by Mick Foley
“Like a son,” Terry yells.
“Then let me…tell you…something…Dad!” The last word, “Dad,” is sarcastic and cold, prompting a break in the embrace as I prepare to get to the heart of the promo.
“This is the first time you and I have stood together inside a WWE ring since 1998. It’s a long time, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. It is,” says Terry.
“But it wasn’t supposed to be that way, was it? Do you remember 2003, Terry? In Madison Square Garden, on one of the greatest nights of my life, I was honored in a hardcore ceremony. Stone Cold Steve Austin handed me the hardcore belt.” Applause for Austin’s name. “I was surrounded in that ring by men I’d fought, men I respected, hardcore legends in their own right. But when I walked outside that ring, I had one question: Where was Terry Funk? And you know where you were? You were at the Double Cross Ranch in Amarillo, Texas.” Cheers for the ranch.
“That’s right, that’s right,” Terry confirmed. “I was at the Double Cross.”
“Why? I ask. Because what I was told was, ‘We’re sorry, Mick, Terry wanted too much money to be there.’”
Some boos, sympathetic boos. Fans seem to feel bad for me. Hell, they should. This is a true story, and it hurt my feelings. And I have done with those hurt feelings what every wrestler should. Saved them up, let them fester in the unlikely event that those feelings can be used to kick-start a wrestling angle. Thank goodness I hadn’t reached a sense of closure.
“How do you think that made me feel?” I ask, going face-to-face with Terry. We’re only inches apart as I head for the homestretch, my finger jabbing the air. I turn the volume and intensity up. “It broke my heart! And now you have the nerve to stand here and look me in the eye and say, ‘You’re like a son to me’?”
“Yes, you are like a son to me!” Terry yells. He starts to say more, but I cut him off, concerned that he might be diluting the message.
“You shut your damn mouth,” I yell, stepping away from him. “This is my WWE ring. These are my WWE fans.” The fans boo loudly. This unexpected moment of ad-libbing had led to a really good crowd reaction. At this point, these people really don’t feel like my fans. Which is a good sign, a really good sign.
“You see, one day, I’m gonna get that phone call,” I say. “It’s inevitable.” I make the universal thumb and pinky phone sign and hold it in my ear and mouth. “A year from now, two, maybe three or four, saying, ‘We’re sorry, Mick, the Funker’s gone. Would you like to maybe come out to Amarillo and say a few words at his service?’”
All right, Mick, time to nail this thing. I go into full yell mode. I think yelling is overused in the world of the wrestling promo, but there will always be a time for it. This is the time.
“And I’ll say, ‘I’d like to, but it’s going to cost you an awful lot of money to bring me out to a dump like West Texas.’” Big boos. It might be considered cheap heat if not for the fact that I’d worked so hard to get to this point of the promo.
The remark gets the Funker’s Texas pride up. “You watch your mouth!” he yells. “Watch your mouth! You’d better watch it right now!”
Having a difference of opinion with Terry Funk in Lubbock.
I hadn’t been expecting a warning. I thought I’d coast to the finish line, but his unexpected words add realism to the situation. I do, however, need to get back to my point. And I promise it will be a good one.
“It won’t cost you a dime, Terry.”
“Why?”
“I’ll come for free. I’ll use my frequent fliers if I have to. Because I’m going to show up at your funeral, just to earn the right to crawl over and spit on your grave, you greedy, selfish, miserable SON…OF A…BITCH!”
The Funker comes alive, neck veins bulging, eyes wide. “You’ve got your nerve, Foley. I’m gonna John Wayne your ass! I’m gonna beat the hell out of you, Foley.” The crowd is with us.
They want to see the promised John Wayne–ing of Mick Foley.
“Then take your best shot!” I say.
“You take your best shot,” the Funker fires back. “Take it. I said take it.” Terry proceeds to set some kind of indoor slap record, catching me in the face nine times. The crowd chants “Terry,” and I struggle in vain to make my actions live up to the toughness of my words.
I know how frustrating it is to face a heel who refuses to show fear and vulnerability. I don’t want to be that fearless, invulnerable guy.
So I turn my back to the challenge, prompting Terry to hit me and the Lubbock fans with an insult he later admits was used on him in grade school.
“Hey, Foley, if I had a head like yours, I’d have it circumcised.” The crowd erupts in a chorus of oohs and cheers, prompting me to turn around. Terry had used this line against my wishes at the afternoon rehearsal. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it—I loved it. I just didn’t want to risk having it rejected by the powers that be. When in doubt, do it live, then apologize. But Vince had loved it; it had even included a classic coffee-spit take from him.
“What did you say?” I asked. Although I had heard it perfectly well.
Terry knows he has the people. There’s no need to yell. He savors the line before saying it, mulling it around like the bouquet of a fine vintage wine. “I said if I had a head like yours…I’d have it circumcised.” The reaction is even better the second time around, prompting me to believe the sophomoric insult will be repeated in hallways and schoolyards across the country.
I know it’s time to leave. I’m about to cut my losses and go home when Terry reaches for an insult never heard by WWE fans. “Hey, Foley, hey, Foley, your wife’s a whore.” Fortunately, my TiVo had a little “accident” that night and “forgot” to record Raw. I’m sure Colette would have loved it. Something tells me that Colette’s copy of this book will arrive with one “missing” page.
J.R. admits that the comment might be a little too heavy, but Terry’s about to go heavier. “Hey, Foley…hey, Foley! Your kids are bastards.” A huge ooh of disbelief from the crowd. At the rehearsal, I had told one of our handheld cameramen to get a two-shot, with Funk right behind me, almost speaking in my ear. I told him it was the money shot. And it certainly was.
Terry Funk, however, is about to go too far. “Hey, Foley, heeeey, Foley…the WWE sucks!”
Bam! I wheeled around and nailed him. Like Popeye, I stands all I can stands and I can’t stands no more. On one hand, the premise is funny—I won’t defend my wife or kids’ honor, but I will defend the WWE in a heartbeat. On the other hand, I don’t think Colette will care a whole lot for it.
I proceed to hammer Terry with some forearms and punches, sending him into the ropes, doing his distinctive Funker sell. He’s reeling, but firing himself up simultaneously. Finally he’s on the comeback, catching me with three jabs and a big left hand. This was classic Funk, but I had been unsure of how the crowd would react. After all, no one throws jabs anymore. But they seem to like it just fine.
Edge slides into the ring with the barbed-wire bat, but is met by three jabs and a roundhouse left that send him down as well.
Terry fires up to the crowd’s delight, eliciting the type of response that only WWE Superstars, even with years of TV exposure to their credit, will ever experience. He’s still got it! I was right all along.
But here comes Lita from behind with an uppercut to Funker’s nads, sending him down to the canvas, where Edge and I devour him, like a pack of hungry jackals. It wasn’t our kill, but we’ll enjoy its spoils, nonetheless.
It’s Barbie time. Barbie was the nickname for my barbed-wire bat. I haven’t used the name in a few years, but I need to start. Edge picks up the weapon. I recognize the fact that this can’t look like my show out there. It has to be our show. For a few weeks, I’ll do most of the talking, but then I want an allotment of equal mike time between us. After all, when this angle’s done, Melina and SummerSlam included, I’m back out to pasture. Edge will continue to play a main event role with WWE, including an in
evitable run with a babyface Triple H that, if correctly done, will be big box office. I look at our time together as one of those things that has to be correctly done. If Edge doesn’t come out of this thing stronger than ever, then I will have failed to accomplish a major part of my goal.
Humiliation time for Terry. Mr. Socko time. It’s shocking how quickly the fans have turned on poor Mr. Socko. I salivate at the mere thought of how he’ll be received at the Hammerstein Ballroom on June 11 for One Night Stand . It should be classic.
I shove the dreaded sock into Terry’s mouth. Edge readies himself for the spear and drills him with it, sending Funk to the canvas with a flying shoulder block to the gut.
I’ve worked hard for this moment, and I intend to bask in the aftermath. It’s like a cigarette after great sex. Not that I would know anything about that. The cigarette, I mean. Yes, I realize I used the same stupid joke in Foley Is Good.
“Mick Foley and Edge on the same page,” J.R. says disgustedly as Lita, Edge, and I raise our arms in triumph. “Who in the hell would have ever pictured that? And now destroying Foley’s mentor, his father figure, Terry Funk. I don’t like it a damn bit!”
Amen, J.R.—hopefully no one will.
May 20, 2006
2:59P .M.—JFK Airport, NY
Dear Hardcore Diary,
Thankfully, a kind woman at the Delta Business Lounge took pity on me and allowed me in as her guest. Otherwise, I’d be sitting in a packed airport with my notebook on my knee, trying to get into my writing “zone” amid the cacophony of running kids, CNN, the occasional autograph seeker, and those damn cell phone people who feel they absolutely, positively have to share the details of their personal and professional life with everyone within a half-mile radius.
Every one of those calls sounds the same to me. “Yeah, we shipped about a million, million five—should be a net of about twenty mil. Yeah, my cut’s about half. All right, call you when I get there—I’m at the Ritz, penthouse—about two grand a night.”
Why don’t I ever hear a real phone conversation? Something like, “Yeah, she broke up with me. Said twenty-eight’s too old to be working the checkout line at Burger King. Minimum wage wasn’t good enough for her. She mentioned something about my penis being too small. All right, I’ll call you when I get there. My parents said I could sleep on the couch for a few weeks.”
It’s been a hectic few days. I have a basic verbal outline for Monday night, and it seems good. There was a little concern that Edge might get lost in the shuffle if he stood on the sideline again, so a scenario was created to make him the emcee of sorts for a special hardcore tribute to yours truly. I think it will make for great TV, and is actually a better idea than my previous pitch, which would have been me in a similar emcee role on Edge’s behalf. This will spotlight him more, but also better drive home the ridiculous premise that made me and Edge laugh so damn hard when we first came up with it. You see, tomorrow night in Las Vegas, live on Raw, the Edgester and the Mickster (our names for each other) will become the first-ever coholders of a singles title. Not only that, but we will be coholding a single belt that doesn’t even exist anymore—the Hardcore title.
Over the years, I’ve often visualized how J.R. would call a certain move or situation, while it was still in its creative infancy. Wait, can you actually visualize words? There’s probably a more correct term for it, but as you’ve probably already guessed, my vocabularic range is not likely to send anyone sprinting for their dictionary. “Mom, help me. The wrestler’s words are too difficult.” Anyway, every time I think of Edge and I coholding a nonexistent singles title, I picture/hear J.R. saying, “My goodness King, Mick Foley and Edge are parading around the ring with a title that was last seen on Foley’s mantel.”
I’ve also come to treasure the anticipated ridiculousness of our ring announcer, Lilian Garcia, making the official announcement. “Ladies and Gentlemen, here are the coholders of the Hardcore Championship: Mick Foley and Edge!”
Writing about Lilian reminds me of my buddy, Chris Giordano, who is one of Lilian’s biggest fans. Yeah, I know I last spoke of Chris when I was calling Trish Stratus from his house. But Chris, although he is versatile enough to like quite a few of the WWE Divas, is a Lilian Garcia guy. Most of our fans are like that—they appreciate many, but have a clear favorite.
I feel very fortunate to have such good relationships with so many of the Divas. Over the years, I’ve asked the girls to help me on so many occasions, and they have never failed to put huge smiles on the faces of kids I’ve known, many of whom had been through tough times where reasons to smile could be few and far between.
Stacy Keibler used to be great about taking my calls. I remember putting her on speakerphone in the older boys’ cabin at Camp Adventure, a place on the east end of Long Island for kids who have or have had cancer, and their siblings. The boys, sixteen to eighteen years of age, surrounded me, their faces awestruck, as they hung on Stacy’s every word. I tried not to jump to conclusions, but I did find it odd that at the conclusion of the call, three boys immediately headed for the showers—at four in the afternoon.
It’s sometimes difficult for me to admit that I’m wrong. It shouldn’t be. I’ve been married fifteen years, and have a lot of practice in the area of error admissions. But sometimes I become so locked in on an idea that any alternative opinion seems almost like sabotage (wow, could I have used a dictionary myself for that word. I’m sure it will be corrected in the editing process, but right now it’s a little ugly). Which I guess is my way of admitting that Edge and I are better off without Vince dragging us down. Wait, let me rephrase that, keeping in mind that the guy I just wrote of is the guy signing my checks.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that promo with Terry, wondering if we might actually be better off without Vince’s direct involvement. After all, the Funker and I made quite an impact in Lubbock. Sure, I could argue that biting a chunk out of Vince McMahon’s ass might have been even more impactful. But last Monday’s promo assuaged my deepest fear that Terry Funk would leave our Raw fans without the impression that he was a big star. We just have to keep the ball rolling.
The whole scene is more personal now. It’s not about Vince. It’s about me and Edge, two guys who will do whatever it takes to defend what is theirs. Almost as if our WrestleMania match was our very own child, and here comes ECW social services workers Dreamer and Funk doing their best to take it away.
May 21, 2006
5:00 aboard Delta Flight #1823 from
NYC to Las Vegas
Dear Hardcore Diary,
Okay, I lied. I wrote “aboard Delta Flight #1823” before finding out my flight is to be delayed another two hours. So I’m back in the airport lounge, where I have changed my writing spot, so as to better watch, or at least occasionally glance at, the final game of the Pistons/Cavaliers series. I know I am clearly sending a signal that this particular “hardcore entry” doesn’t deserve my undivided attention, but this has been a roller-coaster series, and I do want to see who wins it.
I like to catch a few pro sports games every year just to regain some respect in the eyes of my oldest son. Most fathers will never have to face the day in which they come home to find that their son’s room looks different, mainly due to the fact that all of the Dad posters are down, replaced by Sammy Sosa and Shaq. Even though Dewey has grown up watching people make a big deal out of me, it’s only when he sees people who are a big deal to him making a big deal out of me that he seems impressed by it all.
So when he sees football great Tiki Barber (who I’ve known for five years through MDA) give me a hug, it’s a big deal to me. When he sees Allen Iverson come up to me and say, “You’re crazy, man,” it’s a big deal to me. And when he finds out Christy Canyon called, inviting me onto her radio show, it’s a big deal to…oh, wait a second, he doesn’t know about that one.
I think my favorite father/son bonding moment occurred three years ago at Yankee Stadium on opening day, in early April of 2003
. This was during my WWE estrangement, and as a result, I’d been on television very little. I still did personal appearances and volunteer work, but in Dewey’s eyes, out of televised sight, out of mind, which meant the hardcore legend had been reduced to ordinary dad. My daughter Noelle used to get on my case, wondering if I could become an anesthesiologist, like her friend’s dad, so that we could live in a big house like they did.
Well, on this cold April day, with the evidence of a late-season snowfall piled up on busy Bronx streets, I waited in frustration for my buddy, Phil Castinetti, to meet me at the stadium’s giant “bat” landmark with my tickets.
I’d been standing out there a while, attracting more attention than I wanted, when Phil reached me on my cell, complaining of traffic, warning me that it might be a while before he got there. He told me to explain my situation at the Yankee ticket office, in the hopes I could find refuge from the storm of fans around me.
With Dewey and football great Tiki Barber.
Courtesy of the Foley family.
I sat down on a bench next to a woman at the will-call desk and managed to get a look at the guest list, which included names such as: Whitey Ford, Rudy Giuliani, Billy Crystal, and former secretary of state Henry Kissinger. I also saw members of the Mantle and Maris family as they made their way to the stadium.
Then I heard Dewey’s voice in a hushed, reverent tone. “Dad, it’s George Steinbrenner.” I turned to see the Yankee boss, no more than ten feet from me, his eyes focused on the elevator doors in front of him, so as not to greet the gawks of geeks like me.
“Should I say hello?” I asked
“If you want to,” Dewey said.
“Mr. Steinbrenner.”
Nothing.
“Excuse me, Mr. Steinbrenner.”