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

by Chris Jericho

Enter John Cena.

  Cena was a blue-chip prospect whom the WWE had signed out of a wrestling gym in California. He had a great body, a great look, and, most important to me, he had personality. I had seen him do this amazing promo where he would make a statement, then rewind himself as if he was on tape and say it again. He would re-create the exact movements he just made, only backwards. I’d never seen anything like it before and I knew he had something special immediately.

  Cena made his debut against Kurt Angle on Smackdown! and they tore the house down. I thought I could do the same with him and made the suggestion to Vince to work with John. Vince didn’t seem too impressed with Cena at that point, but he agreed and booked the match for the Vengeance PPV in Detroit. The finish was me going over, but a few days before the show I called Vince to give him my thoughts.

  “I’d really like to put this guy over, Vince. He’s unique, he looks great, and he’s got a lot of passion. Let’s build him up a little.”

  Vince expressed that he didn’t think it was the right way to go, but I was obstinate.

  “I’m telling you, boss, there’s something special about this guy. Let me put him over.”

  I think he got tired of arguing with me and agreed to change the finish. At the PPV Cena pinned me after reversing the Walls of Jericho into a small package and got a small push afterwards. He hadn’t started using the AA or the STFU and won most of his matches with various quick pins, so I nicknamed him Wacky Roll-Up Guy. But his push didn’t last long, and only a few weeks after his big victory over Jericho, he was back to wrestling in the opening matches.

  Who would have thought that this guy would end up being the biggest star of the modern age? At this point, John wore different tights and boots every night bearing the colors of that respective city’s sports teams. Shameless pandering at its finest.

  Cena finally got his big opportunity when he dressed as Vanilla Ice on a Halloween Smackdown! and performed a freestyle rap that impressed everybody, so his character took off. He became the Doctor of Thuganomics and went on to become one of the biggest stars in WWE history.

  Can I pick ’em or what?

  Meanwhile, it turned out Edge didn’t need shoulder surgery after all and he returned a few weeks later to save Hogan when I was about to administer the same shoulder-bashing fate I’d given Edge. The returning hero beat the tarski out of me and we were off.

  Over the next few weeks, the Edge/Jericho angle was on fire and the writers wanted to build to a SummerSlam match of Jericho with Fozzy in his corner vs. Edge with the Osbournes in his corner. I was excited at the prospect of working with Ozzy in any way, shape, or form, but the deal fell through and soon after so did the Edge/Jericho angle.

  The reason was Vince felt that Raw was lacking in star power, so he decided to send me, HHH, and the Unamericans (Lance Storm, Christian, and Test) back to the flagship show to spice it up. That meant the end of my angle with Edge.

  I wasn’t happy about the move and the Hulkster wasn’t happy about it either. “I can’t believe you’re leaving me, man. I’m losing my guys.”

  Of course, Hogan was upset about losing the workers who were making him look good, and he should’ve been. Match-quality-wise, he was having the best run of his career.

  My last night on Smackdown! in Indianapolis saw me lose a great cage match to Edge, followed by the Unamericans breaking into the cage and attacking en masse. That brought out Rey Mysterio and Cena to save the day. Rey scaled the cage and did a big dive onto Lance and Test while Edge and Cena threw Christian and me into the fence as the crowd cheered madly. The end of the show saw the four bad guys on the floor yelling and screaming at Edge, Rey, and Cena as Michael Cole proclaimed that “the new era of Smackdown! has arrived!”

  And I was leaving.

  I found Vince backstage and asked him, “Do you like money?”

  Vince looked at me quizzically and answered, “Of course I like money.”

  “Well, you’re pissing money down the drain by moving me to Raw now,” I said defiantly. “This angle with Edge is hot and we could go so much farther with it!”

  Vince nodded his head, but it was obvious he disagreed. “I’ve thought about it, Chris, but I need you on Raw right now. We can always go back to Jericho and Edge.”

  It took eight years, but eventually we did. But that’s a story for another book.

  My first night back on Raw, I ambushed Flair from under the ring and brutally beat him down. He had just returned to the WWE and had very little confidence in himself. Ric had been mentally beaten down for so many years in WCW that he had lost faith in who he was and what he could do. Many people would say that Flair is the greatest of all time, but at that time working with Hogan was easier.

  Put down your pitchforks and torches, wrestling purists; the honest truth is Flair wasn’t himself and was tricky to work with at that stage, while Hogan knew exactly who he was and what to do, brother.

  Flair and I worked a program that culminated at SummerSlam. Vince wanted me to put him over with a small package, but I disagreed. Why not have me tap out to his famous figure four? He never beat anybody with his signature move, and I think I was the first guy to tap out to it in like fifteen years. Flair vehemently disagreed, and when I asked him why he said, “Why? I don’t deserve it. I’m not myself and you know it.”

  His words really pissed me off. Even though he was going through a bad patch he was still Ric Fucking Flair! I snapped back, “Stop it! You’re one of the greatest performers of all time! Start acting like it.”

  Flair stared at me for about thirty seconds. Then he slowly extended his hand.

  “Thank you for saying that.”

  That night and in the upcoming weeks, Flair slowly got his mojo back. He would’ve eventually found it anyway, but my words seemed to give him the big kick in the ass he needed. I found out my hunch was correct a few years later when he gave me a copy of his book and he had written inside, “Chris, your friendship and support have always meant a lot to me. Thanks for helping me get my head on straight. Your friend, Ric Flair.”

  Just goes to show that sometimes even the all-time greats need a little pep talk. Besides, after all the advice he gave me when I was struggling as champion, I was happy to return the favor.

  My contract ended in the summer of 2002 and I had every intention of re-signing, but the company had been stalling for months regarding a few extras I wanted added to my deal. But Vince was getting impatient and wanted the contract signed, so one day I arrived at the arena in Sacramento and was summoned into his office.

  “Enough of the lawyers and agents, Chris, we’ve got to get this contract worked out. Where do we stand?”

  “We’ve been working on it for months, Vince, but there’s still some holdups.”

  “Yes, I know there’s some issues. Tell me what you want.”

  I took a deep breath and asked, “Vince, am I one of your top guys?”

  “Absolutely you are.”

  That’s all I needed to hear. “Then I want a deal that backs that up.”

  I told him what I wanted and I couldn’t believe the number that came out of my mouth. I’d come a long way from asking Bischoff for the unthinkable sum of 100 grand six years earlier.

  Vince nodded his head and seemed uncomfortable. “If I give that to you right now, will you take it?”

  “Of course I will, boss.”

  He said, “Okay, you got it.”

  That was it—after six months of haggling, the contract was completed in two minutes.

  But it was the last WWE contract I would sign for a long time.

  For Survivor Series 2002, Vince wanted something big to sell the show. HHH had been petitioning to do WarGames, a match involving two rings and ten wrestlers inside a giant cage. Vince wasn’t keen on using the WarGames name or concept, because it was a WCW invention. That’s when the Elimination Chamber was born.

  The chamber was a vile contraption, essentially a domed steel cage with chain walls and a fl
oor. When it was lowered around the ring, it was the same level as the mat and extended the area four feet around each side. In each corner of the cage was a bulletproof-glass-covered pod where you would wait until it was your turn to enter the fray. You could tell whoever built the chamber had never wrestled a match in their life, as it was awkward, unforgiving, and just plain painful. The rules were that two guys would start, and another performer would enter the ring every five minutes until everyone was eliminated. The winner would be the champion.

  The guys in the match were me, Rob Van Dam, Booker T, Kane, HHH, and Shawn Michaels, and since it was the first time the match had ever taken place there was no precedent for us to follow. We showed up at MSG hours early to try to formulate what exactly we could do within this monstrosity, but after hours of brainstorming we hadn’t finalized anything and were still coming up with ideas as the show started. Shawn and HHH were the last two in the chamber and called the finish on the fly; the planning hadn’t gotten that far by the time the match began.

  The match started with Van Dam and I, then HHH joined in. At one point RVD climbed to the top of the pod, but the roof on the cage didn’t allow him to fully stand straight up. He launched himself from a half crouch, and that, combined with HHH being too close, caused his knee to land directly on Hunter’s throat. Hunter’s larynx was damaged and he could barely talk. He was in immense pain, and when I rolled over to ask him if he was okay, he could only squawk that he wasn’t. It was up to me to take charge. I bumped around for Rob and Booker until the clock started ticking down from ten, heralding Shawn’s entrance into the match. He had recently returned after being off for almost five years and the crowd was highly anticipating his impending entry. All three of us were down as the clock hit zero. Blue lights flashed and an annoying jingle that sounded like it was from Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? tinkled, trumpeting the opening of a new pod.

  I was selling on the ropes, keeping one eye on Shawn to my left, when suddenly I was attacked from behind. It scared the shit out of me and I turned around like a dreamer in a Nightmare movie. But instead of Freddy Krueger unleashing the fury, it was Kane and he was more maniacal than li’l Frederick ever was. I couldn’t figure out why he was kicking the crap out of me and why Shawn was still in his pod, then I figured out what happened: the wrong pod door had opened.

  What was this, Spinal Tap?

  In a controlled environment, where we decided which pod opened and our referees were the ones unchaining the doors and opening them, we still managed to get it wrong. None of us in the chamber really knew what to do, because we had spent a few hours on this part of the match. Shawn was supposed to come in and clean house for five minutes until Kane’s pod opened and he came in to shut HBK down.

  Now we had to call everything on the fly (with HHH still writhing in pain in the corner) and Kane was the one cleaning house— and he was a regular Molly Maid at this point.

  Earlier in the day I’d discussed with Kane and Pat if someone could be thrown through the bulletproof glass of the pod. Both had vehemently shut down my idea, saying it was too dangerous and not worth taking the chance of someone getting hurt.

  Fast forward to Kane throwing me over the top rope onto the steel platform of the chamber. I staggered up to my feet and said, “Throw me through the pod!”

  “Fucking right I’m throwing you through the pod!” he said as if the wrong pod opening had been my fault. All concerns for my well-being blew out the cage opening when the wrong chamber opened.

  Kane jerked me up to my feet and chucked me into the Plexiglas at full speed. I hit it as hard as I could and was surprised at how easy I busted through. I landed in a heap inside the pod, and shards of hardened plastic rained down on top of me. Mike Portnoy from Dream Theater was in the front row cheering me on, but I was in such pain I couldn’t even lift my head to acknowledge his existence. When I finally did, I was such a bloody mess that Mike’s face looked like he’d just had a panic attack.

  The glass may have been bulletproof, but it certainly wasn’t Jerichoproof. That one hurt.

  Shawn’s pod eventually opened and he ended up pinning me and HHH with his Sweet Chin Music superkick to win the match and the World Championship. The MSG faithful were genuinly happy to see Shawn win the big one after five years and were cheering their asses off for him, despite the fact he was wearing the ugliest pair of shit brown wrestling tights and sporting the worst bob haircut known to man.

  On the other hand, I was currently residing in the purgatory between curtain and Gorilla, going fucking ballistic.

  I couldn’t believe that at a show as big as Survivor Series, in a company as big as the WWE, in a match as big as the chamber, that something like opening the wrong door could happen. It was such a WCW-esque fuckup and I was furious.

  But I knew I had to calm down before I said something stupid to Vince or executive producer Kevin Dunn. When I finally walked into Gorilla, after getting control of my temper, Vince and Kevin apologized, but they didn’t offer an explanation as to what had happened, and it was obvious they weren’t going to. I suppose they didn’t owe me one, but as a perfectionist I was pissed that things hadn’t gone the way they were supposed to. I still wonder to this day why the wrong door opened.

  Gremlins, maybe?

  CHAPTER 27

  Stealing the Show

  Three days later I was standing on the jetway in Frankfurt, Germany, waiting to get back on the plane so I could grab the Discman (these were the prehistoric days before iPods, kiddies) that I’d left in the seat pocket in front of me.

  We were on our way to India for a WWE tour and I was already dreading the trip. I’d never been there, but before we left I had to get shots for yellow fever, diphtheria, and malaria, and I was already fearing the worst.

  The flight attendant wouldn’t let me reboard until everybody deplaned, so I waited as the passengers streamed by. It was a big aircraft and I was getting bored, so I glanced at the guy waiting in a wheelchair beside me. He was a portly fellow with dyed black balding hair and dyed black eyebrows to match. He glanced back and gave me a nod.

  “Wow,” I thought to myself, “that’s Luciano Pavarotti.”

  I was standing next to the greatest opera singer in the world.

  Now that we were aware of each other’s existence after making eye contact, I felt obligated to say something. I decided to open conversation with my best line.

  “How’s it going eh?”

  “Good, good, good,” he said in a thick Italian accent, sighing as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Milan. You?”

  “India.”

  “Oh, India. Nice weather this time of year.”

  We both nodded and I rocked back and forth on my heels uncomfortably as people flowed by.

  “Would you like a piece of gum?” I offered, praying that I’d get back on the plane soon so I could end this awkward conversation with one of the most famous people in the world.

  “Oh, no thank you. Sticks to my dental work,” he said matter-of-factly.

  The last few dregs drifted past and finally I was allowed back on the plane.

  “Okay, sir, gotta go get my uh … Discman … so I’ll see you later,” I stammered, not wanting to be rude.

  “Go, go. Safe travels,” he remarked as I walked back on the plane.

  I went to my seat and quickly grabbed the Discman, hoping that I could get my new close personal friend Luciano Pavarotti to sign it, but when I got back to the jetway he was gone forever. It was one of the stupidest random meetings of my life.

  But it was froot to think that I’d just had a conversation with one of the Three Tenors. Now all I have to do to complete the set is meet Placido Domingo and … the other guy.

  I flew from Frankfurt to New Delhi, and when we finally landed I was knackered. After ninety minutes of going through customs and getting our bags, the extra rib was a two-hour drive from the airport to the hotel. It
was pitch black outside and the steady rumble of the bus helped me to doze off quickly, but I woke up when I felt the bus stop in the middle of the road in the middle of nowhere.

  Kane was sitting beside me, and when I asked him what was going on, he said, “There’s a cow in the road blocking us and we can’t go anywhere until it walks away.” The first thing I learned about India is that cows are sacred animals that can pretty much do whatever they want and are not to be disturbed. So we sat in the middle of the road for half an hour until Clarabelle decided to move on.

  We reached the outer limits of the city and I saw a conurbation of cardboard-box houses stretching as far as the eye could see. Even stranger was that most of the hovels had satellite dishes beside them. I found out that people could afford satellite TV, but couldn’t afford actual homes. It was a way of life to have electricity fed into your cardboard-box abode.

  As we continued driving, things got more bizarre.

  Four men rode in the back of a pickup truck on the top of a huge pile of manure without a care in the world. A baby dressed in a diaper and nothing else stood by himself on the median in the middle of a busy road. A teenager pulled his sitar out of his pants and took a piss right in front of a grocery store.

  The city was in absolute squalor, with people pushing carts of rotten vegetables, scrawny dogs running through the streets, and smelly garbage stacked everywhere. Yet right in the middle of the filth surrounded by a massive chain-link fence was our hotel—a beautiful five-star mansion that looked more like a palace. The difference between the two worlds was astonishing.

  I’d decided not to eat any of the food that was provided for us in India, as I’d heard too many horror stories of people getting sick there. For the entire tour, my diet consisted strictly of peanut butter sandwiches and instant Quaker oatmeal (apples and cinnamon) I’d brought with me. All I did during the whole tour was sit in my room eating breakfast three times a day while watching X-Files DVDs.

  Most of our fans couldn’t afford to buy tickets to the events, and the shows were held in half-filled arenas or makeshift venues consisting of the ring set up in a parking lot with plastic chairs and plastic fencing surrounding it. During one of the parking lot shows, RVD pointed to the foliage across the street from the ring and said, “Dude, there’s people in the trees.”