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

by Chris Jericho

  He was also highly respected in the entertainment world, and the Superskate became the talk of the town. I found myself shmoozing with such Hollywood A-listers as Cuba Gooding Jr., Michael J. Fox, Kiefer Sutherland, Boomer Esiason, Tim Robbins, and Matthew Modine. I hit it off with David Boreanaz, who gave me his cell number. I complimented Rick Moranis on his work with SCTV, but with every mention of Jerry Todd, Skip Bittman, or Linsk Minyk all I got was a simple nod and a mumbled “Thanks.” Susan Sarandon was the coach of my team and called me her supermodel. Dammit Janet, I love you.

  Brad Roberts, the singer of the Crash Test Dummies and my old guitar teacher from Winnipeg, sang the national anthem. When I skated over to say hi, Brad had no idea who I was and mmm-mmm-ed away midsentence.

  But I got a great reaction from the MSG aficionados when my name was announced, and it motivated me to put on a good show. I spent the first half of the game horsing around with Theo Fleury, Bryan Leetch, and Glen Anderson, before dropping my gloves and challenging Denis Leary to a fight. We worked it like a wrestling match as we circled each other milking the crowd for cheers. Then we embraced arm in arm and skated off the ice while stripping off our equipment à la Ned Braden in Slapshot.

  After the game I was entered in the breakaway portion of the skills contest. I skated down the ice on Rangers goalie Kirk McLean and took the weakest slapshot ever unleashed in the history of the Garden. It fluttered off the ice like a drunken bat and floated end over end directly over the shoulder of McLean. Maybe he wasn’t paying attention or was merely mesmerized by my atrocious shot, but it didn’t matter. I lost my mind and did a victory lap around the ice, then ran in place like the Baby-Faced Assassin before riding my stick like Tiger Williams.

  I had just scored a legitimate goal on the netminder for the New York Rangers in Madison Square Garden.

  You can file that one under Most Awesome Experiences of My Life.

  At the end of the night, both teams lined up in the center ice and Chris wheeled out to say a few words. “Of all the hockey games I’ve ever seen … that one was the worst.” He worked the crowd like a pro, confident, funny, and appreciative of all of us who had made the night so special. I went and shook Chris’s hand, and the first thing I noticed was how big of a man he was sitting in his chair. He instantly reminded me of Droz. I introduced myself, and after a few minutes of chitchat I told him my mom was a quadriplegic and that he was an inspiration to us both.

  “You tell her I said not to give up … ever. We’ll both walk again someday.”

  His optimism was contagious, and at that moment I believed he was right.

  I was invited back to Superskate the following year, and in keeping with the annual tradition of getting into a fight, I asked Chad Smith, the drummer of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, if he wanted to tussle.

  I’d met Chad (who was a dead ringer for Will Ferrell) earlier in the day and he was friendly, funny, and slightly off his rocker. Who can blame him—he was both a drummer and a goalie. I guess if you hit things or get hit with solid objects for a living, you have the right to be a little bit crazy. If you do both, you must be totally insane.

  I told Chad my plan during the second intermission and he was totally into it. I would wait until the play was in his end, and when the puck cleared and the play moved up ice, I’d stay behind and challenge him.

  About three minutes into the third, the opportunity arose and it was go time. The both of us threw off our gloves and began to circle each other. The crowd was buzzing at the prospect of Pepper vs. Paragon and we had them right where we wanted them.

  “Okay, man, I’ll take a swing at you, you duck and throw a swing at me. When I go down you jump on top and start punching.”

  I took my swing, he moved then pounced on me and started throwing hands. But instead of the show business punches I was expecting he was walloping me in the face for real. There I was in the middle of the MSG ice getting the shit kicked out of me by a rock star. I felt like Rocky Balboa during his exhibition against Thunderlips.

  I threw the funky monk off desperately and skated away as fast as I could, but he chased me down and tackled me again with a desecration smile.

  If you see me getting high knock me down, indeed.

  The next year I agreed to play again on one condition—my dad had to be invited too. His participation was a no-brainer, as Ted Irvine was one of the most popular Rangers of all time, but I insisted we had to be on opposite teams.

  Why did I do that?

  Because I wanted to fight him, of course.

  I surprised him on Christmas morning with a plane ticket to NYC, and he got tears in his eyes when I explained what it was for. He would be returning to play hockey on the hallowed ice of the Garden for the first time in twenty-five years.

  To have him come to MSG to see me work at Royal Rumble a few years earlier was froot, but to fly him there to play hockey was incredible. He got a great response when he came out on the ice from the New York fans, who are among the most loyal in the world. Once you play in the Big Apple, you’ll be remembered for the rest of your life. I can’t tell you how many times people come up to me on the street or in the arena in New York and ask me how “Number 27 Teddy Irvine” is doing.

  We lined up on the opposite blue lines for the national anthems (Brad Roberts was nowhere to be found) and I could see my pops had his game face on. He was skating in place with a scowl on his face, and from the distant look in his eye, it seemed like he was having some sort of Vietnamesque flashback to his glory days of 1971. I started having second thoughts about challenging this man (who had once taken down Dave Schultz) to a fight.

  We were about four minutes into the game when Teddy whipped down the side of the ice and scored a beautiful goal. After he scored another in the second period, I made my move. I sticked him in the meat in the back of the leg (the part that really hurts) and dared, “Let’s go, Irvine!”

  His gloves were on the ice before the words left my mouth.

  The crowd went nuts, as MC John Davidson (Hockey Historian Author’s Note: Davidson is the guy my dad was traded from the Rangers to St. Louis for.) yelled electrically, “Here it is folks, what we’ve been waiting for … Irvine vs. Irvine!”

  He was looping around me like an uncaged animal as I kept telling him, “Wait for it, Dad. Wait for it.”

  When the cheers reached a crescendo I said, “Now!” and we were off. Using the same spot I did with Chad Smith, I threw a punch, he moved and threw one back. I went down and he jumped on top of me. And for the second year in a row, I was in the middle of the MSG ice getting the shit kicked out of me—except this time the shitkicker was my own father.

  As he was slapping me around all I could think of was that he was getting his revenge on me for denting his car when I was sixteen.

  To make things worse, not only did I get a beating from dear old Dad, but the son of a bitch (Confused Author’s Note: Does that make me the son of a son of a bitch?) won the game MVP as well. He skated away with the trophy and the glory, leaving me in his ice chips.

  It was a little embarrassing, for sure, but it was also one of the best times I’ve ever had with my dad.

  The Baby-Faced Assassin 1, Y2J 0.

  One of the frootest moments of my life was playing hockey with my dad in Madison Square Garden. Seeing him in action up close and personal made me realize just how damn good a hockey player he was. His speed (even at fifty-eight years old) was amazing.

  CHAPTER 41

  Yes, and …

  Paul McCartney had just finished playing “Got to Get You into My Life” and the crowd was going wild. He was performing his first concert in Tampa in three years and I’d flown in Speewee, Rybo, and Chad so we could all see it together. They are as obsessed with the Beatles as I am, and we were all getting schooled on how to put on a show by the biggest rock star in the world.

  Sir Paul had the crowd in the palm of his hand and was holding his famous violin bass aloft as a grand piano rose up behind him fr
om an opening in the stage. He kept walking backward as he basked in the roar of the crowd, seemingly oblivious to the opening in the floor. But I had a bird’s-eye view of the stage and I could see that he was going to fall right into the pit.

  “Look out, Paul!” I yelled in slow motion, as Chad nodded his head wisely.

  But my efforts were futile and Paul tumbled over the lip of the stage and landed back first on the piano. Twenty thousand cheers stopped on a dime and the crowd went silent.

  A roadie jumped into the gap to help, and I could see Paul was shaken up. But after a minute or so Macca thrust his arm in the air and gave us the thumbs-up sign. Blackbirds began singing and all was well in the world!

  He climbed back onto the stage and said drolly, “Well, we’ve got a slight change in the set. I’m now going to play a song called ‘Fixin’ a Hole.’ ”

  Even though Paul felt fine, he could’ve been seriously hurt, and I was certain someone in his crew was going to get fired. Surely a roadie had failed to give Paul his cue or the trapdoor had opened too early by mistake?

  It wasn’t until months later when I saw him play again in L.A., that I found out what really happened. Paul had once again just finished “Got to Get You into My Life,” and as the piano was rising from under the stage, he mentioned the mishap in Tampa.

  “I was there!” I yelled, as Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn turned their heads in annoyance from the row in front of me.

  “I forgot that the hole had opened onstage and I fell in because I wasn’t paying attention. I was too busy flirting with two birds in the first row.”

  And in the end the love you make is equal to the falls you take.

  The next morning I flew from Tampa to L.A., as I’d been hired by the TV Guide Channel to cohost their red carpet Emmy Awards preshow with Joan and Melissa Rivers. The Rivers ladies had been hosting the show for years, and the producers thought it would be a good idea to add a male presence to the carpet and tapped me to do the job.

  When I arrived in L.A. I was whisked away to be outfitted in a Gucci tuxedo, Prada sunglasses, and Ferragamo shoes, while a hairstylist worked on my hair and a makeup artist powdered me down. Then a limo drove me through a plethora of security checks and searches and dropped me off at the red-carpet area.

  There the producers explained my assignment for the evening. The two-hour show would start and Joan would do her introduction, then about ten minutes in she would throw to me and I would interview random celebs on what they were wearing, who they were doing, the typical b.s. It sounded easy enough and was a great opportunity for me to be seen by a different audience and show off my shining personality.

  The producer explained, “We’ve seen your work and we know what you can do. You have great improv skills. If Joan wants to banter with you, just do your thing.”

  Fair enough; I wasn’t afraid of Joan Rivers, and I had even prepared a few jokes to throw at her if she got a little smart.

  I was positioned on the edge of the carpet and was told by a gargantuan bouncer that under no circumstances was I allowed to put my foot on the carpet in any way. The show began and I waited for my cue armed with earpiece and microphone.

  Ten minutes went by and Joan didn’t pitch to me.

  Twenty minutes went by and Joan didn’t pitch to me.

  I asked the producer when she was going to throw to me and he said, “Real soon.”

  Forty-five minutes went by and she still didn’t pitch to me.

  I started to think that the fix was in—she hadn’t pitched to me because she wasn’t going to.

  I was furious. I’d left my friends in Tampa and rushed out to L.A. to stand on the edge of the carpet (in camera range so everyone could see me standing there with my Emmy in my hand) and be completely ignored by a frozen-faced septuagenarian.

  What made even less sense was that TV Guide had shelled out some decent cash to get me there: first-class air, five-star hotel, and an impressive payoff to do the show. Why had they bothered if they were just going to ignore me?

  I was about to lose it when Ricky Gervais waddled past, flashed his shark smile, and said, “Cheer up, mate!” He made me laugh in spite of myself and I decided I might as well enjoy myself since there was nothing I could do at this point anyway. Besides, who knows, maybe I was wrong and Joan was still going to pitch to me at some point. (She didn’t.)

  A few minutes later my old Superskate sparring partner Denis Leary walked by and I clapped him on the back, happy to see him. He gave me a puzzled smile and continued on his way. Soon after, another Superskate alum, David Boreanaz, strolled by. He’d given me his cell number at the Skate, so I figured he would remember me.

  “David! Chris Jericho. How’s it going?”

  “Good, good. Wow, good to see you … well, gotta go inside.”

  I got revenge and deleted his number from my phone.

  I spent the next twenty minutes with my foot directly on the red carpet (the bouncer would’ve been so pissed, heehee) until the debacle finally ended. I stormed backstage to ask the producer why they had bothered to hire me just so I could stand on the red carpet like a buffoon. He apologized profusely and explained, “Joan wouldn’t pitch to you. We kept telling her to but she wouldn’t. I have no idea why.”

  Right then Rivers toddled backstage and gave me one of the fakest smiles I’ve ever seen in my life, both physically and metaphorically. “There you ah! I saw you on the carpet and you ah so handsome. I wanted to pitch to you but I was never given the cue!”

  I punched her right in her plastic face, collapsing it like a house of collagen cards.

  I popped back into reality and fake smiled right back. “Oh, it’s okay, Joan. Things happen and I had a great time anyway.”

  “Are you a wrestlah? Is that what you do?”

  “Yes … among other things.”

  Her eyes lit up and she seized her chance. “Well, let me know if you ever want me to appear on your wrestling show. I would be happy to come on and help you out. Now, here’s my card—send me a self-addressed, stamped envelope and I’ll send you an autographed picture, dahling.”

  This time I caved in her fabricated fuckface for real.

  When I got back to Tampa, everybody was feeling sorry for me.

  “You were just standing there and I felt so bad for you,” Chad said. “I kept waiting for you to do something, but alas it never happened,” he continued wisely.

  I’d been embarrassed in front of my cousin again. The last time he was involved in one of my endeavours there were more security guards than fans at my signing in Ottawa. Now he had watched me for two hours standing with my finger up my nose on the red carpet at the Emmys.

  For Chad my fame was like Snuffleupagus—it disappeared whenever he was around.

  After my stellar appearance as a red-carpet mannequin, I hit another Hollywood dry spell. It was a couple months before I got my next gig, a guest shot on an episode of the sketch comedy show Mad TV.

  I had a few funny moments, and afterwards head writer Michael Hitchcock invited me to see him perform with the Groundlings, one of the most influential and famous improv groups of all time, that boasted such alumni as Will Ferrell, Paul Reubens, Cheri Oteri, Lisa Kudrow, Amy Poehler, Will Forte, Kristen Wiig, and Phil Hartman.

  I was a big fan of Mike’s subtle yet hilarious performances in A Mighty Wind, Waiting for Guffman, and Best in Show and was excited to watch him work with the Groundlings. I watched the uproarious show and afterwards Michael introduced me to the director, Mindy Sterling. Mindy had played Frau Farbissina in the Austin Powers movies and she and her son were big wrestling fans. She thought my work with the WWE was entertaining and suggested I do a show the next time I was in town.

  A few weeks later I made my improv comedy debut with the Groundlings on their Thursday night show “Cookin’ with Gas,” which was no mean feat. The reason was that becoming an actual member of the Groundlings was like becoming a comedic Scientologist. You had to train and take classes for a year bef
ore you could perform on the Sunday night show, which was like the minor leagues. Then if you were good enough on the Sunday night show, all thirty of the full-time Groundlings would cast a vote to decide if you had the skills to become a full-fledged member of the team. The true catch was that there could only be thirty Groundlings at a time, so if you were accepted you would have to wait until someone left before you could join. That meant that some people were stuck on the Sunday show forever.

  With years of doing improv with Rocky and Austin under my belt, I did a pretty good job during my first Groundlings performance in the Phil Hartman Theatre in Los Angeles.

  For my first sketch, Mindy called my partner and I onstage and asked the audience to name a weird occupation. Someone yelled, “Taxidermist!” and then Mindy asked them to name the worst place for two people to go on a first date and someone else yelled, “An outhouse!” It was then our task to make up a scene where two taxidermists had their first date in an outhouse.

  I did well enough that Mindy invited me back, and I began appearing with the Groundlings regularly for the next year. I learned some important lessons along the way, including the first rule of improv, which is, “Don’t try to be funny.” Never go for the cheap joke.

  The second rule is to always use the mantra of “Yes, and …” This means that if someone said my hair was black, I would come back with, “Yes, and it’s a very blond shade of black that is indicative of my Luxembourgian ancestry.”

  I learned that improv is a team sport and you have to feed each other and work together to create the best possible show— much like wrestling. The two were also similar in that sometimes you had a great performance and felt like the most entertaining person on the planet, and other times you would bomb terribly and have to bounce back the next time.