Our Cyber Sunday match ended with a myriad of interference and run-ins from the other ref candidates and JBL (who, along with Shawn and Randy, were the only three guys I’d had angles with since my return a year earlier), with the end result of Austin making the three-count after a Batista powerbomb. The match was good and the dips and doodles were fun, but all I could think of was getting the title back and continuing my roll.
The following Monday, true to his word, Vince booked our rematch in a steel cage on the 800th episode of Raw from Tampa. It was a smart way for the two of us to have an exciting match and allow me to regain without Batista having to get pinned. Dave seemed happy with the plan originally but came to me later saying he didn’t feel comfortable with the way we had mapped things out.
“It feels weird for us to have a cage match with no blood.”
There would be no blood in this (or any other) match by decree of Vince, who, in order to attract high-dollar sponsors, had banned bleeding of any kind from the WWE months earlier (after HBK bled a gusher in our PPV match).
“Vince is dead set against blood, Dave. Do what you have to do, just don’t tell me anything more about it.” That was the last we spoke of it.
We had an excellent match and probably the best cage match I’ve ever had, made even better by the fact that it was for the title and that Jess and my family were once again sitting in the front row. Cage matches are quite a simple story to tell in theory: All you have to do is attempt to climb the cage as much as possible and tease the audience as to who will be able to get out first.
We had built the match perfectly and the crowd was on the edge of their seats as I climbed up the ten-foot-tall fence and put one leg over the scaffoldlike top. Batista caught me and pulled me on his shoulders as if he were going to powerbomb me from the top rope all the way down to the mat. I held on desperately and, with a last-ditch effort, pulled a steel ring off the cage rigging (I’d hidden it there earlier in the day) and used it like a pair of brass knuckles.
I nailed Dave in the forehead a few times, and as he fell to the ground, I pulled myself over the top of the cage and hung there dramatically like I was too scared to let go. The Animal scrambled up the side and stuck his hand through the top of the cage and bottom of the scaffold, grabbing me by the throat. He grimaced like a gargoyle as a thick line of blood streamed down his forehead. I thought, Wow, he’s actually bleeding.
He tried to pull me back over the top by my hair, but I swung off the side and drove my feet into his knee. He loosened his grip and I dropped ten feet to the floor and won the match, much to the dismay of the fans. Jericho had done it again. . . . I was the new World Heavyweight Champion for the fifth time!
I was on a natural high, but the moment I walked through the curtain, I could tell by everyone’s demeanor that something heavy was going down. The match producer, Dean Malenko, approached me like he’d just seen a ghost.
“Vince is furious that Batista got color. He’s blaming me. Did you know?”
I guess the answer to that is . . . kind of?
I knew Dave was thinking about it from our earlier conversation but hadn’t heard anything since, and I remembered noticing the stream of blood traveling down his face and having no idea when or how it happened. But even though I didn’t know much about Dave’s plan, I can say with total certainty that neither Dean nor referee Mike Chioda knew anything about it at all.
“Vince got up and stormed off,” Dean continued wanly. “Said he won’t talk to any of us about this until next week. He was really pissed off.”
Talk about putting the damper on a great night. This reminded me of the night when Benoit and I beat HHH and Austin to become the tag- team champions back in 2001 (in what some say was the best match in Raw history). The joyous moment had been ruined by the extenuating circumstances of Triple H tearing his quad and writhing in pain on the dressing room floor afterward.
Between Vince’s reaction and the thought of waiting a whole week to find out what our penance would be, I was a nervous wreck. I couldn’t wait that long with such a dark cloud hanging over my head, so I decided to call him.
“Hey, Vince,” I said when he answered the phone. “I didn’t know what Dave was going to do, but I take responsibility as the veteran in the match.”
“Bullshit!!” Vince barked at me. “I’m so fucking angry with you right now! I don’t want to talk to you. We’ll deal with this next Monday. Don’t call me again.” His words hung in the air like drying laundry as the phone went dead. I looked at the screen and saw the call had lasted eighteen seconds.
Over the next seven days, I awaited my sentence from the billionaire judge and jury like a prisoner on death row awaiting my inevitable execution. In the meantime we traveled to the UK for a tour, and the following Monday, Raw was in Manchester, England. After the show was over, the four guilty parties were summoned into Vince’s office, where a row of chairs was set up in a semicircle around a big-screen television. John Laurinaitis was waiting for us, and I sat down in silence between Dean and Dave, while Chioda took a seat on the end. It was a nerve-racking few minutes, sitting there waiting for Vince and wondering what was about to happen.
Finally he walked in and addressed Laurinaitis, completely ignoring the rest of us.
“John, play the footage.”
Johnny walked over to the DVD player and pressed a few buttons, but nothing happened. He bent down over the machine and tried to start it again, with the same results. The mood in the room lightened when Vince walked over and tried to figure out the problem with no luck either. They were like Moe and Curly trying to figure out how to turn on a light switch.
Finally, Chioda got up and started the machine in one-two-three seconds (which was like a guy throwing the switch on his own electric chair). The footage started and it was one of the weirdest things I’ve ever experienced. It was an edited montage of Batista’s crime from a multitude of angles; hard camera, side camera, overhead camera, and one from a camera in the high corner of the arena that I never even knew existed. WTF?
Batista and I battle for the world title in Tampa, as the mysterious hidden UFO camera films the entire thing. Another Jess front-row capture.
Was this secret camera filming at all times? If it was, I suddenly regretted the time in Fresno when I picked my nose in the empty stands. . . . Had that been filmed too?
We watched the footage of us struggling on the top of the cage and Dave pulling me onto his shoulders to give me the top rope powerbomb. I grabbed the steel ring and bashed him on the forehead and then tossed it over the cage onto the ground. Right at that moment, Dave made himself bleed. I had no idea when he did it while we were working the match, but now I saw it plain as day from a number of various angles. What made the montage even more bizarre was the bright circle that had been added around Dave’s head to highlight his actions. It was like the type of graphic you see on a UFO show, when they pinpoint the flying saucer in the sky and show you exactly where you are supposed to be looking.
How much time had Vince’s editing team spent on this? I mean, it was a cage match, not the Zapruder film! It was as if he wanted to shove what had happened down our throats and prove that he had gotten to the bottom of the mystery. But there wasn’t much of a mystery to get to the bottom of, because Dave never denied what he’d done. Not that he could have anyway, as the cut was right in the middle of his forehead and stood out like a sore thumb on his bald dome.
Before we went into the office, Dave told me he was prepared to take full responsibility for his actions, and I appreciated his gesture, but I was ready to take my share of the blame as well. However, I did feel bad for Dean and Chioda, who were only guilty by association.
After the Batista Blades/Ancient Aliens highlight reel ended, Vince addressed us sternly.
“As you all know, there is a strict ban on bleeding in the WWE and you have broken this rule. I could f
ire all of you for this, but I’m not going to. Instead, I’m gonna hit you where it hurts.”
Dave broke the silence and told Vince that the rest of us had no knowledge of what he did.
“Bullshit.” Vince spat out angrily. “Enough of this ‘sticking together with the boys’ mentality. As far as I’m concerned, you’re all guilty. Dean, if you didn’t know about this, you should’ve guessed it was going to happen! It was your match!”
Dean looked on helplessly, even though Vince’s statement made no sense. But Mr. McMahon had gone past the point of no return. He was furious and was ready to dole out some serious punishment.
“The worst thing is none of you even called me to talk to me about what happened. None of you had the balls to own up to this!”
I put my hand in the air even though I wasn’t in school, as it still felt like the politest way to get Vince’s attention.
“Um, Vince, I called you last Monday night to talk and you hung up on me.”
His eyes burned a hole through me for cutting him off, but he acquiesced.
“OK, nobody called me BUT Jericho. Doesn’t change the fact that you directly ignored my rules and could’ve cost me millions of dollars from sponsors. I spent the week thinking what I was going to do about this and I decided I will be fining all of you.”
A fine? I spent all week worrying about what was going to happen to me and all he was going to do was fine us? Ha-ha, bring it on, Vincenzo!
“Dave, I’m going to fine you one hundred thousand dollars.”
The smile dripped down my face like ice cream on a warm summer’s afternoon. One hundred thousand dollars? I could barely compute the figure as my mind calculated how many bumps Dave would have to take to make up that amount. I never in my wildest dreams thought he would get fined that much. . . . Could Vince even do that?
“I can fine you however much I want,” Vince said, seemingly reading my mind. Dave remained stoic, saying nothing.
Then Vince’s gaze shifted over to me. My body was numb and my throat was dry as I waited for his next verdict. Surely he wouldn’t fine me a hundred grand too . . . or would he?
Vince stared at me with his steely, beady eyes and said, “Chris, I’m going to fine you . . .”
This was it. I watched his mouth and waited for him to put his pinky to his lip and form the words ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS.
The tension filled the air like toxic smoke and I felt as nervous as a contestant on Dancing with the Stars waiting to hear if I would be advancing to the next round. (Clever Editor’s Note: This is even more foreshadowing, kids.)
“I’m going to fine you . . . five thousand dollars.”
Five thousand dollars! Five thousand doll hairs? Ha-ha, I felt like I’d received a pardon from the governer and wanted to jump into Vince’s arms so he could swing me to and fro like a baby.
I broke into a huge smile and I was about to say, Five grand? I’ll give you ten! until I noticed Vince’s stern look hadn’t changed.
“Something funny, Chris?”
“No, sir,” I said, shaking my head feverishly, realizing he could easily change his mind. I decided to shut my trap until the Angel of Vince took his attention elsewhere. He did and told Dean and Chioda that they were going to be fined five thousand bones as well. Then he said a pretty damn froot thing.
“Once I leave this room, I’m totally going to forget about this whole incident. I don’t want to hear or talk about this again. Understand?”
We all nodded, and Vince and Johnny walked out of the room. The four of us stared at our feet and I noticed I was the only one of us who felt relieved about our punishment. Five grand was a lot of money, but it was a small price to pay, considering a few moments earlier I’d been convinced I was going to be hammered with the same one-hundred-large punishment as Dave. (I’m convinced I would’ve been if I hadn’t called Vince after Raw that night.) While Dean and Mike were down in the dumps about the five grand, Dave’s expression hadn’t changed the whole time. When he finally spoke, he told us he was going to pay all of our fines and there would be no debate about it.
It was a surprising decree, but it showed Batista’s integrity. He was taking full responsibility for his actions and it was costing him 115 grand. I walked out of that room with a whole lot of respect for Dave Batista. He’s a stand-up guy and that’s the bottom line ’cause Jeri-Cold said so.
A few minutes later I saw Vince in the parking lot of the arena, waiting for his limo, and he motioned me over.
“Give me a hugski, kid,” he said with a smile. I did, and as I was walking away he yelled out, “Don’t cause me any more trouble in the future!”
“I’ll try not to, boss!” I laughed.
I would fail miserably at that request soon enough.
On Your Knees!
The Batista debacle aside, my relationship with Vince continued to strengthen. He started putting me in more elaborate scenarios, where I got to show off not only my wrestling skills but my acting skills as well.
Vince had written a story line in which he left Stephanie in charge of Raw alone. She and I always had great chemistry when we worked together in the past, but the dynamic had changed with her as the babyface and me as the hard-core heel. We had a few confrontations leading to a final showdown on Raw in Sioux City, Iowa. I had found out that Vince was returning the next week, so I was cajoling (amazing word) and antagonizing her, criticizing all of her decisions past, present, and future. She took all the abuse she could handle and ended up firing me on national TV. I stood in shock as she walked out of the ring and left the crowd to serenade me with a rousing rendition of “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye.” (Any idea who sang that song?)
One week later, in Chicago, Vince returned and I kissed his ass, trying to convince him to rehire me. Vince was unimpressed and said that since he and Steph were now running Raw together, all of her decisions were final, but if she would consider giving me a second chance, I could be reinstated. Steph then suggested that if I gave her a heartfelt apology, she would consider it. (The answer is Steam, by the way.)
It was such a great position for me to be in as a performer, especially since the character I was playing had shown no regret for anything he’d done over the last six months. Yet there I was, having to eat some serious crow and humble myself by apologizing to my bosses. I made a pathetic first attempt as I pulled a Fonz and acted like I couldn’t say the word sorry.
“Stephanie, I am truly suuuu . . . suuuu . . . suuu . . .”
The crowd ate it up with a spoon.
I finally delivered a half-assed apology, but neither Steph nor the fans were buying it. She told me to try it again with feeling, but before I could continue, the always amazing Chicago crowd took over. They started in with a huge chant of “ON YOUR KNEES!” and I couldn’t believe my good fortune in having this hot crowd chanting orders at me whilst my boss stood in the ring. We were scheduled to end the segment at this point, but I took control and stared at Steph. She knew exactly what I was thinking and asked me, “What are they saying, Chris?”
The chant got louder as I protested, insisting that bowing down to her wasn’t necessary. Of course, the fans disagreed and I took full advantage of their on-the-spot audience participation. I glanced nervously from side to side and grimaced with annoyance as I slowly bent down and took a knee like a football player on a punt return. Then I stood back up again, milking it for all that it was worth.
“ON YOUR KNEES! ON YOUR KNEES!”
Finally I crouched down on both knees, and the crowd roared its approval as Vince and Stephanie looked on with amusement. I delivered an even less sincere apology when I explained, “I have a certain gift and when someone like me has this gift that makes them the best at what they do, sometimes it makes them come across a little arrogant even though it’s warranted. If I have said or done anything to offend anyone, well, then I apologize.�
� Such a smarmy smart-ass way to weasel out a message of repentance. But the McMahons (and the fans) had gotten what they wanted and I was hired back into the WWE.
Backstage, Vince complimented me on my acting prowess and told me he was impressed with my ability to adapt to any situation. I’m sure my performance that night helped him decide I was the right guy for his next very important mission.
Premature Announceulation
I had just been eliminated by The Undertaker from the 2009 Royal Rumble in Detroit and was changing in the locker room. I got a text from my wise cousin Chad, who informed me that Mickey Rourke had just challenged me to a match at WrestleMania. Huh? Why would Mickey Rourke do that? Sure, he was in wrestling mode after just delivering the performance of his career as Randy “The Ram” in Darren Aronofsky’s masterpiece The Wrestler, but why was he challenging me? I gave Chad a call and he wisely told me Rourke had been on the red carpet at the Screen Actors Guild Awards and had dropped the bomb that he was “going to kick Chris Jericho’s ass” at WrestleMania. I had no idea what he was talking about, but it was froot that Mickey had dropped my name instead of mentioning Austin or Cena.
The Best in the World Page 9
