince. I’m really mad and embarrassed at myself for what I did. I shouldn’t have rushed and hurt Rock and I shouldn’t have yelled at you either. It was unprofessional and uncalled for.” I could feel that he wasn’t really buying my apology, and I was certain I would become the newest member of the Vince McMahon Kiss My Ass club, but luckily I escaped that fate.

  Vince, if you’re reading this, don’t even think about it …

  The main event of Survivor Series 2001 was the climax of the Invasion angle. Team Alliance, a combination of ECW and WCW consisting of Steve Austin, Kurt Angle, Booker T, Rob Van Dam, and Shane McMahon, faced Team WWE consisting of The Rock, Undertaker, Kane, Big Show, and Chris Jericho, with the winning team gaining control of the company. You could see how much Vince and the rest of the front office felt about the WCW/ECW roster, with 60 percent of the Alliance being made up of WWE Superstars.

  In the end, Angle turned on Austin to help Rock and Team WWE win the match, and after thirteen years as a company WCW was finally vanquished forever.

  With the Alliance dissolved, something had to be done about the two separate world titles, and Vince made the decision to combine them and crown the first ever Undisputed Champion in the history of the wrestling business.

  A tournament was announced for the next PPV, entitled Armageddon, and the participants in the round-robin format were Austin, Rocky, Angle, and me. While I had no clue who the winner was going to be, I was just honored that Vince considered me elite enough to be in contention for the big prize.

  Two weeks before the PPV, I had a match with Austin on a Raw from Milwaukee, with the finish being him pinning me clean with a Stunner. Before the match I asked Paul Heyman if it was a smart idea to have Austin beat me on national television with the tournament only a few weeks away.

  He responded, “Trust me when I tell you this—just do it. Go out and have the best possible match you can.” Paul always gave me the straight scoop and I trusted his judgment, so I agreed and thought nothing more about it.

  But I’d been in the business for over a decade and I could feel something was up. There was no reason to have Austin go over on me right before the PPV … unless … maybe … somehow … I was going to be wrestling him again in the tournament?

  The way the brackets were set up, it was Rock and me in the first round, with the winner facing Austin or Kurt in the finals. If Austin and I were going to have a rematch, it would be in the finals for the Undisputed Championship.

  But if that was the case, surely somebody would’ve clued me in by now, right? Wouldn’t they?

  One week before the PPV, Austin came to me and said, “Congratulations, kid.”

  “For what?” I responded quizzically.

  “You and I are working in the finals of the tournament and you’re going over. Vince is going with you as the Undisputed Champion.”

  My heart almost puked out straight onto the Memphis Maniax XFL shirt Steve was wearing. Vince was going to make me the champion? I’d been waiting to hear those words since State College, and even though it wasn’t Vince who’d said them, I figured that hearing them from the biggest star in the business was
close enough.

  “So you’re going over on me in the last match,” Austin said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the water bottle in his hand. “I don’t want this to be just another match, either. I really want to make you with this match.”

  Honored and a little bit shocked by what he was telling me, I responded ambivalently, “That’s really froot, but I’m sure plans will change between now and the show.”

  Steve said adamantly, “No. It’s not changing. Hasn’t Vince talked to you yet?”

  When I replied that he hadn’t, Steve walked away and said, “Don’t worry, kid, he’ll be talking to you soon.”

  About twenty minutes later, Angle and I were talking about the PPV and he told me in no uncertain terms that he was winning the Undisputed Championship at Armageddon.

  The plot thickened once again when Pat Patterson asked me if I’d spoken with Vince.

  Playing dumb, I told Pat that I hadn’t. He said, “Vince is going to make you the champion. He’s going to tell you today for sure.” I wasn’t getting my hopes up, as Vince changed his mind quite frequently and I was still scarred from WrestleMania 2000, when Mick Foley’s face (a face that has never beaten my face, might I add) replaced mine on that poster.

  As the day wore on, I still didn’t talk to Vince. I didn’t want to barge into his office and ask if there was anything he wanted to tell me. I figured he’d fill me in when he was ready.

  Finally I saw him walking toward me in the hallway with a smile on his face. “This is it,” I thought to myself. The architect of the entire wrestling business was about to appoint me as the new chosen one.