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

by Mick Foley

  The match was well received by the 1,000-plus in attendance at the bingo hall. Tommy was in the midst of a nearly year-long feud with Raven that had seen Tommy on the receiving end of unbelievable punishment, but no clean victories. This was the night he finally had his chance. The ring had emptied, and Tommy had planted Raven with a DDT. The referee moved in for the count, but it was broken up at two by a big Cactus Jack cowboy boot to the head. (My gear bag had been stolen months earlier, including my leopard-skin Cactus boots, and I had been too cheap to replace them.) I lifted the baffled Dreamer off the floor, and caught him quickly with a double arm DDT on a chair. I pulled Raven overtop of him, and once again, Dreamer was denied.

  I left the ring to the open-jawed response of the crowd. Some of the best work of my career was about to begin. I left the auditorium of the ECW arena for the tranquility of the Amish farmlands. After a few days of relaxation and shoo fly pie, I flew to Tokyo for a ten-day tour that would culminate in the longest day of my life.

  Chapter 29

  August 18, 1995. We had been on the road for eight days and had traveled via the Japanese bullet train into the wee hours of the morning. We were awakened after about five hours’ sleep, and took the two-hour bus trip from the Ikebukuru section of Tokyo into Yokohama. I stepped off the bus in front of the dilapidated baseball stadium, and knew right away that I was going to be in trouble. It was only ten in the morning, but the temperature was already over ninety. The humidity was almost unbearable.

  I walked into the stadium, where they had three rings set up in the infield part of the stadium. The day would be filled with a variety of inhuman gimmick matches, and the three-ring setup would ensure speedy transitions between matches. Without them, we would have been there until September. I looked at the brackets for the King of the Death Match tournament. I would be facing Terry Gordy in the opening round in a barbed wire bat, 10,000 thumbtack match. The thumbtacks would be placed in two shallow boxes and the object was simple-get your opponent in the box, in an attempt to get the pin. If I were victorious in the opening match (which I had reason to believe I would be), I would take on the winner of Nakamaki-Ono contest in a barbed wire board, bed of nails match. Pretty self-explanatory. Then, on to the grand finale, the coup de grace, the big daddy of them all. The no rope, barbed wire board, C4 explosive, exploding ring death match.

  I don’t mind telling you that the concept scared me a little bit. I was okay with everything up until the C4, and then had some questions. The C4 was rigged to four of the barbed wire boards, and would be detonated upon impact. I had seen exploding rings in Japanese videos before, and they were a sight to be seen. At the ten-minute mark of the match, a cannonlike concussion would go off on all four sides of the ring. The concussions were ear-splitting in volume, and threw unbelievable firepower into the sky. I had been told by the Funker, who had survived one of these things, that if you lie on the canvas, you’d be okay, but that it was hotter than hell and hard to breathe for a few minutes, until the smoke cleared.

  Victor Quinones summoned me to the outfield, where the demolitions expert was about to give us a C4 demonstration. I stood there looking at the barbed wire board, which had two explosives attached to each end of the six-foot plywood. Funk, Nakamaki, Leatherface, and I gathered around, and the expert flicked a switch. BABOOM! It was the loudest thing I’d ever heard in my life. Scariest too. I was the first to speak up. “No way,” I gasped, “that thing will kill us.” Nakamaki and Leatherface agreed.

  Then the wizened, grizzled Funker spoke up, and with thirty years of experience aiding his judgment, said, “No, no, that looks fine, but I think we need two more right in the middle-then it will be great.”

  “Terry,” I said, with more than a little desperation in my voice, “you’ve got to be kidding-there will be nowhere to land. How can we land if there will be explosives all over the damn thing?”

  Terry thought about it, and smiled his Terry smile. “No, no Cactus-it’ll be fine. Trust me!” I did, and later wished I hadn’t.

  At one o’clock, we hit the gimmick table for a two-hour selling session. I had been coming to Japan only seven months, but in that time the Japanese yen had lost a great deal of its value. I sold my shirts for 2,000 yen, but that amount brought in only $16 U.S., whereas in January, the same shirt yielded $24 U.S. I knew that I was in for a torturous tournament, but dammit, I’m a salesman, not a wrestler. I was positioned with the Headhunters at the table by the rear entrance. While the Japanese boys sat under a veranda by the main entrance, the gai-jins sweated it out in the hot sun. Sales were brisk for this big event, and I left the table at bell time as a hotter, sweatier, but somewhat richer man.

  I readied myself for the Gordy match. Terry Gordy had at one time been one of the ten best wrestlers in the world. He had been celebrated as a member of the original Freebirds, and had been a legend in All Japan wrestling before an accident put him in a coma for several days. When he reemerged, he was never quite the same.

  Terry had attempted his comeback a short while later, but it was painful to watch. The vicious, aggressive Gordy was gone, and in his place stood a confused, sluggish man. His punches and kicks, which had at one point been his calling card, now looked particularly weak. One of my saddest memories was of Terry at an independent show in Chattanooga, Tennessee, where at intermission, he took to the ring for Polaroids. Only two or three fans bothered to pose with one of wrestling’s true greats, and my heart went out to him. Even sadder, Terry didn’t take that as a cue to leave, and instead stood inside the empty ring for several minutes-smiling his sad Muppet smile.

  To his credit, however, Terry had trained intensely after his injury. He was actually in better physical condition than he was in his prime, and as the months went by, some of the mental fog seemed to lift. There were brief periods in matches where he looked like the Gordy of old. Unlike the U.S., where a wrestler is seemingly forgotten overnight, the Japanese had a deep sense of tradition, and Terry’s name was still valuable. Knowing this, Mr. Asano had hired him for the tournament, the ramifications of which, apparently, Terry was unaware of.

  A week earlier, the IWA had held a press conference to hype the tournament, which had gained surprisingly strong fan support. When asked about his first-round match, Terry referred to an excellent bout that we had wrestled for the Global Wrestling Federation in the summer of 1991. “Jack, I dropped you on your head once, and I can do it again.”

  I was given a chance to respond and yelled, “That was different, Gordy. Tell me what you’re going to do when you step into that ring at Kawasaki Stadium and see those 10,000 thumbtacks? I’m going to turn your ass into the world’s largest pin cushion.”

  Terry’s eyes seemed to grow as wide as saucers, and after the press conference, he approached me. “Bro,” he said in his deep, sad, basset hound voice, “I didn’t know anything about no thumbtacks.”

  I approached this match very seriously for a couple of reasons. I wanted to have a great match to set the tone for the show, but just as importantly, I wanted to honor and preserve Terry’s reputation. I was really concerned about the weakness of Terry’s punches and told him so. “Terry,” I said “I want this match to look good, and I think maybe to play it safe, you should just hit me your hardest out there.”

  “Are you sure, bro?” he wanted to know.

  “Yeah, Terry, I am.”

  Terry looked at me sadly, and I could tell the words that followed were difficult for him to say. “Bro, just help me out there.”

  I came out of the dugout to the strains of a song by the band Megadeth. The Japanese had a great knack for picking cool entrance music and this was no different. I could feel the hot sun beating down on me as I looked at the crowd, which was pretty damn impressive. Thirty thousand fans had turned out to see the little company that could. Gordy was then announced, and we lined up on opposite sides of field, about thirty yards from the ring, as the announcer counted us down in English. Ten, nine, eight-! was nervous as hell
. Seven, six, five-my heart was pounding, but I knew that I was ready. Four, three, two-Gordy jumped the gun, and by the time my big ass got into the ring, he was waiting with the barbed wire bat. I fed him my back, and he took full advantage. I took two hard hits and bailed out to the floor, where Gordy followed. “Go ahead, Terry, hit me,” I yelled. Whatever fears I’d had about his punches disappeared immediately. BAM, I felt the smack of fist against skull. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. I finally turned and staggered away. I reached for my head, and felt the sticky warmth of my own blood. Without even meaning to, Terry had busted my eyebrow open. He hadn’t let me down. I could almost hear Harley grumbling all the way from Kansas City. As a matter of fact, the cover photo of the Raw issue titled “Blood, Guts, and Mick Foley” was taken right after these punches were thrown.

  I rolled into the ring, and the Terry Gordy of old followed me in. He whipped me into the turnbuckle, and followed me in with a brutal clothesline. When I ran, I stepped into the shallow box, and the sole of one of my cowboy boots filled with thumbtacks. Another whip, another clothesline, and I went down, next to the box, with my face actually turned to its side on top of the tiny gold tacks. Gordy gave me a stiff boot to the other side of my face, and I could feel the push pins sinking into my flesh. “Uhwahh.” I staggered to my feet and did my best slow, stumbling watusi, so that every fan could take a good look. The response was incredible-like a feeling of disgust and enjoyment at the same time. It seemed kind of like when the great white shark is dragging Quint into its mouth in the movie Jaws; painful to watch but fun nonetheless. I guess it was kind of like watching the Mean Street Posse in action, except for the fun part.

  A minute later, and Terry picked me up for the powerbomb. The timing was off and Terry didn’t get me very high, but he brought me down right in the middle of the tacks, and the crowd went wild. Gordy turned to the fans and did his unique celebratory dance, while I picked up a handful of tacks. When Terry turned to me, I threw the tacks at his face. When he covered up, I gave him a boot to the stomach and a DDT into the box for the win.

  It had been a tremendous match, and I was exhausted, but happy. With the exception of his hand, Terry had escaped thumbtack free. In contrast to my press conference prediction, it was actually I who had turned into the world’s largest pincushion. After the match, I was interviewed for the King of the Death Match commercial video, which would be a huge success around the world, despite the fact that I never received a dime for it. My interview was strong, as I praised Gordy for having taught me a valuable lesson, but it couldn’t match Terry’s for its verbiage and delivery: “Fuck, I can’t believe that fucker beat me. Fuck!”

  I retreated to the dressing area, where I was shocked to find that there was no water, soda, juice, or beverages of any kind. I looked around to see if Bill Watts had secretly taken over. I ended up going into the concession area, where a fan was more than happy to buy a sports drink for the bleeding, sweating Cactus Jack.

  The danger man, Shoji Nakamaki, had defeated Ono in their match, so a short while later, I looked on with great interest as two huge beds of nails were brought to ringside. I had only seen one other bed of nails match, featuring the team of Nakamaki and Ono against two Leatherfaces, and it had been obscene in its brutality.

  Mike Kirschener had been the original Leatherface, for the FMW promotion in Japan. He’d had a short run in the World Wrestling Federation as Corporal Kirschener in the mid-eighties, but their attempt at making him a new Sergeant Slaughter had failed, and he had been drifting in the business for years before catching on in Japan. He was a nice guy, but he had a short fuse, and two years earlier an argument that he had not started ended with him punching a Japanese man in the face. The punch had been so devastating that the man’s face had been almost destroyed, and Kirschener spent six months in a Japanese jail as a result.

  During his incarceration, Rick Patterson from Canada was suited up for the popular Leatherface gimmick, and had moved to IWA when Victor Quinones jumped ship. Six months later, with Kirschener returning, the tag team of the Leatherfaces was formed. They only lasted one match-the bed of nails. Kirschener was pretty adamant about not losing in his return to the ring, and when he did, he became incensed. “Let’s get these bastards,” Kirschener yelled in his deep gravelly voice. Kirschener had ripped off a piece of the board (no small feat) and had handed it to Patterson to press down on Ono’s neck. Now the secret of the nails, if there is such a thing, is to try to land on as many of the nails as possible. By doing this, no one nail has the chance to do serious damage. Kirschener was about to prove that theory’s flipside-fewer nails equals more damage-as he yelled “Hold him there, I’m gonna drop a fuckin’ leg on him.” Patterson was a kind human being, and he tried to hold the board steady, to minimize the impact. No such luck however, as the former Corporal came down full force, and drove the nails dangerously deep into Ono’s neck. It wasn’t enough. “Let’s give him a fuckin’ powerbomb” he ordered. Ono fought the powerbomb, but Kirschener was not to be denied, and he flipped him up, and dropped him down on the brutal, nail-filled board. He was fired immediately.

  Now, I’m not a sadist, and I don’t take liberties, but this was a big match, and people were expecting big things. Luckily, the Danger Man loved this type of thing. The hot afternoon sun was giving way to a somewhat cooler evening as I took to the ring. Nakamaki stepped in and the bed of nails, barbed wire board match was on. I put the boots to good old Shoji, and then threw him outside. I set up one of the wire boards against the ring and whipped him toward it. He reversed it and I hit the board but bounded right back with a clothesline. The Insane Clown Posse, a rap group that later appeared in the World Wrestling Federation, released a commercial video of the match that contained some unique commentary. “He shoots Cactus Sack [my name in their version-my father was Prickly Balls] into the barbed wire, but look, it doesn’t even faze the toothless bastard.” Actually not much was fazing me that day-I was “in the zone.”

  I was putting a beating on Nakamaki, but was taking some punishment as well. I slammed him inside the ring on the barbed wire board, and went for a big elbow. Shoji moved and it was I who now landed on the wire. Years later, even Paul Bearer winced when he saw the tape and saw wire sticking in my shoulder as I tried to get up. I took some Nakamaki headbutts (his big move) but came right back, and dropped him on the wire. It was time to introduce the bed of nails. I slid it into the ring and propped it up in the corner as the crowd began to buzz. I grabbed the bleeding Danger Man and, standing above him, attempted to grind his head into the nails. Bleeding was part of Nakamaki’s gimmick. Don’t feel bad for him, he would have bled that night even if I’d never touched him. To many in the strange Japanese subculture of “garbage wrestling,” scar tissue was seen as a badge of courage, and many young wrestlers set about getting that badge by any means necessary. To be honest, my career had benefited greatly from my scarred arm-it made me “legitimate” in many fans’ eyes.

  Nakamaki scooted out backward through my legs and delivered a headbutt. I fell into the bed. “Uhwahh,” the crowd loved it. Another headbutt, another fall, another “uhwahh.” The nails pierced my skin, and pain shot through my body, but it honestly wasn’t that bad. I was rocking and reeling, but I stopped him and threw him to the infield grass. We were right by the second bed of nails, and when I picked him up, they stood in unison to see the impact of flesh on pointed steel. Instead, I slammed him somewhat harmlessly on the stadium infield. I could hear the disappointment from the fans. But I had a definite plan, and it didn’t include something as mundane as a simple slam on the nails. No, they deserved more. By God, I was getting paid $300 for the day ($100 per match), and I was going to give the fans and Asano every penny’s worth. I lifted the board, leaned it over Nakamaki, and then quickly hopped to the ring apron. The crowd was on its feet again. I think they could smell what I was cooking. I raised my arm toward the heavens and took off on my familiar twostep course down the apron. Nakamaki was only eight feet away,
but in this case, distance didn’t matter-he was under a bed of F’ing nails! I took off and landed hard. I tried to take care of the poor guy, but I’d be lying if I said I cared more about his physical well-being than about the well-being of the videotape. His pain would go away, eventually-the video wouldn’t. And besides, in an attempt to ease my conscience, “This guy loves it.”

  Actually he didn’t look like he was feeling a whole lot of love as he lay there writhing on the ground. My experience with the nails hadn’t been too bad, but I couldn’t say the same for Nakamaki. The nails had dug in deep in a couple of spots, and he was in considerable pain. “Okay, okay,” he assured me, when I asked him how he was.

  The ending was less than smooth, as I attempted to superplex him off the top rope onto the boards. Nakamaki was a notorious “sand bagger” who was almost impossible to lift off the ground. Instead I gave him a sloppy-looking, low suplex in the ring, and finished him with a DDT on the barbed wire board. Two down, one to go.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the bracket, Terry Funk had defeated Leatherface in a chain match, and Tiger Jeet Singh in a glass match, when my interference backfired. Tiger was another veteran of Japan, and in some ways a legend also, but to me, he was sis of Terry Funk. Terry had become an icon through thirty years of blood, sweat, and tears, while Tiger had done it with a few wins over Antonio Inoki, back when Inoki never lost. Terry stayed “over” by constantly giving to other people. He gave of his heart, his wisdom, and his kindness. Tiger stayed “over” by taking.