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

by Chris Jericho

  WWE Superstars 1, Kickboxers nil.

  The next night after the show in Manchester, we were getting a little stir crazy so we had a massive party in the hotel. Everybody was running between rooms, singing, telling jokes, drinking barrels of whiskey and washing them down with Guinness. A bunch of us were in Hurricane’s room when I decided to throw the TV out the window. I was convinced that I had to because Ozzy and Keith Moon had done it. Helms tried to talk me out of it but I wouldn’t waver.

  “Nobody will know whose TV it is. They’ll never find out!”

  “Actually, they will,” Hurricane said matter-of-factly. “When they notice there’s no TV in this room, they’re probably gonna put two and two together.”

  Bah humbug! I wanted to throw a TV out the window and nobody was going to stop me! I unplugged the unit and dragged it to the windowsill, propped it up, and got ready to toss the telly.

  “I am a Golden God!” I screamed and flung the window open.

  It cracked about two inches and then locked on its hinges.

  I found out that windows in European hotel rooms never completely open, probably for the purpose of keeping drunken Canadian idiots from throwing their TVs out of them. I stood there for a few more minutes trying to stuff the TV through the miniscule opening, but my big moment was gone. Hurricane’s room was empty as my audience had moved on to the next party.

  So I took all of his sheets, pillows, towels, every bit of fabric I could find and stuffed them into his closet. I unhooked the shower curtains ring by ring (which were filled with helium, making them very light) and put them into the closet too. Then I pointed the showerhead toward the sink.

  The next morning when a still loaded Hurricane woke up on his bare mattress and went to take a shower, he didn’t notice the absence of curtain until the freezing cold water hit him directly in the Hurricock.

  Wassup wit dat?

  Vince approached me in England about re-signing and told me that since there was only one company now, there wasn’t much negotiating he could do and started talking about a pay cut. I cut him off and said, “Vince, I’d rather not talk about this right now, let’s deal with it when we get back to the States.”

  The talk of a pay cut was another sign that I needed to disappear for a while. But I didn’t want Vince to think my leaving was about money so I didn’t even want to hear what his new offer was going to be.

  A week later in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, Vince and I walked around the arena into a storage area and had a one-on-one conversation for forty-five minutes.

  “Vince, I need a break from wrestling. I need to step back for a while and I’m not going to re-sign.”

  Vince nodded and asked, “How long do you need? A month? Three months?”

  In my head, I knew it would be at least a year, maybe more, but I didn’t want to tell him that. “I’m thinking more like six months. I’m mentally fried, completely burnt out.”

  Vince said, “Yeah, I feel like that sometimes, but I don’t have the option to step back.”

  I told Vince that I didn’t want to be one of those guys who gets bitter toward the business because he’s not happy. He agreed and offered me a part-time contract to do PR work during my sabbatical, but I turned it down. I wanted to leave the WWE completely and be free to do the things I wanted to do on my own schedule, with no responsibilities or obligations to the company.

  His only request was for me to extend my contract by a month and stay until SummerSlam.

  I asked Vince if he wanted to do a “loser leaves town” match to explain my exit, and he said it wasn’t necessary, that it was cliché. He felt it would be better to just have me disappear with little fanfare.

  We talked about old-time wrestling for a while longer and then shook hands. As we got up to leave Vince said, “The door is always open for you, Chris. You’re an excellent person and a great performer. When you’re ready to come back, let me know and we’ll come up with something for you worthy of a talent of your caliber.”

  It was strange for him to use those words considering he wanted to cut my pay and wasn’t using me for shit. But it was nice to hear him say them anyway.

  Vince was always open to business ideas that could be profitable to his company, and after years of hearing fans chanting “ECW” (which, as Tommy Dreamer pointed out, always sounded more like “EC-Blah Blu Blah”) during WWE shows, he decided to resurrect the brand. Like a wrestling Lazarus, ECW lumbered back to life at the One Night Stand PPV in the Hammerstein Ballroom in New York City.

  Dreamer, who was booking the show with Paul Heyman, asked me if I would like to be a part of the show in a match with Jerry Lynn or Stevie Richards. I asked if I could work with Lance Storm instead. Lance was an ECW alumnus and he was getting ready to retire. We thought it would be apropos to have Lance’s career end against the same opponent it began with: me.

  One Night Stand was like being in a time warp. The fans in attendance were reliving their youth like grown-ups wearing demon makeup to a Kiss reunion concert, and to them it was 1995 all over again. I had predicted that they’d be that way, and when I wore my old Lionheart tights and black leather vest to the ring, the fans knew exactly what I was going for and appreciated the homage.

  The crowd went nuts for the show, but it was a different style of wrestling from what Vince was used to. After a particularly violent bout between Mike Awesome and Masato Tanaka featuring multiple broken tables and chair shots, I asked him what he thought.

  “I wouldn’t want to have a PPV like this every month, but it’s definitely very unique.”

  It was unique enough to be a big success, and soon after Vince fully revived ECW to be his third company brand.

  I was in a secret limousine driving to a secret location to have a secret meeting with the secret newest member of Raw, who was going to make his secret debut on “The Highlight Reel” in St. Louis that night.

  Did I mention it was a secret?

  It was no surprise when I found out Mr. X was John Cena (not Ed Langley). Cena’s star had skyrocketed over the last few months and it was time to showcase him on the flagship show. But Vince wanted to keep his arrival a surprise until the moment he appeared, hence the cloak-and-dagger routine.

  That night when I introduced him as the newest addition to Raw, the fans were ecstatic to see him. Cena had become the first (and only) performer in years to break into the mainstream and breathe the same rarefied air as The Rock and Steve Austin. I took great pride in the fact that I had predicted his rise three years earlier.

  I recognized that since I was on my way out of the WWE, the best way to go would be in an angle with John. I was currently slotted to face Carlito at SummerSlam but I knew I could give Cena (who was the champion) a great match and an excellent platform to really make his mark on Raw.

  I pitched working with Cena at SummerSlam and passing whatever torch I had to him, and Vince agreed. I was happy, as I was finally wrestling for the world title again— even if I had to leave to do so. But the prospect of working for the championship rejuvenated me and gave me the kick in the ass I needed to go out of the WWE the same way I came in—on top.

  The Cena-Jericho feud was based on me claiming I was more famous than him. We were both world-renowned wrestlers at the top of our game, as well as being actors and musicians. But the difference was I was constantly bragging about all of my fame and fortune, whereas John was humble and thankful. He started calling me Y2Cheap (which I thought was Y2Lame) due to my constant boasting and self-promoting.

  As part of the angle, Vince wanted us to do a battle of the bands. I’d played with Fozzy on Raw before, but the concept of the band was different then. Now that the gimmick was over and All That Remains had done so well in changing the perception of the band, I didn’t want to jeopardize all of that positive momentum by putting us in a situation where we were bound to fail. I was such a hated heel that it wouldn’t matter how good we were live, we’d still get booed out of the building. Everyone understood my
point and it worked out better anyway as we announced the battle, and after Cena tore the house down with his performance, I claimed the audience was biased and would chastise us no matter how amazing Fozzy was. I withdrew from the contest and walked off the stage to massive boos.

  * * *

  At the time, there were rumors circulating on the Internet that my contract was coming due and I would be finishing up at the end of August. I didn’t want people knowing that SummerSlam was going to be my last match and assuming I wouldn’t be winning the title by proxy. So when I signed the one-month contract extension that Vince had requested, I made sure to have wwe.com announce that I had signed a new deal. Extension or not, after nine years I would no longer be employed by the WWE the day after SummerSlam.

  But three days before the PPV I got a call from Howard Finkel, telling me he was changing my travel plans, as I was now needed for Raw on Monday.

  Raw on Monday?

  Sunday was my last day on the job and I had already made plans with my family for Monday. I told Howard, “Don’t change my travel, because I’m not going to be there.”

  About ten minutes later Michael Hayes called and reiterated that I was needed for Raw.

  “I’m not under contract anymore, P.S. SummerSlam is my last night.”

  Hayes responded, “Vince changed his mind, he doesn’t want you to leave without doing a final angle.”

  I had asked Vince if he wanted to do that when we had our talk in Wilkes-Barre three months earlier and he had scoffed at the idea. He’d had plenty of time to change his mind, and now, just three days before the show, he was having his minions call and tell me I was supposed to be at Raw? If he had had some great epiphany and wanted me to stay an extra day, he should’ve called me himself.

  Ten minutes after that, Johnny called me and said, “Vince wants you to have a Loser Gets Fired match, and have Bischoff fire you.”

  I was getting hotter that Vince still wasn’t calling me, and there was no chance in hell that I was going to Raw on Monday until he did. I told Johnny I wasn’t going and hung up the phone. Ten minutes after that, Vince finally called. I didn’t bother answering, as I was too angry, and when I listened to the message, it was obvious he felt the same way.

  “I don’t know why you’re refusing to come to Raw on Monday, but you’re making a mistake,” he fumed. “Do you have some sort of kayfabe deal in Japan where you can’t do any jobs? ”

  Kayfabe deal in Japan? What was this, 1986?

  His message pissed me off even more and I knew that calling him right back would do no good. I took a few minutes to settle my little tea kettle (copyright Nattie Neidhart) until I calmed down enough to call him back.

  “So what is this, I hear you’re not coming to Raw on Monday?”

  “Well, Vince, I’m done at SummerSlam. You had three months to think about this and now it’s too late. I have plans with my family.”

  “What kind of plans? I need you there.”

  “Well, if that’s the case then you should’ve called me yourself, Vince. Do you realize how disrespectful it was to have Howard Finkel call me, Hayes, Johnny, all of them basically asking me to do you a favor? Everybody is calling me trying to coax me into doing this. Everyone but you! Why didn’t you pick up the phone and call me?”

  Vince responded, “You are right about that. I should’ve called you and I apologize.”

  That’s all I needed to hear.

  “Okay Vince, I’ll be there on Monday.”

  Vince appreciated my dedication and said he’d take care of me for the match. He stood by his word, and I was very happy when I got my checks for both SummerSlam and Raw.

  On the Saturday night before SummerSlam, Jess and I went to the airport and found that our flight to Washington, D.C., had been canceled. Eddy Guerrero and his wife, Vicki, were booked on the same flight, and the four of us decided to stay at the airport Marriot instead of driving back home. We had a great conversation that night and the next morning they were sitting in front of us on the plane. Throughout the flight Eddy kept turning in his seat excitedly to explain the psalms in the Bible that were really inspiring him. He had gone through a recent resurgence in his faith and was very excited about his new spiritual commitment. We shared a laugh about how we’d been in the same company for years but were hardly ever on the same show. When he was on Smackdown! I was on Raw, and vice versa, and aside from when he “stole” Chyna and the European Championship from me in 2000, we had never worked a program together in the WWE.

  I was happy that our original flight got canceled, as it was great talking to him and spending quality time together.

  It was the last time we would get that chance.

  Cena and I had a great match at SummerSlam. He was much maligned at the time by critics and peers as being a subpar worker, but I didn’t agree. “It’s bullshit, when people say you can’t wrestle,” I told him. “You’re a really good performer, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Maybe your style is unorthodox, but it works. Don’t limit yourself.”

  John’s style was unconventional, but so was a little rattlesnake named Steve Austin, and he ended up being one of the best workers of all time.

  We built up the match beautifully with our promos, establishing exactly who was the heel and who was the babyface. But despite our hard work, our match started the tradition of certain fans booing John and cheering for his opponent. Halfway through, dueling chants of “Let’s Go, Cena!” and “Let’s Go, Jericho!” resonated throughout the crowd.

  I was a little miffed at first, because I never liked getting cheered when I was working as a heel. But in retrospect I think the fans were rooting for me because, like me or hate me, they respected all my years of hard work and legitimately wanted to see me win the title.

  Alas, it wasn’t meant to be, and Cena beat me clean with the FU.

  The match was a special one, and when we went through the curtain we got a standing ovation. Benoit, Eddy, and Dean (who had started working as an agent) congratulated me en masse and Jessica snapped a picture. It was amazing to have my three best friends in the business surrounding me and sharing in my triumph. Chris, Eddy, and I had been world champions and Dean was now in Vince’s inner circle. We had been through so much together and had risen above all of the bullshit to get to the top of this industry.

  The four of us shared a group hug and Eddy gave me a huge smile.

  “I’m so proud of you for all you’ve done, bro. I’m also proud of you for walking away on your own terms. I love you, man.”

  I gave him a big hug and told him I loved him back.

  I never saw him again.

  The next night in Hampton, Virginia, I had my last match for twenty-seven months. Despite Cena’s reservations about having a rematch after our classic the night before, I think Cena-Jericho II might’ve been even better. The story was that Bischoff and I were in cahoots, stacking the deck to get the title off Cena and get him out of the WWE at all costs. I agreed that the loser would get fired, figuring there was no way that could ever happen with Eric by my side. Unfortunately for me, Bischoff’s interference went awry and cost me the match. But before he could fire me, I went down on my hands and knees and begged for mercy.

  “Please, Mr. Bischoff. Please don’t fire me … I have a son … I have a family! You can’t fire me!”

  But Eric stood firm and told a battalion of security to escort me out of the arena. The crowd was taking great pleasure with my misfortune, so I decided to take my exit a step further.

  I whispered under my breath to the guards, “Pick me up and carry me out of here.”

  It took them a few seconds to figure out I was serious, as we hadn’t discussed it in rehearsal, but they eventually lifted me up and carried me up the ramp like a Mayan sacrifice.

  I had no pride and that’s the way I wanted it. As a craven heel, there was no way I was going out with my head held high, riding off into the sunset with my loyal fans chanting my name. I wanted to be forcefully removed
, kicking, screaming and crying like a coward. That was the last time I was seen in the WWE for more than two years.

  Over the next few days, I had a blast reading Internet feedback from fans who were livid that the WWE would treat me so dishonorably and have me exit in such a demeaning manner. Little did they know that the pathetic exit was all my idea.

  John and I received another standing ovation when we walked through the curtain. Ricky Steamboat, who had recently been hired as an agent, said, “There was a rumor going around that you were in a slump, Chris, but you’re definitely not in a slump anymore. That was an amazing performance. Congratulations!” Not a bad compliment from one of my heroes.

  The rumors were right—I’d been in a mental slump and hadn’t been performing at the level I should’ve been. But I promised myself I would go out on top in working with Cena, and I did. After fifteen years of basing my entire life around wrestling, I could now call it a day with no regrets and move on knowing I was walking away at my peak.

  Vince echoed those same thoughts when he called me the next day.

  “As good as the SummerSlam match was, I daresay that last night’s was better. Quite frankly, with all due respect to James Brown, you are the hardest working man in show business.”

  I wasn’t yet—but I was about to be.

  CHAPTER 36

  Buffet Nazi

  Castle Donington is the site of the biggest heavy metal festival in England, most famous for drawing over 100,000 people for the 1988 lineup that featured Iron Maiden, Kiss, Megadeth, David Lee Roth, Guns N’ Roses, and Helloween. (Headbanging Author’s Note: All six of these bands are in my all-time top fifteen.)

  It had since changed its name to Download, and Download wanted Fozzy. Bang Your Head in Germany was a good festival, but Download was the granddaddy of them all. We still weren’t getting any support or respect from our record company, or from most of the UK rock press, yet we had still risen to the level of being asked to play Download.