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

by Mick Foley

  The fans streamed in, and actually made a beeline for my table. Apparently, Cactus Jack had become a pretty big name in Japan, due to the Japanese media presence at many American shows. Even with a twenty-five percent cut going to the office, I knew my payoff was expanding rapidly.

  I came out during intermission, when the young boys took down the ring ropes and replaced them with spools of barbed wire, which they ran in lines and zigzags to resemble a set of four flesh-eating roman numeral tens. My music was playing as I unloaded my last shirt. I could hear IWA boss Mr. Asano calling my name, but, dammit, I had merchandise to sell. It didn’t matter that I was going to get literally torn up out there-shirts came first. I often imagined how ridiculous this would look if applied to a regular sporting event. “Frank, we’re waiting for Holyfield’s entrance, but he doesn’t seem to be ready-wait, I’ve just got word that he’s at the gimmick table pushing his Tshirts. Don’t worry, a few more Polaroids and the champ will be on his way.”

  I came down to the ring and received a tremendous ovation. They were chanting my name in unison, which in reality sounded less like “Cactus, Cactus,” and more like “Cock-toos-uh, Cock-toos-uh.” It was flattering nonetheless. When Nakamaki and Terry made their way to the ring, they chanted even louder for Terry, which sounded a lot more like “Telly.” The hall was sold out, and the fans were primed for mayhem, which I began delivering. Funk and I climbed up the first level of the stands and began going punch for punch in front of the awestruck fans. The Funker picked up a chair and slammed it over my head. Japanese folding chairs were strange in that they were not as heavy as their American cousins, but were put together in such a way that a good shot could pop the seat straight up in the air.

  Back in the ring, Tracy was putting the boots to Nakamaki. Tracy was a tremendous wrestler, who could just about do it all, but for some strange reason, he didn’t have the inclination to risk life and limb on the dangerous barbs. Nakamaki was a different story. Not talented in the least, Nakamaki was a forty-year-old, non-athletic, former journalist who had cult hero status as a guy willing to do anything. Wait … I think I just described myself. But unlike me, Nakamaki was not much of a ring general-he just kind of lay there screaming and bleeding. But his reputation as a daredevil was well earned-he was willing to do anything, and he was dying to try some of it with me. Actually, Nakamaki looked up to me, and although we didn’t speak each other’s language, we had a verbal exchange that we shared for the next fifteen months. “You danger man,” I would say, before a laughing Nakamaki fired back, “No-you danger man!”

  I gave Nakamaki a couple of shots and set him up by the wire strands. I backed up and raised my sock-covered arm. The fans stood with anticipation as I charged the Japanese danger man. Even though videotaped evidence later showed me to be moving rather slowly, it was still a dramatic moment, as the two of us flew over the top-my arm dragging the wire down with it. I looked at my left arm, and saw two angry gashes that revealed the white cells underneath. I lay there recovering as a small amount of blood began to well up inside the gash. I don’t have a medical degree, but I find it strange how some gashes never bleed, and some small cuts seem to bleed forever. A month later, I would attempt this same move and wouldn’t be so lucky. The wire snapped on impact and I went hurtling forward-absorbing the fall on the top of my head. I could hear the Japanese reaction of “uhwahh,” but was temporarily unable to do anything but breathe. I eventually got up and won the match, but the move bothered my neck for several months.

  The Funker returned to the ring, and we fought to the dressing room, where I had a special prop waiting. A young boy handed me a lighter, while I disposed of Funk. I grabbed the lighter and reached for the chair that had a towel strapped to it that had been soaked in kerosene. I put lighter to chair, and-presto!-the fire chair was born. I walked down the aisle accompanied by the Japanese chorus of “uhwahh,” and slid into the ring. I wound up the chair and brought it down across Nakamaki’s back. “Uhwahh!” With the help of the fire chair, Cactus Jack was victorious in his return to Japan. Unfortunately, my trusty fire chair would almost cost Terry Funk his life ten months later.

  We set out the next day on a long bus trip, and arrived in a country town about four hours south of Tokyo. We were feeling pumped from the previous night’s sellout. Sellouts were rare for a small group like IWA-I was about to find out just how rare. We were booked inside a 1,000-seat arena, and like most days in Japan, arrived about five hours before the show. The young boys would spar and do endless free squats, while the gai-jins threw a football, did some situps, read a book, or used whatever time killers they could.

  I was actually able to see quite a bit of Japan during these fivehour preshow periods. Because most of the shows took place in smaller cities, we could walk around the towns and appreciate the ancient culture. I much preferred the beautiful mountains of the Japanese countryside to the mass of humanity in Tokyo.

  Unfortunately, our attendance reflected that lack of mass humanity as well. For the next week, we were lucky to draw a hundred fans, even with the legendary Funker on the card. In truth, the fans never quite forgave Terry for coming back after his emotional retirement tour in 1980. He was still an icon, but was not as revered as he was in his heyday. IWA had made the mistake of booking arenas in the southern part of the country, under the premise that it would be warmer there. Well, it was slightly warmer, but the buildings weren’t heated in the south, and as a result, the gai-jins would all huddle around a portable kerosene heater in an attempt to stay warm. When our music played, we’d take off our winter coats and hit the ring to entertain a very small group of fans who made very little noise and were dressed in very warm clothes.

  Mr. Asano had liked me right away. Asano was a multimillionaire, whose value ranged from $50 million to $500 million, depending on the Japanese real estate and stock markets. Even with his wealth, he threw around nickels like they were manhole covers. But he was a big “Cock-toos Jack” fan, and he made it clear that he wanted me back on all his tours. Asano also wanted to play up my death match image. He’d been impressed by my barbed wire heroics, and he wanted my name to become synonymous with skin-tearing metal. So, for the rest of the tour, and for months afterward, I wore a barbed wire necklace around my neck. I wrapped the stuff around my leg to drop legs and around my arm to drop elbows. When I talked to the press, I sometimes had it wrapped around my whole body, and no, I’m not talking about the rubber-tipped barbed wire that is currently used in WCW. For a while in the IWA, it truly did look as though I was “born to be wired.”

  The final match of the tour took place in the city of Guma, where Terry and I were scheduled for another no rope, barbed wire death match. We were booked into another small venue, which again would be void of both heat and human bodies. This match was being filmed for commercial videotape release in Japan, and that fact made a great deal of difference. It was not as if I hadn’t been wrestling hard in front of the frozen, minuscule crowds, but video always upped the ante, even if I knew I’d never see a cent of the profits. There is something about commercial video that represents immortality, because I know that when I’m done, commercial videotape will be the greatest representation of what my career stood for.

  Pride was another huge factor. I had come over here specifically to wrestle Terry Funk, and now I had my chance. I realized the crowd would be small, but the Japanese media presence would be large, and several hundred thousand fans would read about and see photos of the match. I also hag the belief that I could help make this promotion a success. Unlike WCW, the rug would not be pulled out on me, and the ball would not be taken away from me. I knew that when handed the ball, I would be given the chance to run as far as I could. I saw this match as the night I took the handoff. With fewer than 200 fans in attendance, I felt in my heart and in my mind that January 9, 1995, was the most important match of my life.

  As the wire went up, I listened to a song called “Winter” by T<;>ri Amos, which is, in my mind, the
most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. I was all out of Tshirts, and in truth, wouldn’t have sold them this night because I was completely focused. As the song played, I became more and more intense. As the beautiful images in her song peaked, so did my ability to see brutal images in my mind. I was practically flying on adrenaline, a claim I can’t make for many future matches with audiences one hundred times as large.

  The Funker and I tied up, and I took over immediately, pelting him with forearms to the side of the head. I whipped him toward the wire, but he put the brakes on and pointed to his brain, as the crowd applauded politely. I stopped him once more, and again attempted to whip him into the hungry wire, but this time the Texas Bronco slid out underneath the bottom strand and beckoned me to follow. I did so, and we proceeded to tear both the building and ourselves apart.

  A few minutes into the action, I threw the Funker through a row of chairs and sought out my special fire chair, which I had hidden under the ring. At this point, the fans, while not many, were standing and in a frenzy, as they realized that something special was going on inside that freezing gym. A young boy handed me a lighter, and a second later, the fire chair lived again. I brought the chair down across the grizzled Funker, and then, in one of the stupider acts of my career, placed it on the gym floor. The gym floor in Guma, like most buildings we worked in, was covered with a rubber tarpaulin. In retrospect, I was lucky the whole building didn’t go up in flames. I followed up my stupid decision with an equally dumb one, as I allowed Terry to hip toss me on the blazing chair. I rolled off the chair, and the young boys doused me with large buckets of water. My shoulder would turn a shade of gray and stay that way for several months.

  I rolled into the ring and the Funker followed me, this time with the fire chair in his possession. I put the boots to Terry, and wound up with the weapon one more time. BAM! went the chair, and Terry’s back literally smoked from the impact. I placed the flaming chair on the canvas, where it was promptly doused by the young boys. These kids were so nice and dependable that I made it a point to be nice to them. Also, I knew that these kids would be future stars in the sport, and didn’t want them to be kicking my ass all over the Orient in the years to come.

  Once in the ring, I made a decision that would make my previous two bonehead moves look like Einstein’s theory of relativity. “Go ahead, Terry, I’m ready,” I said, as Funk launched me toward the wire. Of all the moves I could think of, I was about to try the most dangerous of all-a hangman in the barbed wire! I knew the results could be truly disastrous, but I was determined to give Mr. Asano his $300 worth. I took flight and caught my head and neck between the second and third strands of wire, as the rest of my body sailed over the top. The timing was perfect, but the wire gave way, leaving me sitting on the arena floor, with sharp barbs still lodged deeply in both my pinkies. I gave a firm tug from my seated position and became free, but in doing so, exposed huge chunks of flesh.

  Bleeding badly, I lay on the floor, as the Funker retreated to the back before returning with a special present of his own-a flaming branding iron. I got to my feet and Terry made a charge. He brought the iron down toward my face, but I blocked it, creating an artistic standstill where the fire from the iron danced off the reflection of my bloody facial features. A boot to the stomach broke the struggle, and I lay on the ground as the Funker stalked his prey. I had taped gauze to my chest and had soaked my shirt in water, but the iron still hurt like hell as Terry ground it into my chest. I took about two seconds of this-enough time to snap plenty of pictures-before retreating to the relative safety of the ring. Once inside, the action continued, until, at the seventeen-minute mark, Terry covered me for the pin. It was an exhaustive, brutal, and blood-soaked battle, and I was glad it was over.

  But it wasn’t over quite yet. Terry had rolled outside the ring and collapsed. In a story that Tracy Smothers loves to tell, Terry was moaning my name. “Cactus, Cactus.” I was on the other side of the gym by this point, on my hands and knees, when I heard his mournful cry.

  “Terry, where are you?” I cried back, and a slow, emotionally moving crawl began. In Japan, pro wrestling has always been considered more of a sport than it is in the U.S., and the fans gathered around to see this culmination of a mutual show of respect.

  “Cactus, Cactus.”

  “Terry, Terry.”

  “Cactus.”

  “Terry.” We were finally together, and I extended my badly bleeding hand. Terry shook it, and the two of us embraced, as the 200 in attendance applauded wildly. Then yours truly ruined the scene as I forearmed my hero in the head and gave him a quick piledriver on the floor. “Uhwahhh” came the response, as I left a trail of my bloody handprints crawling away from the shaking Funker.

  Back in the dressing room, the other gai-jins were in a state of disbelief. Tracy Smothers couldn’t stop commenting that it was the most brutal bout he’d ever seen. Terry, who dressed with the Japanese boys (all the other Americans dressed with their own group), was met with an equal reaction in his dressing room across the gym. The Japanese media came in and barraged me for photos, as I proceeded to cut one of the best promos of my life for the video-even if no one could understand what I was saying.

  I wanted to shower off the blood that seemingly ran from everywhere, and in truth I was cut in over fifty places. My hands were especially a mess, and the chunks of flesh that peeked up at me from my fingertips were grim and painful reminders of the price we pay for doing what we love. A large gash on my forehead continued to pour as I reached for the comfort of a hot shower. No such luck, however, as in addition to the lack of heat in the building, there was-you guessed it-no hot water. I felt like I’d already endured enough pain, and I just didn’t feel up to exposing my naked, bloody body to a stream of ice-cold water. Instead, I took a quick “whore’s bath,” rising my hands and face as best I could, before throwing on a set of clean clothes. I sanitized my forehead gash with liquid Nu-Skin, and wrapped it with gauze, before looking to my hands. Most of the cuts were not that bad-a few were even superficial-but my pinkies were a mess. I surveyed the situation and made my first aid move. I put about five drops of the Nu-Skin into each wound and then packed the meat back into its hole with my fingers. Tracy then wrapped athletic tape around it and we walked out to the waiting bus.

  We drove for an hour and then stopped at a rest area to eat. Terry had driven the first leg of the trip with a group of fans known as “Funk’s Army.” The rest stop menu was real basic when it comes to Western food, and most of the time I just opted for spaghetti. After the meal, Terry rejoined us on the bus. We sat there reminiscing fondly about our match and wondered about marketing the video in the U.S. It was a definite blending of the thrill of victory with the agony of defeat as our tales of the past and ambitions for the future were tempered only by the stale iron stench of our own blood.

  *

  Owen

  May 29, 12:46 A.M.-I was sitting in front of a TV monitor, watching the World Wrestling Federation Over the Edge show as I wrote about Japan. I saw a Blue Blazer vignette and had to smile; Owen Hart was one of wrestling’s best performers, and his adventures as the Blazer, especially, were favorites of mine. I returned to writing and looked up minutes later, expecting to see the Blazer in action, but I saw a large crowd shot instead. Pat Patterson came into the room and said that Owen had fallen off a catwalk, some sixty feet above the ring, and was being worked on by paramedics as we spoke. As part of his Blazer routine, Owen was scheduled to descend from the catwalk in true Blazer superhero fashion. Apparently he had problems with his rigging apparatus, and he had crashed inside the ring. I said prayers for Owen as I raced down the hallway, and I arrived just as he was being wheeled into the ambulance. The situation looked grave as one EMT stood atop the stretcher, leaning over Owen, and attempted to revive him with cardiopulmonary resuscitation. We learned an hour later that Owen had died.

  I will talk about Owen at length later on, for he was truly one of the funniest men in the busines
s, and Owen Hart stories are always a favorite in the dressing room. I traveled with Owen frequently, and I can honestly say that he was one of the nicest people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. He was kind, he was honest, he was considerate, but most of all, he loved his family. I never met Owen’s wife or his two children, but I felt as if I had. He spoke of them warmly and often, and my heart goes out to the three of them as well as the entire Hart family. He was a special man, and he deserves a special place in heaven. The world knew of Owen Hart as a great wrestler, but he was an even better human being. Goodbye, my friend-you left us way too soon.

  Chapter 27

  I returned to the States and immediately restructured my priorities. My son was really starting to miss his dad, so I started easing up slightly on my schedule. Between Japan, where I was now spending ten days every month, and ECW, I began leaving myself some room to relax. I would simply not book myself on one weekend a month, and I would then have eleven-day stretches during which I could heal up and spend quality family time. At three, my son was at a great age, and I began doing lots of father son activities with him that we continue to this day. He went to his first amusement park and loved it immediately. We ended up getting passes to a kids’ park called American Adventures that gave us especially fond memories. At only one year of age, my Noelle was a little young for the park, but by the age of two, she was feeling her oats and would ride just about anything. Now, at five, she has no fear of anything, even Space Mountain, where her only postride comment is “I want to do it again.”