The Best in the World

by Chris Jericho

  Each word broke away another little piece of my heart as my childhood hero, mentor, and all-time favorite opponent explained to me how much of a jerk-off I had been. It was hard to listen to him talking to me this way, even though I totally deserved it. And he was only getting started.

  “You need to start acting like a top guy if you’re ever gonna be one. Staying up all night drinking and being an asshole . . . you’re losing everyone’s respect.”

  I expected him to tell me next that fat, drunk, and stupid was no way to go through life, but this was no joke and I was humbled because I knew he was right. There’s a certain level of responsibility in being a top-level performer and a certain line you can’t cross if you want to be taken seriously as a locker room leader. You’ve got to be an inspiration, not an embarrassment. You would never see The Undertaker drunk as hell and swearing in front of children at six in the morning.

  On top of that, Shawn was right. I had created a monster with this new character and it had spiraled out of control. Sometimes I dropped into it so deeply that it was hard to let it go. The theory that Heath Ledger overdosed on sleeping pills because he could no longer sleep due to the dark depths he’d traveled to in order to portray The Joker in The Dark Knight made perfect sense to me. My commitment to the craft had warped me, causing problems in my life all across the board, and even though I knew it was happening, to hear it from my most respected peer made it hit home even harder.

  “You’re totally right, Shawn. I need to change things up. Can you help me?”

  I knew Shawn had experienced similar problems in the mid-’90s when he had the reputation as the hardest person in the business to deal with.

  Shawn slowly shook his head.

  “You’re on your own with this one, Chris.”

  Wow, that hurt. But he was right and the irony was that Shawn and I were very similar in a lot of ways. We both came into the business branded as “little guys,” which gave us huge chips on our shoulders and caused us to have to work extra hard to get noticed. We were both opinionated and deemed hard to deal with as a result but made it to the top of our crafts for that very reason. We both had egos in the stratosphere at times, but this time, Shawn pulled me down to earth faster than a skydiver without a parachute.

  He was done talking, so I apologized again and left him alone. I didn’t feel that he’d forgiven me, but later when we went over our match, he was a little friendlier, and that gave me a small modicum of relief. Then I sought out his wife, Rebecca, and apologized, as I’m sure my behavior had insulted her as well.

  She accepted my apology and said what pissed them off the most about my behavior was me obnoxiously saying good night to Shawn as they were leaving.

  “We felt it was a real Eddie Haskell two-faced thing to do. Like you were mocking him and challenging him to do something about it if he didn’t like it.”

  That hadn’t been my intention at all, but I understood how what I said could have been taken that way. When I got back to my room, I thought about everything that had gone down over the past twenty-four hours and decided I’d make some changes.

  No more all-night Crown Royal drinking sessions while on tour, because I had responsibilities to live up to as a locker room veteran. More importantly, whether I was drinking or not, I needed to tone down the attitude I’d developed as a person—essentially learn how to separate church and state and leave the Jericho heel character where it belonged . . . in the ring. I’d have to make these changes on my own (as HBK said), but I was up for the challenge.

  Shawn’s words gave me a real wake-up call, and I’m thankful he said them. Vince told me years earlier that he wanted to teach me life lessons along with wrestling lessons and he has. But that night, Shawn taught me a major life lesson of his own that humiliated and humbled me, and I’ll always appreciate that.

  After that we became closer than ever and I still consider HBK to be one of my best friends in the business. Thanks, Shawn.

  Effeminate Tough Guy

  When Big Show and I lost the tag-team titles to DX in December 2009, I wasn’t supposed to be allowed on Raw any longer. But then Mike Tyson was booked for the show in mid-January 2010, and since Vince wanted my final Monday night blow-off angle to be with him, we needed to think of a way to get me reinstated. What he came up with was one of the most bizarre angles of my career.

  At the final Raw before Christmas 2009, guest host Johnny Damon was going to grant Show one wish from Santa Claus. He would then confront Santa in the ring and ask that his tag-team partner and best friend, Chris Jericho, be allowed back on the program. Santa would of course say yes, but then that dastardly Hornswoggle would run in the ring and rip off Santa’s beard, revealing that Jolly Old St. Nick was actually me. To make things even more preposterous, after I was unmasked like Shandi, Show and I would be attacked by a gang of midgets. It’s as ridiculous as it sounds, but as Loverboy once said, we better start from the start.

  The big story line of the night was Hornswoggle taking DX to Little People’s Court for their constant mistreatment. Shawn and Hunter would crawl under the ring where Swoggle “lived,” end up in another dimension and embark on a wacky Alice in Wonderland–esque journey to find him. It was as rotten as it sounds and you would have to be on opium to find any of it entertaining. They would eventually find the Little People’s Courtroom populated with a dozen dwarves who would put them on trial and find DX guilty. It was completely hokey, the kind of thing you would only see in the WWE. Then after all that horseshit, Show and I would treat all the munchkins to a massive beatdown.

  When the ragtag collection of minikins showed up for rehersal, it was amazing to see how small they really were. Vince even told a couple of them to go home because he was afraid they might get hurt in the melee. The idea was they would surround us in a semicircle and attack, but Show and I would eliminate every last one of them, until DX came to chase us away. The thing had the potential to stink out the joint and when we were finished going over everything, Vince looked at me and said, “My dad will be rolling in his grave after this.” I responded, “Who can blame him? Besides, it’s your fault. . . . YOU booked this shit!”

  I put on the Santa outfit complete with fat suit, granny glasses, bushy white eyebrows, and gaudy circles of rouge on my face that made my cheeks look like roses, my nose like a cherry.

  But it was quite convincing and nobody recognized me. I got the final approval from Vince, who gave me the thumbs-up but told me, “Make sure to change that prissy walk of yours. Everyone will know it’s you if you don’t.”

  Vince always mocks my sliding gait at every opportunity and once told me, “You’re the most effeminate tough guy I’ve ever met.” He also hated when I went through my scarf phase (that’s why Alberto Del Rio wears them to the ring as a heel) and abhors it when I sit with my legs crossed.

  Macho macho McMahon.

  So I practiced walking like I had candy cane up my ass and spoke with a weird accent that was half Mrs. Doubtfire, half Stewie from Family Guy. I had to come up something; I wasn’t about to be outdone by Fresh Ground Pepper Santa, now was I?

  The segment began with Show in the ring summoning Santa to hear his wish, and out he came, with a rockin’ version of “Jingle Bells” as his entrance music and a Bella twin on each arm. It was ricockulous to see SANTA CLAUS written in huge letters on the TitanTron (with accompanying falling snowflakes), like he was coming out to challenge Stone Cold Steve Austin for the world title. I strolled down the aisle doing everything I could not to walk like an effeminate tough guy, waving to the crowd like I was the pope and bellowing Ho-Ho-Ho like a Mo-Fo-Fo.

  Santa commented that Show was the biggest boy he’d ever seen and it was probably a smart idea for Santa to sit on his lap instead. He asked Show if he’d been a good boy in his Stewie/Doubtfire drawl and he replied with a resounding, “Yes, Santa,” in an over-the-top innocent voice.

  The
n he told Santa that his only Christmas wish was for his best friend, Chris Jericho, to be reinistated on Raw. Santa pondered the request thoughtfully and finally granted his request, which of course the crowd hated. I couldn’t believe they were actually buying this shit!

  Show and Santa celebrated until Hornswoggle jumped into the ring and pulled off Santa’s beard. Santa stared at Swoggle in a not-so-jolly way and chased him out of the ring. The crowd finally got it and gasped in recognition as I ripped off the rest of my disguise and revealed myself.

  “That’s Chris Jericho!” said announcer Michael Cole with shock.

  Then it was our turn to be shocked as Hornswoggle and his dirty half dozen (get it?) emerged from under the ring and hopped into position. I can only imagine how uncomfortable Show felt, as he had a phobia of little people (like the elephant and the mouse), but he held his cool and the standoff began. I’d told the tiny terrors before the show to wait until I gave the cue before bum-rushing us, because as always I wanted the crowd at its peak before the fight began. But the fans weren’t too sure what to make of the preposterous scenario and were almost silent, so I decided it was time to get it on and get it over with.

  I gave the cue, they charged, and I threw them off one by one like I was Gulliver, until there was only one little guy hanging on to my leg for dear life as I dragged him along the mat. This was even more ridiculous, considering I was wearing only Santa trousers, suspenders, big black boots, rosy cheeks, and a rummy’s nose.

  Show pulled the little guy off my leg and gave him a crushing side slam that shook him up so badly he had to go to the hospital for real. Then adding insult to injury, the Giant Destroyer picked him up by the legs like a Thanksgiving turkey and tossed him nonchalantly over the top rope.

  I thought we would get major heat for beating up a gang of little people, but we were getting more of the what the hell are we watching? reaction, until I trapped Hornswoggle and pushed him into Show’s massive mitt for a chokeslam. The crowd finally woke up and screamed at us to please stop, until the DX saviors ran down and chased us away.

  It was a ludicrous end to the show, and when I walked through Gorilla, I asked Vince if his dad was still rolling in his grave.

  “Ugh. He’s doing a full-on gymnastics routine at this point.”

  —

  A few weeks after Tyson’s DX betrayal finally got me kicked off Raw, Show and I broke up forever. It happened after I was staging a full-on demonstration outside the arena in Hartford, protesting my unfair treatment by the WWE by marching back and forth with a placard that read STOP THE JERICHO EMBARGO!! I’m not sure what that means, but it still makes me laugh. I set up a petition that I wanted the gathering crowd to sign, expressing their desire to see me back on Raw. I figured nobody would participate as they would be happy to see Jericho finally get his comeuppance, but the opposite happened and the fans were signing it as quickly as they could. After a few attempts to find legit Jericho haters in the crowd, we gave up and added a few plants to insult me instead.

  Finally, Show came outside to tell me he wouldn’t be helping me with my quest to get back on Raw because we were through.

  We thought it would be funny to do the scene like we were breaking up for real in some sort of a clichéd romantic comedy starring Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston, and play it totally straight.

  “I’m doing this for us, Show,” I pleaded. “We deserve a rematch against DX and I just can’t let it go. I don’t want this to end!”

  “Let it go, Chris. It’s over,” Show replied tenderly.

  “Don’t say that, Show! I stay awake at night thinking about us. What we had was special and you can’t deny that!”

  “It was special, Chris. Nobody knows me like you did. But it’s time to move on. I’m on Raw, you’re on SmackDown. . . . Long-distance relationships don’t work, Chris. It’s over.”

  “Is there someone else?”

  Show shook his head. “No. But I’m moving on. Just know I care about you.”

  “I’m always going to cherish the memories, Show!” I yelled in desperation as he walked away and out of my life forever.

  I ate a carton of Häagen-Dazs and cried myself to sleep that night.

  The Little People of America

  I was in the locker room in Nashville, reading an article in Guitar World about Lynyrd Skynyrd, whose guitarists Gary Rossington, Rickey Medlocke, and Mark Matejka were on the cover. R-Truth came in and we started talking about the different music we’d listened to in high school and the differences between growing up in Canada and in the Deep South. The conversation turned to how there were more midgets in my high school (two) than black kids (one). He’d read my überpopular how-to manual, A Lion’s Tale (have YOU?), and asked whatever happened to my diminuitive pals. I mentioned that one of them, Tanya Davis, had become a stand-up comedian and a favorite of the Maury Povich show, but I hadn’t seen her in almost twenty years.

  We had our match and after the show, Doc Amann asked me if I wanted to meet him out for a drink, since his girlfriend lived in town and knew a good spot across the street from the arena. I was still in my ring gear (even though I’d finished my match hours earlier) and told him I’d catch up with him later. I’m really lazy when it comes to taking off my stuff, and I wish there was a pill I could take that would make the sweaty spandex slide off on its own, or that I had a young Japanese boy to take off my stuff and then wash my back in the shower. That’s my definition of making it, fearless readers, but alas, since we weren’t in Japan, I had to take off my own gear and wash my own back (#wrestlerproblems). But just because I didn’t have someone to soap me down and help me feel fresh, that didn’t mean Zack Ryder had to go without.

  He was wandering around the locker room, looking for someone to Nair his back, so I stepped in, spread the luxurious lather on his lats, and shaved away. A few minutes later, his unwanted hairs were history, so I put on my short shorts and disappeared into the night.

  I decided to drop by to see Doc for one drink but no more, as I had a four-hour drive to Atlanta for SmackDown and wanted to have a quiet night. I saw the bar across the street and stopped at an intersection next to a guy who looked vaguely familiar. I was pretty sure I hadn’t met him before but after a few seconds, it hit me: He was one of the guitar players from Lynyrd Skynyrd who was on the cover of the Guitar World magazine I’d been reading earlier.

  “Excuse me, aren’t you in Lynyrd Skynyrd?” I said, paraphrasing the question I’d been asked a thousand times.

  Mark Matejka smiled and confirmed that he was. I told him I’d just been reading about him, and we started talking. Turned out Skynyrd had a few days off and he had nothing going on that evening, so I asked him if he wanted to hang with me.

  The Skynyrd guys are longtime wrestling fans and I’m a longtime Skynryd fan, so we had a lot in common right off the bat. When we got inside the saloon, I was telling him one of my favorite memories, of me, Dean, Chavo Jr, Eddy, and Benoit going to see them in Sturgis the night before a WCW PPV many years earlier. Meanwhile, the singer from the saloon’s band recognized Mark and invited him onstage to jam. He sat in on a few blues tunes and then did “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey (more on this EVIL song later). Then Mark motioned me over like he was David St. Hubbins and I was Nigel Tufnel, and a few seconds later I was singing Journey’s biggest song with the guitar player from Skynyrd. The heads of classic rock DJs all over the country exploded.

  When the tune ended, we got more “Freebird” chants than Michael Hayes, but my work was done and I left the stage. I ordered a drink and noticed another one of the signs on the wall that I’d been seeing around town all day: NASHVILLE WELCOMES THE NATIONAL CONVENTION OF THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF AMERICA. Quite the coincidence since I’d been talking to R-Truth earlier about the Little People of Canada.

  As if on cue, I felt a tug on my leg and looked down into the face of Tanya Davis . . . who I hadn’
t seen since Westwood Collegiate in 1988 and who I’d just been talking about hours earlier. What the hell was up with this day?! I wished Paul McCartney had been on the cover of Guitar World and that I’d been talking about Roxanne Falk, the hottest girl in my high school, instead.

  I gave Tanya a hug and after catching up on our families and successes, she said, “You have to come meet my friends!” She introduced me to another ragtag group of little people who, I hoped, weren’t avid watchers of Raw and seeking revenge on Big Show and me. Thankfully, they didn’t want vengeance, just alcohol, and ordered a tray of shots. At this point I gave up on my plans for a quiet night, got down on my knees, and downed a lemon drop.

  These people might have been small, but their drinking abilities were BIG and it wasn’t long before I was on my knees with my new friends (including Mark) linked arm in arm, singing a reprise of “Don’t Stop Believin’” (there’s that EVIL song again) until five A.M. as the janitors mopped the floor around us.

  Quiet night indeed.

  Glorified Rental Car Shuttle

  We were in the midst of another European tour and had just finished a show in Zurich in front of one of the worst crowds I’d ever experienced. They had been silent for the entire night, seemingly with zero interest in the matches they’d paid to see. In my mind, they were all members of the cast of Sprockets, wearing black bodysuits with berets on their heads (similar to Wallass’s Abbey Road ensemble), commenting in an accented sardonic tone, “Vat is vit all ze slamming and ze jumping? Ve just vant to see ze DAHNCING!” It was so bad that in the middle of my three-way match with Edge and Jack Swagger, I grabbed the mic and asked, “Are you people even alive? Should we just start dancing?” There was still no reaction, so we did the finish and got the hell out.

  At least my analogy got a big pop backstage, especially from Kane, who came back from his match still laughing while imagining five thousand Dieters in the crowd doing the salmon spawning dance.