“This is Nee-Yo and Tee-Yo!”
I shook hands and gave the fake Hollywood hug to both, but while Nee-Yo seemed nice enough, Tee-Yo just there stood stone-faced. There wasn’t a lot of room to move, so I thought I’d try to alleviate the awkwardness by striking up a conversation.
“So do you guys have any shows coming up?” I yelled in Tee-Yo’s face over the music.
“Huh?” he yelled back with a confused look.
Wow, this music was loud.
“DO YOU GUYS HAVE ANY SHOWS COMING UP?” I screamed into his ear.
“Nah, man, not really.”
“OH, ARE YOU WORKING ON A NEW ALBUM, THEN?”
Tee-Yo looked at me like I was speaking Bocci and shouldered his way to the other side of the VIP area.
Brian came over and I told him how I’d just been blown off. “That Tee-Yo guy is a real jerk.”
Brian asked me why and I told him, “Because when I asked him if he was going on tour or doing a new record, he just ignored me and walked away.”
“Why would he be doing a new record?” Brian asked quizzically.
“Duh, because he’s a rapper.”
“He’s not a rapper, he’s a football player! That’s T.O.”
The guy was Terrell Owens, the three-time NFL Pro Bowl wide receiver, not Tee-Yo or, more specifically, T.I., the three-time Grammy winner I’d mistaken him for.
It’s official. I am the #WorstFootballAndRapFanEver.
Buddy Peacock
Vince decided he wanted to put some of the younger talent languishing down in the developmental territory in Tampa on TV, quick, so he devised the idea of pairing some of the new guys with established veterans in a pseudo reality show called NXT. If he was playing Wheel of Fortune he would’ve needed to buy a vowel for NXT, but he liked the cutting-edge froot factor of spelling it wrong. He also liked the idea of having me involved as one of the vets.
I balked at the idea as I didn’t think the Chris Jericho character would care enough about anybody else to be their mentor. I also had no desire to increase my schedule, since I was already working four shows a week. Now with the NXT taping, I’d have to do five shows a week, not something that I saw in the cards. I talked it over with CM Punk, who’d also been asked to do the show and hated the whole idea as well. We decided we’d go to Vince separately so he wouldn’t feel like we were ganging up on him (you never got what you wanted that way) and try to talk him out of selecting us.
When I told Vince my concerns, he smiled and told me he wanted the show to be a hit and needed my “star power.” He also promised me I wouldn’t have to work every Tuesday (I pretty much did anyway) and wouldn’t have to do much on the show (which he was right about). Bottom line was he pulled his Jedi mind trick once again and I left the office feeling happy about doing NXT instead of hating the whole concept. Not sure how he always did that, but he did.
The following Tuesday, the seven NXT rookies were at ringside all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, shaking hands and minding their manners. I’d been told my protégé was one Wade Barrett, a name I didn’t recognize. I kept waiting to hear the name as the guys introduced themselves to me one by one: Justin Gabriel, Darren Young, Heath Slater, most of whom I’d never met before. I had met Bryan Danielson, who’d already made a name for himself worldwide with his amazing skills, but he had been told to think of another name for his WWE debut. His original idea was Buddy Peacock, but he went with Daniel Bryan instead and I’d say that was the better choice.
A tall, tough-looking Englishman named Stu introduced himself and shook my hand, but I was too preoccupied with finding Wade Barrett and kind of blew him off. I couldn’t find him anywhere and was starting to get pissed off at the audacity of this guy making himself scarce on his first day of work. I asked Christian if he’d seen this Barrett character anywhere and he pointed at Stu, which was Wade’s real name.
After being properly introduced, the two of us made a pretty good team for NXT. There were a few other interesting duos, including Punk and Darren Young, Matt Hardy and Justin Gabriel, Christian and Heath Slater, and Miz and Daniel Bryan (a hilarious concept that drove the “smart fans” crazy, as Bryan was already a highly respected veteran on the indy scene), but it was obvious to me Barrett was the ringer. We did a great job of feeding off each other onscreen and developed a good chemistry fairly quickly.
My role on the show was a mix of mentoring Wade and critiquing the other rookies with the pros. We’d sit on the stage, watching them perform their various tasks, grading them on score sheets. The sheets were then collected and the scores tallied to see who won. But we soon found out that our opinions pretty much meant nothing, so after that, if anyone ever read our score sheets, they would’ve found tic-tac-toe games, lewd remarks, and drawings of my old friend Mr. Cock ’n’ Ballz.
I also had to wrestle on NXT once in a while, which I never wanted to do as I was in a bad mood from having to be there in the first place. Call time for TV days was usually two P.M., but I was getting there at five P.M. (or later) and didn’t care. I couldn’t be bothered getting there on time just to sit around all day doing nothing. On the days I did have to wrestle, it was a piece of piss to put together a short match against a guy with very little experience. I’d lay out the whole match and nobody had any better ideas anyway, except maybe Daniel Bryan, who I thought was excellent from the moment he walked into the WWE.
We wrestled each other on the very first NXT show, and even though we only had six minutes, it turned out pretty damn good, highlighted by Bryan overshooting me on a dive outside of the ring and slamming into the announce table at full speed. The wipeout looked vicious but because we were under a time constraint, I threw him right back inside and continued on like it didn’t happen instead of teasing a count-out or changing the finish all together. It still bugs me that I made the rookie mistake of following along with the script instead of capitalizing on the moment. But I chalked it up as a lesson learned.
Bryan was explosive in the ring and had such an ingratiating quality that the fans dug, I knew he would get over big as he’d done it many times before in Ring of Honor and New Japan. It was the same principle that explained how guys like Eddy, Benoit, Rey, and I got to World Champion status: Once you learned how to get over, you could do it anywhere, be it a Dome in Tokyo, Japan, or a community center in Beckley, West Virginia.
Daniel had already toured the world on his own and been successful at every level. But he went through the same trial by fire as I did and found out quickly that when you first come into the WWE, it doesn’t matter what you’ve accomplished elsewhere, you have to prove yourself from scratch. And at first it seemed that Vince didn’t care for Daniel Bryan.
Because he was a vegan.
“Ugh, what kind of a person doesn’t eat steak?” he once said to me in disgust.
So if you don’t eat meat, you’re obviously a jerk, right? That’s why Bryan’s first gimmick in the WWE was being a heel vegan. Also at first glance Daniel didn’t look like the typical WWE superstar. He wasn’t very tall, had an average look, and dressed like a hippie librarian. But he could wrestle like a motherfucker and knew how to connect with the crowd, which is why he’s a top star in the business today, with one of the most popular catchphrases in history. (Who would’ve guessed ten years ago that the two most used words by the WWE Universe in 2014 would be Yes and What?)
If Daniel Bryan was the best member of the NXT “rookie” squad, then Heath Slater was . . . ummm, not the best. . . . And I was shocked when I heard Vince wanted me to put him over in a nothing match.
I furiously paced the empty arena floor, wondering why the hell I was supposed to lose to this rookie? I didn’t want to be a part of this stupid NXT as it was, and now I was supposed to put over a young boy in his first match in the company? I was mad as hell and wasn’t going to take it anymore and when I saw Vince I was going to tell him so. But fa
te stepped in and, thankfully, I ran into Pat Patterson first.
“Pat, you gotta help me. I’m so fucking pissed off right now. . . . Vince wants me to put over Heath Slater!”
Pat looked at me calmly.
“So whats?”
“What do you mean ‘So what’?” I snapped back.
“So whats? Who care? It’s not like anybody is going to remember this match anyway. If you were a babyface, it mights make a difference, but you’re a heel, so go have funs with it!”
As much as I didn’t want to admit it, Pat was right. Stu Hart once told me that the biggest marks in the business were the boys themselves, and I was proving him right. I knew better than to care about wins and losses and they usually didn’t mean that much to me. Sure, if you’re losing every night, you’re not going to be around long, but if you have the ability to make the audience care about you and still win the big one from time to time, you’ll always have a great spot in the WWE and stay over with the audience. Even though I knew that, my pride still got in the way sometimes. But as Marsellus Wallace once said, “Fuck pride.”
It was my pride that caused me to flip out about losing to Slater, but the bottom line was it was my job to do what the boss wanted me to do and to make it great. That’s the nature of show business, not just in the WWE. I mean if Steven Spielberg cast me in Indiana Jones 5: The Search for Abner Ravenwood and my character was scripted to get shot in the ball bag in the first ten minutes, I couldn’t very well go complain and try to get it changed, now could I? If I did, he’d tell me to make like a tree and get out of there and cast my look-alike Jonah Hill in the part instead.
I’ve always compared being in the WWE to being on a good hockey team. Some nights you get thirty minutes of ice time and are expected to score the big goals, other nights you kill penalties or work the power play, and other nights you only play a few shifts a game. But if you don’t play your designated role properly and to the best of your abilities, your team will lose. If you kick ass at your position, no matter how big or small of a role it may be, your team will win.
I always wanted my WWE team to win, so that night I wrestled Heath Slater and put that dude over to the best of my abilities. He pinned me with a small package, much to the crowd’s delight, and left the ring with a huge win, while I left with more heat than I had before the match. Mission accomplished all across the board. Afterward I spoke to Vince about it and he reiterated Pat’s theory.
“I wanted this finish because it helps you. When he won, it put the spotlight on you, not him. They might not even remember his name after this, but they’ll remember the fact that you lost to a rookie and laugh at you for it. You’ll get more heat as a result. Do you get that?”
I did and it was refreshing to know that even after twenty years on the job, there were still lessons to be learned. That’s the way it should always be.
Nexus Knuckleheads
I got a call from Barry Bloom in May 2010 that ABC was looking for a host for their new prime-time game show Downfall. I was swamped working five days a week with the WWE, but I thought it would be a smart move to at least audition. I flew to L.A. and had a face-to-face meeting with the producers, who explained the rules of the game and what was expected of me.
Downfall was basically a quiz show with a unique twist, in that all of the prizes were on a giant conveyor belt on the rooftop of a downtown L.A. skyscraper. If you could answer the questions within a certain time, the belt would stop and you would keep the goods. But the longer you took to give an answer, the faster the belt moved, until the prizes tumbled over the edge of the building and crashed to the street hundreds of feet below. A little more complicated than, say, Deal or No Deal but an interesting idea all the same.
The producers seemed to like me and asked if I was interested in doing the show. I told them I was but didn’t really think it could happen due to my WWE schedule and never thought about it again. I didn’t bother telling Vince anything about the audition, as I didn’t want him getting involved and complicating matters like he had in the past when it came to his talent working outside projects. Besides, he’d never had a problem with me doing other things before and I figured if I actually got the job, I’d tell him then.
A few days later, on a Friday, I got a call from the producers, who asked if I could come in to audition again, this time for the ABC top brass. I’d made it to the final three and they wanted to see me in person in Los Angeles before the following Tuesday when they would make their decision. Problem was, I had NXT in Dallas that Tuesday and couldn’t miss it because it was the season finale, and the winner was going to be announced.
I was convinced Barrett was going to win, so there was no way I could get out of NXT, but I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to host a prime-time network TV game show. My chances of making it to Dallas for the show were slim, as there were no commercial flights that could get me in and out of L.A. on time. So I bit the bullet and arranged for a private jet to fly me Monday night after Raw in San Antonio to Los Angeles and then back to Dallas the following Tuesday afternoon. It was going to cost me fifteen grand, but that was a small price to pay if I got the job.
So after Raw I flew into L.A., grabbed a few hours of sleep, and headed over to ABC in the early morning for my audition. I got a quick debriefing from the producers explaining what they wanted from me (I saw the names Ian Ziering and Mario Lopez written on a manifest on the wall and assumed they were my competition), and was taken to a vacant rooftop. Then, in front of some of the most powerful people in television, I mimed and improv’d an imaginary episode of Downfall.
My Groundlings training was in full force that morning, as I described the expensive prizes that only I could see plunging off the imaginary conveyor belt. When I was done, I got a smattering of applause and everyone told me how great I was (typical Hollywood reaction). I thanked them and zipped back to the airport, where my jet took off at twelve thirty P.M. sharp. I landed in Dallas at five and weaved through rush-hour traffic to the American Airlines Arena, arriving just in time to get ready for NXT, which went live at seven P.M. One of the writers asked where I’d been all day and I said, “What do you mean? I’ve been here for hours hanging around in the stands.”
It was a good thing everything panned out travelwise, because Barrett was announced as the winner, and the show ended with the two of us in the ring celebrating.
I celebrated again a few days later when Barry told me I got the job as the host of Downfall, even though I still hadn’t told Vince that I was even up for it. When ABC placed a press release in Variety and The Hollywood Reporter, trumpeting the show and its new host, I thought it was awesome . . . until Barry called me in a panic.
“Stephanie just contacted me and said you’re not allowed to host Downfall. When Vince saw the press release, he flipped out and said under no circumstances are you to do the show.”
I was shocked. Obviously I had dropped the ball by not telling Vince about the gig, but this was a perfect chance for the WWE to get the mainstream coverage they craved, by having one of its top guys host a prime-time major network program. Not to mention I’d delivered it to him on a silver platter with no expense or effort on his part. Why would he forbid me to do it? It made no sense so I called him myself.
“Chris, I can’t allow you do this show. It sets a bad precedent if I let talent go find opportunities on their own. Also we have an agreement with NBC and if you do an ABC show, our investors will be asking why you’re not doing an NBC show.”
This was total bullshit, even though I knew I’d insulted him by not telling him I’d gotten the job in the first place. But it was always easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?
“Look, Vince, I’m sorry for not telling you about this, but if you look at the big picture, this is good for all of us. I got picked for this job over fifty other people with celebrity value. If this show hits, it could be a big thing for th
e WWE and for me.”
Vince refused to budge and reiterated that there was no chance in hell he was going to let me do the show.
That pissed me off.
“Vince, this is bullshit. You’re fucking with my future and you’re fucking with my family. I’m doing this show whether you like it or not.”
“If you do it, I’ll fire you on the spot.”
“I’ll quit first; my contract is almost up anyway.”
“You are really stupid if you do this.”
Now I really lost it.
“Stupid? All right, I’m going straight to the airport and chartering a plane to Connecticut so I can come over to your house and punch you in the face!” I screamed into the phone.
“I’ll give you my address!” he yelled back.
I hung up on him. I couldn’t believe things had come down to this, but I really felt he was screwing up a big chance for me. I went through my contract to try to figure out if he could sue me for quitting the company. I was poring through the various sections and subsections, when I heard the beep of an incoming e-mail from Vince.
“I hope you understand the reasons I can’t let you do this. However, we’re taping a film next month and I want you to star in it.”
Who the hell “tapes a film” in this day and age?
I didn’t understand Vince’s logic in offering me the starring role in a straight-to-DVD movie that would take me six weeks to film and be seen by a few hundred thousand people, yet refuse to allow me to host a prime-time TV show that would take me a week to film and be seen by millions.
The Best in the World Page 28
