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

by Chris Jericho

  “You’re totally wrong about th—”

  Before I could finish the sentence, Goldfish grunted like a Neanderthal (the vein in his neck now resembling a corpulent slug) and grabbed me by the throat.

  Now, let me preface the rest of this story by saying that I’m not the toughest man in the world, nor have I ever claimed to be. However, when someone puts their hand on my throat and begins to squeeze, it’s time to throw hands. Am I right? Let’s take a vote to make sure: All in favor that a hand on the throat preceded by a prehistoric growl is provocation to fight, say aye.

  Okay, we’re all in agreement on that, then—except for that one guy in Peoria, and your case is weak.

  Once Goldster made his move, I reacted the only way I knew how. I swatted his hand off my throat and gave him a two-handed push to the chest. He rushed forward with his head down and tried to tackle me, like the ex– NFL lineman that he was. I stepped to the side like the world’s worst matador and grabbed him in a front facelock. It was the only shoot hold I knew, one that harkened back to my days bouncing at Malarkey’s in Calgary. I think I surprised the shit out of him with my lethal hold and was able to power him down to the ground, applying pressure because I knew if I pushed his throat into his chest long enough, he might pass out. I really hoped that he would go to sleep, because I was sure that he was going to fire up and kick the shit out of me. I mean, come on, have you ever seen this guy? He is massive!

  I continued to hold my ground and couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t fighting back. I got a little lazy and released the pressure slightly, and suddenly he rolled on top of me. I was freaking out at this point, convinced that he was going to eat me, but I held on to my patented front facelock. He started bucking around like a mechanical bull, but surprisingly I was able to use his momentum against him to roll him over again. Yee-haw!! Jericho 2, Goldie 0. It was like WCW all over again—except this time it was real.

  I was getting cocky at this point because he wasn’t moving. In the back of my mind, I still had the idea that he was going to morph into a savage animal, throw me off, and draw and quarter me. But he never did. It seemed that the Goldschlager was all smoke and mirrors. Maybe he’d always gotten by on the intimidation factor and had never been tested. Maybe he was being nice and didn’t want to fight back because he was the new kid on the block. If that was the case, this muscle-bound Joey McIntyre was getting manhandled.

  With adrenaline surging through my veins and my confidence rolling, I thought of the Japanese magazines Funaki had brought into the dressing room earlier in the day containing pictures of Royce Gracie fighting. Gracie’s calling card was a front facelock with his legs scissored around his opponent’s midsection, and after seeing photos of him doing the hold I decided to give it a try. I egged him on as I crossed my legs around his midsection: “C’mon, Mr. Shooter! Try to get out of this one!” He got to his feet again and we busted through the doors at the back of the dressing room, straight into the hallway filled with surprised fans who got a bonus match that night.

  We scuffled back into the dressing room and were finally broken up by Arn Anderson, Terry Taylor, Hurricane, Christian, and Booker T. Nash Mantis continued to sit in his chair in the corner of the room watching the festivities.

  Goldfinger and I were separated, and if you’ve ever been in a fight that’s been broken up by your friends, you can probably relate to what happened next. As Christian and Hurricane were restraining me they were inadvertently setting me up to be murdered at the same time, because when Goldsworthy broke free of the pack they still had my arms pinned to my sides.

  “Let go! Let go! He’s going to kill me!” I screamed, closing my eyes and preparing to have my face caved in.

  They realized what was going on and let me go at the last minute, but it was too late. He broke through and reared his fist back. I tensed up and prepared for him to knock my block off, but—he started pulling my hair instead.

  I couldn’t believe that the mighty Berggold was tugging at my hair like a five-year-old during play time. What was up with this guy?

  I figured if he hadn’t knocked me out yet, he was never going to. So I pried his hand out of my hair and pie-faced him as hard as I could. He stumbled back and stared at me in surprise.

  I was done with this bitch fight and I screamed, “What the hell is wrong with you, man? You’re acting like a goof!”

  Goldrush screamed back, “Your mother is a fucking goof!”

  Booker T got the most quizzical look on his face as he chewed on the unlit cigar he always seemed to have in his mouth and said, “Hold up! Did you just say his mother is a fucking goof? That’s the worst insult I ever heard, man.”

  We continued jaw-jacking back and forth until we both calmed down. We were separated into our respective corners, and after a few minutes I walked back over to Billbo and said matter-of-factly, “Here’s the deal. You can shake my hand right now and we can forget about this. Or we can come to work and do this every single week. I don’t give a shit either way. Your call.”

  GoGoBoy looked me in the eye, stuck out his hand to shake mine, and we called a truce.

  I walked back to my chair and saw a text on my phone from Disco Inferno, who had already heard that Goldbone and I had gotten into a fight. It had been ten minutes.

  Telephone, telegraph, tell a wrestler.

  For the next week, everybody I knew in the business called or pulled me aside to ask me about the BIG FIGHT. I was forced to relay the lion’s tale over and over again to everyone from Bruce Pritchard to Jim Ross to Gerry Brisco to the champ himself.

  I was surprised when I answered the phone a few days later and heard Ric Flair’s distinctive voice.

  “Chris, there are guys in this business who want to bring you down, but when you’re a great worker, nobody can ever touch that. Don’t fall into these traps. Don’t let these guys get into your head. You’re too good for that, you’re too talented. It’s beneath you.”

  Once again, Flair’s words put perspective on things. I had just bested Vince’s new acquisition and I wasn’t sure how everybody would feel about it.

  The gossip girls were in full force for this juicy tidbit and I still get asked about it all the time. In a way, I feel bad for Bill, as deep down I know he’s got a good heart, but when our international incident happened, it really got him off on the wrong foot with a lot of guys in the dressing room. When the word got out that David had taken down Goliath, I gained admiration while Goldberg gained more resentment than he already had.

  But not everybody admired me after the brawl.

  A week later in Richmond, Virginia, I got word that Vince wanted to talk to me.

  “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

  “I’m sorry about the fight, boss.”

  Vince replied, “That’s not why I’m upset with you. I’m upset because you didn’t tell me about it yourself.”

  “I didn’t think you’d want to hear that I just took down Goldberg.”

  Vince replied in a stern voice, “Chris, I need to know these things.” And then he repeated one of his favorite themes, “I’m not just trying to teach you wrestling lessons, I’m trying to teach you about life. I’m your boss and if something like that happens I should be the first person you call. And if anything like that ever happens again, I want to hear it from you.”

  His words made sense and I nodded in agreement. But I had to throw one back at him.

  “Okay, Vince. Now I have a bone to pick with you. Have you watched my WrestleMania match with Shawn yet?”

  Vince had worked with Hogan that night and didn’t watch any of the matches before his. But he still hadn’t seen the whole show and was the only person in the company who hadn’t complimented me or Shawn on our show-stealing match on the biggest stage of them all.

  “No. I haven’t had a chance.”

  “You should watch it. It was my favorite match ever and I’d like you to see it.”

  Vince said, “I promise to watch your match.
”

  “And I promise if I ever beat up somebody in your locker room, you’ll be the first to know.”

  After our brawl, Goldberg and I became very cordial with each other, almost friendly. We ended up having a good match at a PPV in Houston (when I walked into Gorilla afterward, I received no reaction, and when Goldberg walked through Vince gave him a standing ovation—grrrrr). Bill even invited me to fly on his private plane a few times. I think he was embarrassed that he got into the fight with me during his very first week of work with the WWE and wanted to show his good side.

  I think it still bothers him that his status as a badass (great album title) will always be tarnished by the fact that Chris Jericho took him down. Bret Hart wrote an article in the Calgary Sun about how “Jericho used the moves that Stu Hart taught him in the dungeon to stretch Goldberg.”

  If I died tomorrow, it would probably be my biggest legacy among other wrestlers.

  But let’s be honest. I’d like to say that in no way shape or form would I want to go through that with Goldberg again. He’s a big man and he studies the art of fighting. I’m just a wiry guy from Winnipeg who was sick of being buried and reacted accordingly. I surprised him with my ruthless aggression and he was stuck in a moment that he couldn’t get out of and didn’t know what to do. I basically held on for dear life and was credited with the win.

  Suffice it to say there will never be a rematch.

  But for the record the final score is: Jericho 1, Goldberg 0.

  CHAPTER 29

  A Brutal Shade of Jaundice

  One of the reasons why the Y2J character was so popular was that I was getting time to talk every week on TV. It allowed me to show off my creativity, my sense of humor, and my charisma, all of which helped me connect with the crowd. I was good at it, but I was also very lucky to get that valuable time, because many others didn’t. There were tons of performers on the roster who might as well have been mute or had their tongues Oldboy’d, they talked so rarely. How would we find the next Hulk Hogan or Rock if nobody was ever given a chance to talk? With this in mind, I called Brian and told him I wanted to be the host of my own show in the same vein as “Piper’s Pit.” Except I wanted it to be a strictly improvised segment where every week an up-and-coming star would get a chance to talk and show off their character—or lack thereof.

  I wanted to call it “Jericho’s Junction,” but Brian came up with “The Highlight Reel.” It was the perfect moniker, since I’d been recently referring to myself as the Highlight of the Night, so we went with it. Even though my improv concept fell by the wayside, the segment did become a modern day “Piper’s Pit,” a regular feature that usually led to some sort of angle.

  The first episode was in Boston. We assembled a makeshift set, which consisted of a giant carpet painted with my logo, a couple of barstools that I stole from the Players Club in the Fleet Center (send me the bill, guys), and the extravagant, astronomically priced JeriTron 5000. The JeriTron 5000 was nothing more than a 52-inch flat-screen TV, but much like Michael Knight’s KITT, it took on a life of its own as my mascot.

  Ironically, Goldberg was my first guest. He took me aside beforehand and politely asked me not to verbally bury him during the show. When Scott Steiner appeared, Vince was the one who begged me not to bury him. “Chris, we are hoping for big things from Scotty, so please don’t make him look bad out there.”

  Why did these guys think I was out to bury people? I never had before. It was if I had become the wrestling Bill O’Reilly, a verbal marksman who struck fear into the hearts of marblemouths everywhere.

  And there were no mouths more marbly than that of the Big Bad Booty Daddy. At the time he was wearing what basically amounted to a chain-mail kerchief, like a heavy metal Jackie Onassis, and during his appearance on “The Highlight Reel” I asked him, “Who do you think you are? King Arthur?”

  Scotty was supposed to reply, “You think I’m King Arthur? How about I come down there and get medieval on your ass?!” But he butchered his retort and instead bellowed out, “You think you’re King Arthur? Well, why don’t I come down there and kick your medieval ass!”

  No, I don’t think I’m King Arthur, Scott, you do. You’re the one wearing the chain mail.

  Steve Austin was having major neck problems and couldn’t wrestle anymore, but he was still a big part of the show as the commissioner of Raw. We had been tormenting each other weekly until finally a verdict was passed that Austin could never touch me unless I touched him first.

  The angle was working great on TV and the decision was made to take it on the road. It was a smart way to take advantage of Steve’s immense drawing power, and it gave him the perfect forum and the perfect foil to do his routine—“The Highlight Reel” and Chris Jericho. So every weekend during the summer of 2003, Steve Austin was my guest on “The Highlight Reel.” The arena set was much less extravagant than its TV counterpart; made up of two metal folding chairs and—well, that was it. But the fans were ecstatic to see Austin and be a part of his act. This was at the height of his “What?” phase, and we would base the segment on trying to outdo each other with the most references to a region-specific topic. For example, when we were in Green Bay, the routine was based around cheese and went a little something like this:

  “We’re in Green Bay, Wisconsin.”

  “What?”

  “The home of cheese!”

  “What?”

  “American cheese!”

  “What?”

  “Cheddar cheese!”

  “What?”

  “Gouda cheese!”

  I grabbed the mic and, inspired by the spirit of K. K. LaFlamme, went on a run of my own.

  “Do you mean White Stilton cheese?”

  “What?”

  “Double Gloucester cheese?”

  “What?”

  And so on and so on. We would continue to riff back and forth on cheese to see who could go the longest without breaking stride.

  We would do band names in London, hockey teams in Edmonton, or city nicknames in New York:

  “Here we are in the Big Apple!”

  “What?”

  “The city that never sleeps!”

  “What?”

  “The Windy City!”

  “What?”

  “Cowtown!”

  “What?”

  “The City of Lights!”

  “What?”

  Well, you get the idea. It was completely preposterous, but our rallies provided some tremendous improv training that would prove to be invaluable later in my career.

  I wore this outfit to host “The Highlight Reel” every weekend for the entire summer of 2003. By the time fall rolled around, it smelled of glue and stale beer due to Austin dousing me with Steveweisers nightly.

  Afterwards, I would get in Steve’s face and taunt him because I knew he couldn’t touch me. Austin would tell me, “Fine, I can’t touch you, but there’s no reason for us to be angry with each other! I’d rather just drink a beer with you, Chris. Do you like drinking beers?”

  “Of course I like beer, you idiot! Do you have Miller Lite?”

  “What?”

  “Coors Light?”

  “What?”

  “Bud Light?

  “What?”

  “If you want to see Stone Cold Steve Austin drink a beer with Chris Jericho, give me a ‘Hell yeah!’ ” The crowd would yell, “Hell yeah!” enthusiastically. But I wouldn’t bite until I had it my way.

  “Yeah, I’d like a frosty beverage myself. So if you wanna see Chris Jericho drink a beer with Stone Cold Steve Austin, give me a ‘Do-wah-diddy-diddy-dum-diddy-do!’ ” The crowd would quizically boo my ricockulosity as Steve and I would struggle to keep a straight face.

  The timekeeper would throw us a couple of beers and we would shake ’em up and toast each other. I’d take a nice sip and then tell Steve, “You know what, Austin, you’re not such a bad guy after all. I actually kind of like you,” and give him a friendly slap on his back like a
n old drinking buddy.

  Steve would then freeze in his tracks.

  The crowd would start to buzz, sensing what was about to happen, since I’d just broken the agreement and touched him. Austin would get that hell-raisin’ smile and stare a hole through my back, as I’d be glad-handing to the crowd and acting the damn fool. As soon as I turned around it would be a swift kick to the gut and a Stone Cold Stunner courtesy of the Texas Rattlesnake.

  I would gout beer out of my mouth in a sweet amber stream and take a huge overexaggerated bump through the ropes onto the floor. Steve would spend the next ten minutes drinking beer (and pouring it on me) while saluting the crowd with middle fingers. I took one bump a night on the road that whole summer, and besides constantly smelling like Steveweiser, it wasn’t a bad way for a grown man to make a living.

  In the early 2000s, the WWE was doing PPVs in England twice a year, where the entire crew would fly out from New York on a Friday night and arrive in the UK on Saturday morning. We’d clear customs and go straight to the arena, where we would eat and prepare for the show. The PPV would start at 7 p.m., and as soon as it was over we would head back to the airport and fly back to New York, arriving early Sunday morning. It was a grueling schedule and the quality of the matches was never quite up to snuff as a result. That’s why I was so relieved when I found out that I would only be doing a “Highlight Reel” with Austin and Eric Bischoff as my guests for the Insurrection PPV in Nottingham.

  A few months earlier Vince had made the shocking decision to hire Eric and make him the storyline general manager of Raw. I was skeptical, but I have to give Eric credit for having the balls to come to the WWE. With the amount of guys he’d fired or mistreated during his time as the boss of WCW, it was almost like the warden being put in prison with the inmates. But Eric was a consumate professional and slowly began to win over the locker room. I noticed that he was a different person now that he wasn’t in charge, and like most of the guys who came from WCW into the WWE, from Big Show to Booker T, to Kevin Nash, to DDP, when taken out of the destructive, cancerous atmosphere of WCW they were actually pretty good guys.