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

by Chris Jericho

  “Why would they recognize you?”

  I told Saget I was a wrestler. He asked which one, and when I told him he smirked and motioned back to the holding area. “There’s a lot of people who obviously shouldn’t be in here, and you’re one of them. But you are here, so get back into that cell until your name is called.”

  I headed back to the cell praying to God that I wouldn’t be seriously beaten (or killed) by Los Lobos. I had just reached the door as Señor Musculo made room for me to sit beside him, when the loudspeaker boomed again.

  “Chris Irvine to the front.”

  I rushed back to the window and saw a group of cops gathered around a computer.

  “We found your website,” Saget said. “You better come with us.”

  I practically jumped into his arms with relief when he opened the door. My fame had paid off and I was free! My joy was short-lived, however, as Saget slapped the cuffs back on and led me through a long, dank hall before depositing me into an eight-by-eight room by myself.

  “All right, Chris Jericho, you’re gonna stay in here until you hear your name called. Shouldn’t be more than four or five hours. Try and get some sleep.”

  What was the deal with this four or five hours statement? It was apparent I wasn’t going anywhere for a while, so I took inventory of the closet that was my new home.

  Stainless steel toilet with no seat—check. Stainless steel bench—check. Roll of piss-stained toilet paper—check. Smell of piss in the air—double check. Freezing cold—triple check. Yeah, I was going to be able to sleep like a baby in this place. My only regret was that I hadn’t given the cop my Hilton Diamond number so I could get my points.

  I lay down on the cold steel, using the pee-stained toilet roll as a pillow, and felt the first fingers of panic inside my stomach.

  I hadn’t called Jessica before I went to bed as usual and I knew she would be awake as it was past 8 a.m. in Tampa. She was four months pregnant and I felt worse for her than I did for myself. She would be worrying, wondering where her husband was, not knowing he was in a putrid jail cell in downtown Los Angeles after being arrested for drunken driving.

  I always took some kind of warped pride in the fact that I could drink a lot. I was proud of my Winnipeg upbringing and how I’d been weaned with a beer in my hand. Partying was fun! Getting wasted was froot!

  I didn’t feel too damn froot right now. As a matter of fact I felt like a pathetic thirty-five-year-old loser. I also felt really cold, because it was about 60 degrees in the damn cell. I closed my eyes with my mind racing and lay on that steel bench for hours. It was after 8 a.m. when another cop finally opened the door and told me to follow him. I’d been in jail for almost five hours and at this point was stone cold sober and ready to go home. But I wasn’t finished yet.

  The cop led me down another dingy hallway and up a dark flight of stairs before dumping me in yet another cell. Was this ever going to end?

  Before he closed the door, the cop asked, “You’re in a cell by yourself—a K-100. Why’s that? Are you a homosexual?”

  “No.”

  “Are you violent?”

  “No.”

  “Are you suicidal?”

  “I’m about to be when my wife finds out.”

  “Sit tight. You should be out in—”

  “Four or five hours?” I said with a wan smile.

  The cop nodded as he slammed the door. There were no bars here, only a window made of three-inch-thick Plexiglas. But my new cell was the fucking Waldorf-Astoria compared to the last one: the toilet had a seat, there was a small sink in the corner, and most important there was a phone on the wall.

  Thinking back to every police show I’d ever seen that didn’t feature Stewart Copeland, the officers always spoke about a prisoner’s right to one phone call. I hadn’t been offered one phone call, and come to think of it, I hadn’t been read the Miranda rights when I was first arrested either. Andy Sipowicz was full of shit! But I wasn’t ready to call home just yet.

  I decided to get my thoughts together and kill time by looking out the window of my cell. I saw inmates shackled together marching down the hallway in their orange jumpsuits. I saw an old black prisoner with white hair and a white beard swabbing the floor.

  Would that be me someday? Perhaps that guy had started out with a DUI too and just never got out? Then I saw another prisoner across the hallway staring out of his window aimlessly as well. Ah, a fellow convict passing the time observing the world around him just like me, all the while singing, “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen …”

  The jailbird broke into a snaggle-toothed grin and mouthed, “I’m going to fucking kill you …”

  I darted away from the window and concentrated on eating my bologna sandwich on white and gulping down my fruit drink containing 0% REAL JUICE. If you’ve ever eaten a piece of cork and washed it down with cardboard-flavored Gatorade, you’ll have an idea of what my breakfast tasted like.

  It was time to face Hurricane Jessica. I picked up the phone and took a deep breath.

  I dialed my home number and when she picked up an operator said, “You have received a collect call from the L.A. County Jail from Chris …”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me …,” I heard her say.

  To get into the details of the verbal thrashing my wife gave me that morning is moot. Suffice it to say she made her displeasure regarding my current situation exceedingly clear. Then she said she’d call my manager, Barry Bloom, to see if he could get me out of there. My fate was in her capable hands, and I felt a little better (for now) that she was on the case. I knew she would bake me a cake with a file in it to get me out if she had to.

  After another hour, the loudspeaker eventually boomed, “Will prisoner Chris Irvine please identify himself.”

  My spirits soared! I was getting out! I banged on the glass for what seemed like twenty minutes until an annoyed-looking guard (with mustache of course) opened the door.

  “Officer, I’m Chris Irvine! The loudspeaker told me to identify myself!”

  “Well, good for you. Do you want a fucking medal?” he queried, and slammed the door shut.

  I was crestfallen and collapsed on the floor trying not to cry. I eventually picked myself back up and glanced through the window across the hallway.

  “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Snaggletooth mouthed again.

  “I’m gonna fucking kill you first,” I mouthed back, and I meant it.

  Snaggletooth’s grin vanished and he disappeared into the bowels of his cell.

  The clock struck noon and I was taken to another holding cell. But there was one last glitch before I was released, when I was told the smudged fingerprints the cop took from me on the street didn’t match the ones I’d taken at the station. The front desk officer was confused and wouldn’t discharge me without confirmation.

  He surveyed the assorted group of convicts, who were just as anxious to get the hell out of jail as I was. “Are any of you guys wrestling fans?”

  They looked at each other nervously, afraid to answer one way or another, in case it was a trick question designed to put them back in the hoosegow.

  All the crooks sat silent until one redheaded Richie Cunningham– looking cat squeaked, “I am. He’s Chris Jericho, right?”

  Indeed I was, and I was ready to get out of the big house. After the positive identification I was given back my belongings like Joliet Jake (sans one soiled prophylactic) and the electronic door to freedom swung open. The clock on the wall said 1:30 p.m.; I’d been in jail for over ten hours and was ready to explode. How anyone can serve one week, one year, or one decade behind bars is beyond me.

  My court date was six weeks later and I was charged with wet reckless driving (not quite a DUI, but close enough), lost my California license for six months, had to attend ten AA meetings, and was fined over ten grand. I deserved everything that I got, and considering I could’ve killed myself or somebody else, it was a small price to pay and a lesson well learned.<
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  The moral of this story is simple, dear readers: Don’t drink and drive.

  The moral is: Don’t drink juice boxes containing 0% REAL JUICE.

  CHAPTER 44

  Miracle Babies

  I woke up at 5:30 in the morning to the most terrifying text of my life.

  JESS CELL : “I’m going into labor right now!”

  How could that be? She was only twenty-seven weeks pregnant! Even worse, I was in Toronto, only a short 1,097 miles away from Tampa.

  I was rehearsing for the opening night of Opening Night, a play I was starring in written by Canadian playwright Norm Foster. I’d been offered the lead role of Jack Tisdale, a forty-five-year-old varnish salesman who was taking his estranged wife to a play for their anniversary.

  The production was being put on by Bird Entertainment, a fledgling Ontario theater company who were looking to boost their profile by casting me as the lead. It was a perfect fit as I’d wanted to do theater for years, and I jumped at the chance to be a part of the wacky Peter Sellers/Ricky Gervais– style farce.

  I’d been flying back and forth from Tampa for six weeks rehearsing and promoting the show, and all of the hard work was paying off. All four of the shows had sold to 90 percent capacity and the city was abuzz waiting to see Chris Jericho’s stage debut.

  I made some great choices for Jack, including growing a mustache, padding my stomach with a pillow, greasing my hair back, and wearing glasses, all of which made me look nothing like the WWE Superstar I was known as. It was the first time that I’d been able to really apply the acting techniques Kirk taught me, and they were working. I spent hours learning my lines and rehearsing with the amazing cast and really dropped into the character of Jack in the process.

  My choices for Jack Tisdale included a mustache, glasses, and a pillow stuffed in my shirt. The best accolade I received for my performance was from a fan in the front row who whispered to his friend after I’d been onstage for ten minutes, “Where the hell is Jericho?”

  I went to bed after our final rehearsal knowing I had one more day to relax and work on the final nuances of the character and the play.

  Or so I thought.

  When I got Jess’s text, I quickly called the hospital. I found out she was already in the delivery room about to give birth to our twin daughters thirteen weeks prematurely, which was a potential disaster.

  The little monkeys had already tried to sneak out four weeks earlier, and Jess had been on bed rest ever since. It had been a difficult pregnancy, much harder than her experience with Ash, mostly because this time there were two babies inside of her. Both of us had thought there was only one until we went for our four-month ultrasound to find out the sex (yes, please) of our child. Jess had a hunch she might be carrying twins since she was huge and they ran in her family, but the nurse said there was no way. But when she rechecked the blurry image on the screen, she digressed and said, “Well, what do you know. Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Irvine, you’re having a girl … and another girl!”

  I fell off my chair.

  Let me say that if there are any nurses reading this tome and they someday have the honor of telling an expectant father that his wife is having twins after four months of thinking there was just one baby please tell him to sit down or hold tight to the wall or down a straight shot of Grey Goose because that’s quite the surprise to hear.

  Okay, thanks for that. I’m going to take a breath now.

  Panicking over the fact that my wife was giving birth to my twins at that very moment, I booked the next flight to Tampa and flew home. I rushed to the hospital and there in an incubator in the newborn intensive care unit were my daughters Cheyenne and Sierra. They weighed two pounds seven ounces and two pounds five ounces respectively and were the size of large ferrets.

  I started freaking out inside, but tried to remain as calm as possible for Jess’s sake. I took the doctor aside and he told me as plain as day that he’d seen much smaller babies and chances were good that everything was going to work out. I believed him, but it was hard to comprehend that as tiny as they were they would be okay.

  I sat with my little girls all day and night as they clung to life. Then the next morning I got back on a plane and flew back to Toronto to do the play. The old adage says that the show must go on, but I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I was leaving my traumatized wife and my two premature babies in the NICU to fly to another country to perform a comedy. Thankfully my dad had flown to Tampa for a visit and was there for our family, but it should have been me who was there. With the luxury of hindsight I see that now as clear as day. But just as I had done with my mom’s passing, I ran away from the possibility of tragedy and left everything in God’s hands. I don’t know why I left my family when they needed me, and I’m not proud of it.

  Thankfully God was listening, because he kept my babies and my wife safe while I was away.

  The play was a huge success, but it didn’t matter because my heart and mind were back with my family in Tampa and all I could think about was getting back to take care of them.

  When I got home four days later, I spent the next ten weeks in the NICU. Even though there were a few ups and downs along the way, because of the healing powers of the Lord (and a little help from modern medicine), our miracle babies were released from the hospital with a clean bill of health only two and a half months later.

  Ash was so excited to meet his sisters, as he wasn’t allowed in the NICU and had never seen them. He was (and still is) obsessed with sea creatures, and when we brought them home he was quite disappointed to find out that his siblings were human beings, not sharks.

  I’m thankful to say that now my daughters Cheyenne and Sierra are healthy, happy, beautiful little girls (not fish) and a true testament to the strength of prayer and the power of God.

  Thank you, Lord … I owe you one. Or should I say two.

  My little angels Cheyenne and Sierra were born at two pounds seven ounces and two pounds five ounces, respectively. They were so tiny that their diapers were the size of small napkins, and I could fit them both down the front of my shirt at the same time.

  CHAPTER 45

  The Howard Hughes of Rock and Roll

  Eddie Trunk is the most trusted and recognized hard rock DJ in the country and I’d gotten to know him over the years through Fozzy and the WWE. Whenever I was in New York I’d guest on his show in what we called the Metal Summit and discuss useless metal minutiae with whoever else happened to be in town, whether it be Mike Portnoy, Mike Piazza, or Zakk.

  One week I was guesting along with Sebastian Bach and Scott Ian and we were debating whether Iron Maiden was better than Judas Priest. I was in the middle of a well-thought-out dissertation on why Maiden was better, when I was interrupted (as usual) by Sebastian.

  “Holy shit! I just got a text from Axl Fuckin’ Rose,” he said in his high-pitched stoner voice. Axl was in town rehearsing for an upcoming Guns N’ Roses tour and Bas hadn’t heard from him in years—until now.

  Axl was quite reclusive and didn’t do many interviews, so it was quite the coup when Bas called him and put him on the radio by holding the phone up to the mic. The audio was horrible, and when Eddie suggested that Axl call in, he surprised all of us by actually doing it. Eddie made small talk for a few minutes and finished the call by inviting Axl to join us in the studio after rehearsal, and that was it.

  About half an hour later we were having a serious debate over what was Raven’s best album ( All for One ) when an intern ran into the studio completely out of breath, like he was going to announce the British were coming.

  “He’s here.”

  “Who’s here?”

  “Axl Rose! He’s coming up the elevator now.”

  The conversation halted and the four of us looked at each other with disbelief.

  “Besides Mick Jagger or Paul McCartney, the biggest rock star in the world is coming in this studio right now,” I said to Scott.

  At that moment the door op
ened and in walked—some random older lady.

  She said nothing to no one and looked around the room suspiciously. She gave us all a quick glance and left the room. I found out later that her name was Beta, Axl’s personal advisor, who was apparently checking if the vibes in the room were good enough for him to enter.

  They must have been, because a few moments later the door opened and in walked W. Axl Rose.

  You’ve never seen four loudmouths shut up so quickly, and suddenly after two hours of nonstop jabbering none of us had anything to say. Except Bas, who kept proclaiming over and over again, “This is the Howard Hughes of rock and roll, man!”

  Axl was in good shape and looked pretty froot with his cornrow hair and trim goatee. He sat down at the console and his charisma and presence were off the charts. Eddie asked a couple of generic questions, but the rest of us were still tongue-tied, not wanting to say anything to instigate any display of the legendary Axl Rose temper.

  The interview was sterile, almost boring, and I could see that Axl was losing interest. That’s when I decided to jump in and break the ice.

  “Hey Axl, I’m Chris Jericho. I’d like to ask you a question that every guest on the Eddie Trunk show has to answer. Who’s better—Priest or Maiden?”

  Axl’s vibe changed instantly and suddenly he was into the interview. I don’t think he’d been asked that question before.

  “I like Priest better, but the first Iron Maiden record is my favorite out of all of them.”

  From that point forward it was no longer Axl and four idiots, it was five music fans shooting the breeze. He opened up and told some great stories about his love of W.A.S.P., his issues with Vince Neil, and his experiences with David Lee Roth. We listened intently as he told a great story about how he and Jack Russell from Great White were doing cocaine with a Cuban drug dealer. After Axl and Jack snorted up everything they had, the Cuban revealed that he had another eight-ball, but wouldn’t share it. Jack caught a fly while the dealer was in the bathroom, and when he returned pulled it out of his pocket. Jack fawned over it and convinced the Cuban that it was a rare African tsetse fly that when snorted would produce a wicked high. So the Cuban traded the eight-ball for the dead housefly and Jack and Axl disappeared into the night.