A Lion's Tale: Around the World in Spandex

by Chris Jericho

  Confused, I asked him what he meant.

  “People have been calling me all day and laughing at me. Well I don’t do the comedy bullshit that you do and I just want you to know you’re gonna pay the price for it.”

  I was surprised at his reaction because I thought we were on good terms. We both loved hockey and once went to a Boston Bruins game together. I thought he would’ve gotten a kick out of Dwarfberg. But as popular and successful as Bill was he was still very green about the business. As a result the backstage vultures were clouding his brain with manipulation, drooling at the thought of being the one to end his winning streak.

  “I just work here, Bill. I wish I had the power to book the matches, but I don’t.”

  He grunted and as he walked away he repeated, “I hope it was worth it, Jericho.”

  It really wasn’t, because the segment wasn’t very memorable. But someone must’ve liked it, because the next night at Thunder I was told to go to the ring and challenge Goldberg to a fight even though he wasn’t at the show.

  I didn’t care that he was pissed about the previous night’s show and I was happy to have an angle. So I went to the ring and bragged to the crowd about my won-loss record of Jericho 1, Goldberg 0. I challenged him to a match and had the ref count to 10. When he didn’t show, I won the match by count-out and now it was Jericho 2, Goldberg 0.

  Then I cut a scathing promo about how I’d been the one to finally tarnish his name. He was no longer Goldberg because I was renaming him Greenberg, a name that matched his experience in the business.

  “Who’s your daddy, Greenberg? Who’s your daddy?”

  The next week I went to a T-shirt shop and had a shirt made that said, “Jericho—2, Goldberg—0” and wore it to the ring. I knew the feud was getting over because there were signs scattered throughout the arena keeping score and saying “Goldberg Fears Jericho” and “Jericho’s Next.”

  The angle that Terry Taylor booked to give me something to do on a Sunday afternoon had turned into one of the hottest angles in the company and, like my last hot angle, my opponent wasn’t directly involved with it. But I was involved 200 percent and had a ton of ideas to further the story.

  One of my bits (directly ripped off from Spinal Tap) had me getting lost on my way to the ring for a match against Wrath. I was planning to continue my mocking of Goldberg by coming to the ring led by a security team, one of his trademarks. (Supremely Cool Author’s Note: If Goldberg was so tough, why did he need a full security team to take him to the ring? Things that make you go hmmmm.)

  I debated using the local wrestlers in the building as my security force, but I thought it would be funnier if I came to the ring led by a crew of misfits instead. I had the perfect guy in mind to start off with.

  I’d always see one of the company truck drivers hanging around and he had, shall we say, a very unique look. His hairline receded to his neck and he sported a massive gut. He frequently flashed a friendly smile that accentuated his missing front teeth and a pair of fanglike incisors that protruded out of each side of his mouth. He had a face only a mother could love and Mother Jericho wanted him for a bodyguard.

  I approached him and asked him if he wanted to be on TV.

  “Sure,” he said with a punji stick grin. “Whaddya want me ta do?”

  I patted him on the chest (cutting my hand on his teeth in the process) and handed him a cut-off wifebeater that caused his gut to hang over the belt of his dress pants. Then I took a marker and wrote on the front:

  JERICHO

  PERSONAL

  SECURITY

  The JPS was born.

  My new bodyguard needed a name and I’d just seen the 1970s horror movie Blood Sucking Freaks. The flick featured a maniacal Oates (as in Hall and...) looking dwarf named Ralphus. The rest is Jeric-History.

  Ralphus knocked on my dressing room door and we began our walk to the ring. But we weren’t quite sure where it was. I opened one door and found a broom closet. Another led me into catering. I shouted “Hello Cleveland!” in tribute. Then I tried a third door and unwittingly walked outside into the parking lot as the door slammed shut behind me.

  We’d rehearsed the bit earlier in the day and when the door shut behind me it had locked instantly. This time when the door shut I scrambled to pull it open and the damn thing opened easily. We were live, so I slammed my shoulder against the door and shut it again as if by mistake. The comedy continued when a curious security guard heard the noise and opened the door again to see what was going on.

  Meanwhile Wrath was in the ring watching the entire spectacle on the ’Tron, and decided to come get me himself. He charged through the door and I ran from him as fast as I could until I reached my given mark. The mark guaranteed that I was out of the camera’s sightline, and I stopped as Wrath ran past me as a joke. But the joke was on me because the mark was wrong and Wrath running past me while we both burst out laughing was caught on live TV.

  What had started as a homage to Spinal Tap had turned into the real thing.

  I ran into Goldberg in the airport the next day and he demanded that I stop doing the angle because he didn’t do comedy.

  I tried to explain to him that he wasn’t doing the comedy, I was. Besides, the fans were digging it and at every show the Jericho–Goldberg signs multiplied while the reactions got stronger. But he still didn’t understand that the more I mocked him, the more people wanted to see him destroy me.

  Besides, I was having a blast with my comedy. My security force was increasing faster than the nWo: I’d sworn the Jerichoholic Ninja and Viva Las Jericho (I don’t know what the hell it means either) into active duty.

  The next week Greenberg finally got involved when he hit the ring and pulverized the new members of my valiant security force. But Ralphus and I escaped, making the score Jericho—3, Goldberg—0. To keep up with the tally, I put a piece of tape over the 2 on my sweet custom-made shirt and wrote a 3 in its place. People were really getting sick of my bullshit and the fans were itching to see him tear me apart.

  The next week when I showed up for Nitro in Phoenix, Eric told me I was going to be wrestling Goldberg that night. I asked Eric what the story of the match was going to be.

  “Story? The same story Goldberg always tells. He beats you up and pins you with the Jackhammer in three minutes.”

  I thought I’d entered the Twilight Zone, because he was talking to me like the previous six weeks of angles hadn’t happened.

  “What about our angle? The fans are really into it.”

  “There never was an angle. If there was, it ends tonight.”

  That was enough for me. Before my match with Dwarfberg, if I’d been booked to be the next victim of Goldberg’s streak I would’ve done it, no questions asked. But the bookers got me into this and I’d made the angle work. I didn’t expect to beat Goldberg and I didn’t want to. But the Goldberg–Jericho angle was giving both of us an extra dimension and there was no way I was going to allow them to piss away all of my hard work.

  “I’ve done some really strong work with this, Eric, even if it was just a throwaway. I don’t want to waste it on a three-minute squash. I really think people will pay money to see him kill me. Let me have the best squash match of all time with him on PPV. He can give me ten Jackhammers if you want. I’m not saying I don’t want him to beat me, I’m just saying that we’ve got something special here.”

  I don’t know if Eric understood my point or if he just didn’t want to put up with my bullshit, but he canceled the match.

  I’d avoided one monster even though I’d created another one.

  Ralphus became my full-time sidekick and was absolutely hilarious in his ineptitude. He understood nothing about wrestling and I don’t think he even understood what he was doing on TV. When he escorted me to the ring I’d tell him to get mad and threaten the people who accosted me along the way, but instead he would wag his finger at them like a granny telling a five-year-old not to touch her flowers.

  He tried
to look menacing but with his half shirt and summer teeth he just looked comical. But the ladies loved him and he was enjoying his newfound fame. I showed up at the arena one day to see Ralphus dirty-dancing for his female fans behind the arena. The girls weighed in at about three bills apiece, but Ralphus didn’t care...however, I was scarred for life.

  I’d become Dr. Chrisenstein and I tried to reel in his ballooning ego by always referring to him by his real name of John Riker. I wanted him to understand that he wasn’t really Ralphus. But he was too far gone and, quite frankly, who could blame him? He’d gone from a truck driver hauling lighting rigs to a nationally famous TV star in the space of a month all because of the space between his teeth.

  “John, get these girls out of the backstage area,” I said to him sternly.

  “But they like me.”

  “I don’t care. You can’t bring girls backstage.”

  “But they want to hang out with me—look, they gave me flowers.”

  “Wow, those are nice. Can I see them?” He handed me the tulips and I beat them over his bald head.

  When the Ralphus Rats started sitting in the front row, I was sickened to know that he had more groupies than I did. Even worse, he would spend all his time talking to the girls and not paying any attention to the match. The monster was loose.

  His head got bigger than the gap between his teeth and he started putting baby oil on his arms and stomach before he went to the ring. He began talking about hiring a lawyer to negotiate his new contract. New contract? The moron didn’t have an old contract! I had to go to bat to get him paid 500 bucks an appearance as it was.

  Then he started showing up at house shows, “in case he was needed.” The first night, he was cheered so huge that it killed my heel heat and I had to tell him to stop coming. Sadly, Ralphus was over more than most of the babyfaces.

  Meanwhile Goldberg, who was the biggest babyface in the company, had a lot of pull and decided our program would end for good in Uniondale, New York. I found out from Sullivan that I was losing to Goldberg and there would be no debate whatsoever. Of course I had zero intention of following his orders.

  I tracked down Eric and before I could say a word he told me, “You’re going to lose to Goldberg and that’s it.”

  I didn’t give a shit at that point because no matter what anybody else thought, the angle was a moneymaker and I was determined to live or die with it. If WCW didn’t take it as far as it could go, I might as well quit anyway. If they didn’t see this feud as a draw, then nothing I would ever do in the future would be either.

  “I’m not losing tonight.”

  “Go in my office right now,” Eric said angrily.

  He must’ve suspected that I was going to question the match because Goldberg was already in Eric’s office along with a pissed-off Hulk Hogan. Some serious shit was about to go down.

  “This has gone on too long. We’ve accommodated you long enough. Tonight you’re losing to Bill,” Eric explained.

  The three of them waited for my response.

  “I want to lose to Bill. I just want to do it right. People want to see him kick my ass and I believe they’ll pay to see it.”

  Then I pled my case to Hogan using language I knew he’d understand.

  “I thought this business was about making money. You’ve done it better than anyone, Hulk. This match will make money.”

  Hogan didn’t disagree, but said, “It’s never bad to lose to the champion.”

  “I’m sick of doing this comedy shit,” Goldberg jumped in. “You could never last with me in the ring. I’m the guy who stands in fire for my ring entrance. I’m the guy who beat Hulk Hogan for the title.”

  “You’re the guy who would go down right now if I kicked you in the nuts,” I jackhammered back.

  “Okay, okay, let’s not get carried away,” Judge Bischoff interjected. This was becoming The People’s Court in tights.

  “Well, what do you want to do?” Eric demanded. “What’s your idea?”

  “First of all, let us work this match at the next PPV (which was thirteen days away). Bill can squash the living hell out of me then.”

  “Okay, what are we going to do tonight then?”

  Before arriving at the Nassau Coliseum that day, I’d come up with a plan.

  “I’ll go to the ring and call out Goldberg. Mean Gene can tell me that everyone knows he’s not in the building, including me. I’ll proceed to rip Bill a new asshole with insults. While I’m doing this, we’ll show Bill arriving at the arena on the ’Tron. I’ll be too wrapped up in my promo to notice him walking through the halls and into his dressing room, where he’ll see me on the monitor. I’ll finish my insults and leave the ring but when I’m walking down the aisle soaking up the adulation of the fans as if it’s for me, Bill walks out of the entrance and stands behind me. When I turn around, he spears the hell out of me halfway down the aisle. Then we wrestle at World War 3 and he destroys me in the most entertaining squash match of all time.”

  Nobody said a thing and as the logic of my idea sank in both Bischoff and Hogan looked intrigued. But when Eric said he liked the idea, Hogan didn’t agree.

  “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this, but if you think you can make it work, then try it and he can beat you at the PPV. But if it doesn’t work, Bill beats you next week and that’s the end of it.”

  Everyone seemed happy until Goldberg said, “That’s all fine and dandy, but I’m supposed to have the next PPV off.”

  Did anyone in this company give even a tiny squirt of a shit about the product?

  With my plan approved, I went to the ring and buried Bill until Okerlund cut me off.

  “Surely you don’t think you can beat Goldberg.”

  “I do think I can beat Goldberg...and don’t call me Shirley.”

  Airplane represent yo.

  The crowd exploded when Goldberg showed up on the ’Tron. I left the ring waving and smiling like an idiot, only to turn around into the face of a pissed-off mountain of a man who’d had enough of the past two months of Jericho bullshit.

  He fired up and speared the beBuddha out of me. On my twenty-eighth birthday no less.

  I must’ve flown ten feet down the aisle and, to be honest, I deserved it. Goldberg had never dealt with someone so persistent and stubborn in the wrestling business before and I’m sure he was sick of looking at me. He took out his aggressions and completely annihilated me—and it was awesome.

  Later in the night Hogan came looking for me in an area he usually dared not tread. The common locker room. It was the first time I’d seen him with the rest of us plebeians, but to his credit he came to give me props.

  “Listen, brother, I just want to tell you that I was wrong and you were right. That was a great idea and it was great TV. I admire you for standing your ground.” I was pleasantly surprised; he didn’t have to say that. I’d spoken to him more in that one night than I had the prior two years combined and now he was apologizing to me. After that, we got along quite well. Told you I was friends with the Hulkster!

  That week I came up with a plan for our squash match where I would wrestle in untied amateur shoes. When Goldberg speared me, I was going to kick them off and give people the illusion that he’d speared me clean out of my sneakers. Time for me to step off!

  Of course when I showed up for TV the next week, the whole angle had been dropped and I started a one-week feud with Bobby Duncam Jr. I decided that day that my WCW career was officially over.

  CHAPTER 51

  NO TICKEE, NO LAUNDRY

  I wanted out and I had less than a year left on my now signed contract. But there was a new problem because five months earlier I had verbally agreed to a new deal with Eric that was going to give me a substantial raise. Even though we verbally agreed to the deal and shook hands on it almost a half year earlier, I’d heard nothing about it since.

  I knew that the deal was still on the table, but the lack of follow-up rubbed me the wrong way. I
f Hulk Hogan or Sting had agreed to a new deal, it would’ve been signed, sealed, and delivered before the day was done. It was initially a minor concern, but when the whole Goldberg situation went down I started second-guessing my decision.

  The fact that I couldn’t even get a PPV squash with Goldberg showed me that WCW didn’t see me as a moneymaker or a big-league player. My attitude about the company at that point became the same as when you call a girl ten times and she never calls you back. You start off hoping she’ll call, then you get bummed out, then desperate, and then you realize it’s time to give up and move on.

  Had he called me back anytime before the Goldberg angle was kiboshed, I would’ve signed. But the moment I found out that the angle had been shit-canned, I wasn’t interested in being a part of WCW no mo’. Of course the day I found the angle had been dropped like a baby was the day Eric showed up with a contract for me to sign. He took it out of his little knapsack and told me to sign it on the spot. I hemmed and hawed and told him I needed a lawyer to look it over first. Jimmy Smits always said to do that on L.A. Law and if you can’t trust Jim Smits, who can you trust?

  Once I made up my mind not to sign the deal, I called Vince Russo. I told him that I wanted out and he suggested a meeting with Vince McMahon himself. So he made the arrangements for me to fly to Connecticut for a top secret meeting at Vince’s house.

  In the weeks leading up to the meeting, I avoided Bischoff like he had leprosy...or was a cruiserweight. If he was walking down the hall, I’d duck, dip, dive, and dodge into a nearby dressing room. He wasn’t stupid and I’m sure he must’ve suspected that something was amiss. Finally he caught up with me in the United Center in Chicago and the first words out of his mouth were, “Have you signed that contract yet?”

  “Well, my lawyer still hasn’t—”

  He interrupted me saying, “Get it back from your lawyer and get it signed for next week.”