Have a Nice Day!: A Tale of Blood and Sweatsocks

by Mick Foley

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Introduction

  I came bounding in the door of my house in the Florida Panhandle on May 17, 1999, with an almost unbelievable amount of energy. After a trip that had consisted of an hour’s drive from my hotel in London to Heathrow Airport, a two-hour layover, an eight-and-a-half-hour flight to New York’s JFK airport, a two-hour layover, a two-hour flight to Atlanta, another hour-and-a-half layover, a one-hour flight to Pensacola, and an hour drive home, I should have been exhausted. But I wasn’t. My wife, Colette, saw how upbeat I was and assumed that I’d gotten a lot of sleep on the flight. “No, not really,” I said. “Actually I didn’t sleep at all.” She suddenly got concerned and asked me if I’d done drugs while on the plane. “Of course not,” I answered, but Colette looked worried. After all, what could account for this great rush of energy her normally exhausted husband had? “What have you been doing then,” she asked, to which I answered, “Writing.”

  I had written the entire length of the trip back to Pensacola, as well as the whole way to England. Really, I’d been writing for almost the entire time since May 7, when I convinced the World Wrestling Federation’s head of marketing that I could write my own autobiography. I hate to spoil this for a lot of people, but most autobiographies are not actually written by the supposed authors, but by biographers and ghostwriters. Talking into a tape recorder and having someone else make a book out of it didn’t bother me, but the idea of “creative license” did. I just wasn’t comfortable with the idea of a writer putting words in my mouth. If the book was boring, it wouldn’t be the writer taking the rap, it would be me, and I wasn’t willing to put that much faith in someone else’s hands. Hey, if this book stinks, I want it to stink because of me. At least I want you as the reader to have the comfort of knowing that if the words stink, they are my own words, and if the stories stink, they are my stories as well.

  My mom used to try to convince me to write a book when I was younger, because she thought I had a gift for it, but I lost interest when she told me that I couldn’t write bad words in it. When I started wrestling, my dad told me I should keep a journal, so that one day I could write my memoirs. I kept saying that I would, and he kept telling me that I should do it soon, before I forgot everything. As it turned out, my memory is outstanding, which is a little scary considering all the shots I have taken to the head over the years. My main problem in writing this book is that my trusty old Sears electric typewriter, which I used to type out my school reports with one finger, had bitten the dust five years earlier, and being computer illiterate, I had no realistic way to put my story on paper. Except the old-fashioned way. So I hope you can appreciate that what you are about to read was written by hand on 760 pages of notebook paper in the seven weeks spanning May 7 to July 1, 1999.

  There are a few different subjects I’d like to touch on before you embark on this daring literary journey into the world of sports entertainment.

  Hardcore Legend-I will occasionally refer to myself by this name throughout the pages of the book. Please don’t take it seriously. I just get a kick out of referring to myself by that name. Al Snow-Al Snow’s name appears often, and what I say about him is not usually meant to be taken seriously. Al and I have had a longstanding insult contest, which had to be stopped a few months ago when feelings started getting hurt. It is my hope that the cheap shots and digs I get in at a defenseless Al will jump-start our contest, because causing Al Snow pain and embarrassment is one of the simple joys in my life. In truth, Al is a great guy and an excellent wrestler, and if he gets the chance to write a book, I would consider it an honor to be insulted by him in it. Then, after buying Al’s book, I will buy some rock salt to sprinkle on all the places where hell just froze over.

  Ric Flair-Hey, I know Ric Flair is a legend, and I enjoy him as a performer, but as a boss, I didn’t think too much of him, and would be less than honest if I told it any other way.

  I really hope that some of the people who read this are not wrestling fans. Professional wrestling is truly an amazing world, and I think that fan and nonfan alike will be intrigued by what goes on behind the scenes. I refer occasionally in the book to what I consider the three best things I have ever done in the wrestling business. Writing this book has been a joy and privilege, and I honestly feel that if I were to hang up the tights (or in my case the sweats) tomorrow, my career will have been made complete because of writing it. I now truly consider it among the four best things that I have ever done.

  Enjoy the book, and if you do, recommend it to a friend because I would really consider it a triumph to see my name on the bestseller list. From then on, I could appear on talk shows as Mick Foley Wrestler/Bestselling Author, and that, I know would make my parents proud. If you don’t enjoy it, well, let’s just keep that our little secret.

  Read on, prosper, and oh, HAVE A NICE DAY.

  Sincerely,

  Mick Foley

  July 1, 1999, in a trailer in Los Angeles on the set of the USA television series GvsE

  Chapter 1

  March 17, 1994 Munich, Germany

  “I can’t believe I lost my fucking ear; bang bang!” Now, I’m not a big proponent of the “F” word-in fact, I went from age six to age twenty one without saying it once-but this was a special occasion and it cried out for a strong expletive. In fact, without the “F” word, that statement just isn’t as impressive, is it? Bang bang? Well, for those who know, no explanation is necessary, and for those who don’t, well, well get to “Bang bang” soon enough.

  March 17, 1994, wasn’t shaping up to be a real great day anyway, even before the F’ing ear in question was torn off the side of my head. I was not all that happy with my current place of employment. World Championship Wrestling was owned by Ted Turner, but even with Teds deep pockets behind it, WCW had never really seemed to be on the right path. Part of the reasona huge part of the reason, actually was a blatant misuse of talent, a category that I, as Cactus Jack, certainly fell into. In this case we were on a two-week tour of Germany, and I was the only guy on the tour who spoke German. Good German. So it would seem like a natural to have Cactus Jack leading the promotional charge, right? Well, not exactly. In the first week of the tour, I did a few local radio spots while the other guys appeared on national television shows, print work, and promos.

  On the first day of the tour Ric Flair, our booker (wrestling vernacular for the guy who makes or breaks you), admitted he wasn’t familiar with my work as a babyface (good guy). Now, Flair was a legendary performer in the ring-great charisma, conditioning, and promos that could raise goose bumps on your arm. But apparently, preparation wasnt the Nature Boy’s
forte. Not familiar with my work? What the hell does that mean? It’s his job to be familiar. I’d been a babyface for all of his fourteen months back with the company. I’d main-evented Pay-Per-Views that he wrestled on. Not being familiar with the talent he was in charge of meant that, in my book (and hey, this is my book), he was every bit as bad on the booking side of things as he was great on the wrestling side of it.

  About an hour before the match, Flair had talked to me for a longtime about changing the course of my career. Naitch, short for Nature Boy, felt that I needed to be a heel (bad guy). His rationale was simple.”You and Vader had the most brutal bouts I’ve ever witnessed,” began Flair in his trademark voice, a strange combination of lisping and perfect enunciation “But your rematch didn’t raise the ratings at all. Nobody cares about you as a babyface.”

  Even before the Monday night Raw/Nitro wars, WCW had always lived and died by its television ratings. At that time, its flagship show was WCW Saturday Night. Also at that time, there were no quarter-hour breakdowns to more accurately determine just who was responsible for viewing patterns. In other words, Flair was holding my fifteen minutes on air responsible for the ratings of the entire two-hour show. He also failed to realize that ratings increases are more a result of trends and ongoing story lines than just one match. In my book (and once again, this is my book) Flair was wrong about the ratings. But he sure as hell was right about the brutality of my matches with Vader.

  Vader, the real life Leon White, was in 1994 the greatest monster in the business. Guys were terrified of him. His style was the stiffest in all of wrestling. Some guys have a style that looks like they’re hurting guys when they’re not, which is good. Some guys’ stuff looks like crap, but it hurts like hell, which is bad. Vader left no room for error; his stuff looked like it hurt, and believe me, it did.

  Some of the newer guys used to actually leave the arena if they saw their name on the board opposite Vader. Other guys would hide until that evening’s card had been drawn up, and then come out of hiding if Vader wasn’t their opponent. Really, underneath it all, Vader was a nice, sensitive guy. I even saw him cry in the dressing room after he paralyzed a young kid named Joe Thurman (Joe recovered the feeling below his waist a few hours later). Still, when that red light turned on, the ‘94 Vader’s sensitive side seemed to turn off.

  Strangely, I enjoyed my battles with Vader. I’d pump myself up for days before a big match and would usually hurt for a few days after. The two matches that Flair had mentioned had indeed been brutal. During the first match, at my suggestion, Vader did a number on my face, even though it seemed that my interpretation of “try to raise a little swelling around my eyes” varied dramatically from his. The toll after match number one was impressive: broken nose, dislocated jaw, fourteen stitches in my eyebrow and seven underneath my eye. The second match almost put me out of wrestling for good.

  Now, we should probably get something straight. I know you didnt pay $25 (unless your cheap ass waited for the paperback) to have your intelligence insulted. I will not try to portray professional wrestling as being a “real, competitive sport.” I will readily admit to occasionally stomping my foot on the mat, and always placing a greater emphasis on entertainment value than on winning. I have, however, over the course of fifteen years of blood, sweat, and tears, compiled a list of injuries that I would compare to that of any “legitimate” athlete. So unless otherwise noted, please consider all injuries to be legit. In our strange little world of sports-entertainment, I hope you will see that life can often be both “real” and “competitive.”

  Anyway, back to March 17, 1994. My opponent for that night: you guessed it, Vader. Except that this was an injured Vader, who was having trouble with the feeling in his fingers. He even asked for the night off, but Flair said no. “It’s no problem, Ric,” I said, “I’ll work around it.” As a matter of fact, I looked forward to the challenge of coming up with a good match with an opponent who was injured-it was the one of the signs of a good worker (wrestler). As a matter of fact, for a guy with all the natural athletic ability of a giant three-toed sloth, I had a pretty damn good bag of tricks up my sleeve. One of these “tricks” would send me home from Europe without my ear.

  After about ten minutes of back-and-forth action, I charged at Vader, who was standing against the ropes. Earlier in the match, I had caught Vader with the patented Cactus clothesline, a move I had already successfully completed minutes earlier. In this move, I clothesline my opponent and let my momentum carry me over, as well. It was a pretty impressive sight, especially when you consider that in this case, over 750 pounds of humanity were tumbling to the floor. This time, however, Vader moved out of the way. I launched myself into the ropes and prepared to catch my head and neck between the second and third ropes, sail my body over, and, using precise timing and my own body’s momentum, twist the second rope over the third. This is a move known as the hangman because the end result is the illusion of a man being hanged V by his neck while his body kicks and writhes in an attempt to get out. Although it is a planned maneuver, it is no illusion, as the man actually is hanging by his neck and the body really does kick and writhe in an attempt to get out.

  I was probably the sport’s foremost practitioner of the move, and I had the scars to prove it-about fifty of them behind both ears. Its funny, as many times as my ears were stitched, and as many times as I would watch them turn from black to purple to blue to slight shades of green and yellow, I never did have a problem with cauliflower ears he way some guys do. As a matter of fact, unless you looked closely behind my ears, at the zippers that decorated my auditory landscape, you wouldn’t know that I’d been a veteran of so many late-night emergency room visits.

  There was no doubt about it; the hangman was a difficult move, but even more so in W, Championship Wrestling. WCW didnt actually use ring ropes-it used elevator cable covered with a rubber casing, and when the cables were entwined, they were almost impossible to pull apart. Now, throw a human head into the equation, and were talking about considerable pain. This night in Munich would turn out to be even more pain. Too Cold Scorpio, a brilliant high flyer (aerial wrestler), had wrestled in the evening’s first match and had complained that the ropes were too loose. Unbeknownst to me, the German roadies had tightened the cables to the maximum; there was no give on the ropes at all.

  With my head caught in the ropes, I could immediately feel the difference. Instead of the normal pain that I had long ago accepted as a consequence for this exciting move, I felt as if my neck was in a vise. I literally felt like I was going to die right there in the Sporthalle in Munich. I’m usually known as a pretty good ring general, and I had kept a calm head in some pretty bizarre conditions, but in this case I was panicking big time. I began to do what no toughguy, big-cheese, blood-and-guts wrestler would ever, under normal conditions, even think of-1 began screaming-and I do mean SCREAMING-for help. Vader later took the credit for getting me out, thereby saving my life, but video evidence showed the big SOB with his back to me, yelling at the crowd and doing his “who’s the man?” gorilla-grunting routine.

  Even with the panic setting in, I knew enough about the human anatomy to know I was in trouble. I knew that if the pressure continued on my carotid arteries, which run along both sides of the neck, I would soon pass out, and then, without exaggeration, could suffer brain damage and even death. With that grisly knowledge in mind, I made one last effort to get myself free and wrenched my head from between the ropes. I later likened it to a fox that chews off its paw to escape a trap.

  I lay on the floor momentarily, and then got to my knees. Blood was literally pouring out of my right ear. I could actually hear the pitter-patter of drop after drop of bright red blood hitting the blue protective mats that surround the ring. This struck me as strange-I mean, as many times as the backs of my ears had been laid wide open, they had never really bled. They are made up mostly of cartilage, after all. But this was different. It was gushing. For some strange reason, I didn’t i
nitially touch that right ear; instead I felt behind my left. To my disgust, there was a split I could damn near fit my finger in.”If this one feels like this, the other one must be real bad,” I remember thinking. I climbed into the ring and the match continued. “Nice juice, huh?” I said to Vader as he set me up for a monstrous forearm to the head. Loosely translated, that means “I’m bleeding pretty bad.” At this point, my ear was still hanging on … barely. I blocked Vaders third forearm and threw a blow of my own. When this happened, a fan’s videotape clearly shows something fall off the side of my head. Also at this point, in any other event, a ripped-off ear would probably be cause for a time-out. I mean, if Mark McGwire were beaned out at the plate, he probably wouldn’t jog to first base with a missing body part. If Shaquille O’Neal drove the lane and came up a near short of a pair, he probably wouldn’t go to the foul line with juice” running down his tank top. But in our sport, the fake sport, we have a single rule-“The show must go on.” And I went on as best I could.

  The events that happened next are almost too ridiculous to be real. Almost. Because two of our referees had been injured on the tour and had been sent home, a referee from France had been flown in. Because he spoke no English, he was unable to tell me that he had picked up part of my body and was holding it in his hand. He handed the ear to ring announcer Gary Michael Capital. With his face turning white, Gary tiptoed the ear back to the dressing room, where he informed Ric Flair, “I have Cactus’s ear; where should I put it?” Flair, being the thoughtful guy he was, arranged to have it put in a bag of ice for me. I later asked Cappetta what the ear looked like, and he told me in his perfect announcer’s voice, “Well, it looked like a piece of uncooked chicken, with tape on it.”

  I have often imagined how this entire scene would play out on film, with Martin Scorsese directing, in black and white if possible. Dramatic music in the background. Vivid close-ups of the ear as it pirouetted in the air before dropping gracefully to the canvas, old-fashioned flashbulbs going off all the while. The referee screaming in French with tears streaming down his face. Cappetta sprinting to the back, trying not to lose his lunch. Flair, played perhaps by Buddy Ebsen, crying at the fate of Cactus Jack. Except in the movie version, Ill be damned if I’m going to scream for help. No, I’m going to take it like a man on the big screen.