The Hardcore Diaries

by Foley, Mick

  Herma Grace

  Trish Stratus, a longtime WWE Diva, is among my best friends in the wrestling business. So when Trish sat down at my table at the Philippines Air lounge, she seemed like the perfect person to ask a question I had asked myself many times before: “Does it seem weird that one of my biggest inspirations is a little girl in the Philippines whom I have never met or talked to?” I then told her about Herma Grace, who refers to me as “Dad” and who has become a beloved part of the extended Foley family.

  Herma Grace is a child I have sponsored through Christian Children’s Fund for the past five years. I first began my affiliation with CCF back in 1992, a time when I was too caught up with WCW wrestling and first-time fatherhood to really commit much time to thinking about others, no matter what their situation might be.

  I really can’t remember why I called CCF. I imagine it was one of those Sally Struthers appeals that I had seen literally hundreds of times, but I’m not sure. A few days later, a letter came in the mail that included a photo of a child, Nida, age nine, who was in need of sponsorship. Well, my life may have revolved around wrestling and family, but I was not completely without a conscience, either. So I wrote that first small check fourteen years ago.

  Nida wrote to me almost every month for nine years. I think I wrote to her a total of five times. I didn’t realize at the time that the CCF sponsorship program is about so much more than writing monthly checks. It’s about establishing relationships with children in need. It’s about letting children with very little in their lives—through no fault of their own—know that someone out there cares.

  Christian Children’s Fund has been caring about these kids since its inception in 1938—now assisting more than 10 million children in thirty-three countries regardless of race, religion, or gender. In addition to monthly sponsorships, CCF’s donations support literacy training, vocational training, health and immunization programs, water and sanitation development, early childhood development, and emergency relief.

  The mysterious missing piglet photo.

  Courtesy of the Foley family.

  Unfortunately, they can’t force a grown man to write letters. So one day, I received a letter informing me that Nida had turned eighteen and had graduated from the sponsorship program. Included in the letter was a photo of another girl, nine years old, from the same part of the Philippines, who was in need of a sponsor.

  She was a tiny thing with big brown eyes filled with sadness. Never would I have guessed that the child in the photo would touch my heart, give me such joy, and perhaps most importantly have the deceptive strength needed to unbolt the Foley checkbook and turn those small checks into larger ones.

  Herma’s first letter to me started a small stir in the family, instigating an event I will call “The Case of the Missing Piglet Photo.” The photo in question was Herma, age nine, bathing a piglet. On the back she had written, “Take this photo as a simple remembrance of me.” Vowing to be a better sponsor the second time around, I taped the photo to the refrigerator. It was missing a day later. Had it fallen off, or had it been stolen? But who would steal a photo of a tiny child…and why?

  Maybe I should have been a detective, for when asking my kids if they had seen the photo, I couldn’t help but notice a slightly odd look on my daughter Noelle’s face; a guilty look. Noelle, it turns out, had taken Herma’s photo because she had referred to me as “Dad” in her letter. Noelle, seven at the time, was suffering through her first bout of jealousy. To this day, the Case of the Missing Piglet Photo remains a touchy subject in our home.

  Despite having vowed to be a better sponsor, I quickly slid back into my non-letter-writing way. It may surprise people to know that despite writing towering best sellers (as well as a few that didn’t loom quite so large on the sales chart), I am a notoriously sluggish letter writer. I don’t write often, and when I do, it’s not all that good.

  Well, over the course of the next several months, Herma Grace made it clear to me that not writing was not an option.

  “Dad, why don’t you write to me?”

  “Dad, it’s been four months since I have heard from you!”

  “Dad, how could you lose to Tiger Ali Singh in Kuwait?”

  Okay, I made that last one up.

  So I started writing steadily, and I found that corresponding with this child, who came from so little, was giving me so much. For anyone who hasn’t received a letter from a child asking God to “shower you with more blessings, give you better health and a harmonious family life,” my next statement might seem unrealistic, like a big exaggeration, but it’s not. Because in my life, I have known what it’s like to hear twenty thousand people chant my name: “Foley, Foley, Foley, Foley!” I also know what it’s like to have a child I’ve never met draw me a picture of Mickey Mouse and thank me for “being kindhearted and generous to people in need.” Please trust me when I say the feelings I get from each are almost identical.

  Little Mick is featured in this photo album, which was created by Herma Grace.

  Courtesy of the Foley family.

  I’m not downplaying the incredible rush that I get from a live crowd; I’m just trying to explain how this child’s letters make me feel and how thankful I am that she has been a part of my life.

  She is no longer a little child. I received a photo several months ago, and Herma Grace, soon to be fourteen, is turning into a beautiful young lady. About a year ago, I began to look into the possibility of visiting Herma in the Philippines. Unfortunately, her province is home to much conflict, including sporadic violence and the occasional kidnapping of foreign tourists. It is not a place CCF feels comfortable taking their donors for a visit. Instead, they suggested arranging a meeting in Manila.

  I had been debating the “sixty hours by plane” for several months when the phone call from WWE came. Keep in mind that I had been more or less retired for six years, and during that time, I had never been asked to participate in an overseas trip. (Okay, I was on a one-day trip to England when I was commissioner, but I’m not counting that one.) Let’s just say it was unusual to receive such a call.

  “We have a couple of trips you might be interested in,” Ann Gordon said. Ann has been working at WWE Talent Relations since sometime before the dawn of history, and she told me the first trip would go to Bangkok, Thailand, and Japan.

  “Hmmm,” I said, trying to figure out how to put my next thoughts into words befitting a seasoned wordsmith.

  “Um, do you think if I went over there that I could, maybe, you know, get my own flight to the Philippines? Because I sponsor a girl there who I would really like to see.”

  Ann actually started laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Well,” she said. “The Philippines is the next trip I’m going to ask you about.”

  So, here I am on Philippines Air Flight 103, an hour before touching down in Manila. I think about this child I never met or spoke to, realizing that fact is about to change. I made sure that her entire family (mom, dad, two brothers, and two sisters) will be there, as I would hate for this special meeting to be a cause for resentment among her siblings.

  A month earlier, I had completed an exhausting four-day whirlwind promotional tour of Manila. Before leaving for the tour, I asked Christian Children’s Fund if it would be okay to mention the child and the fund, as they were the sole reasons I was going on the trip. I had even pledged to donate the money I made on the two trips to CCF projects in the Philippines.

  I don’t even pretend to understand how my mind works when it comes to finances and what constitutes acceptable and unacceptable expenditures. Will I spend $70 for a hotel if the wake-up call is less than four hours away? No way. It’s off to the airport for me. But will I travel a total of 120 hours and spend several days 10,000 miles from home for free? Yeah, if I feel strongly about the cause. And I do feel strongly about this cause. And to my surprise, CCF felt strongly about letting me tell the story—my story, and theirs.

&n
bsp; Philanthropic organizations can be a little funny when it comes to wrestling. Some, such as Make-A-Wish and the Muscular Dystrophy Association, openly embrace us. Some choose to keep their distance or avoid any relationship at all. I will always be grateful to CCF for accepting me and embracing me—even referring to me as an unofficial ambassador in one of our correspondences.

  I’m not sure why it took me so long to make that call back in 1992—why it took hundreds of appeals like tiny hammers tapping away at my conscience until I finally picked up that phone. I think perhaps it’s because global poverty can seem so intimidating as to appear insurmountable. But for CCF and groups like them, successes are measured one child at a time.

  Helping Herma Grace and getting to know her through her letters has been not only a joy, but one of the great honors of my life. And that honor costs less than a dollar a day. I would consider it an honor if anyone reading this would even think about sponsorships as a result of my words.

  Here is the contact info:

  Christian Children’s Fund Official Web site:

  www.christianchildrensfund.org/sponsorship

  Phone: 1-800-776-6767

  Tell them Mick Foley sent you.

  May 13, 2006

  10:25P .M.—Long Island, NY

  Dear Hardcore Diary,

  The Wexlers just left, following a successful night of SmackDown! and pizza at the Foley house. Mr. Wexler had to actually carry Stephen out of the car and into the house, a fact that has become increasingly necessary over the course of the last year and a half. Despite the tough breaks he has had to endure, I’ve never seen Stephen when he wasn’t smiling, which leaves me feeling like I should be smacked around by a couple of Stone Cold comeback punches the next time I have the nerve to complain about anything. Except for people who mess around with my ECW One Night Stand ideas. I reserve the right to complain about that.

  Increasingly, I feel like I may have been dealt an unlikely favor when the “Kiss My Ass Club” segment was shelved. Sure, it would have been one of the all-time great episodes in Raw history and would have instantly made Terry Funk a name to contend with, but with Mr. McMahon involved, the possibility of turning a serious angle into an over-the-top comedy routine was a strong one. Which is not really a knock on Vince so much as a lack of foresight on my part. I can rattle off a long list of Mr. McMahon’s best attributes, but a sense of subtlety wouldn’t be up there. For this thing to succeed—and there’s no guarantee it will—we’re going to be dealing with various shades of gray. Had Vince been involved, it very well could have been too black and white.

  It’s not an easy path by any means. I will need to be vehemently pro-WWE while still remaining vaguely fan-friendly. Edge will be vehemently pro-WWE, while professing an open hatred for the fans. The Funker and Tommy Dreamer may very well find themselves swimming against a tide of apathy for a while, although I can’t help but believe that Terry Funk’s WWE return on Monday in Lubbock, Texas, only about eighty miles from his house in Amarillo, will be met with great enthusiasm.

  I just hope that they don’t try to script us. I understand the concept behind scripting interviews. It helps ensure that time considerations are not abandoned, and it gives the creative team some assurance that storylines are being followed and that the correct points are being made.

  At their best, these wrestling interviews, or promos, are a mesmerizing combination of emotion and instinct. The very best can go out to the ring armed only with a microphone, a few basic ideas, and a heartfelt belief in themselves. The words will come naturally if only the situation is right and the emotion is real.

  And if the situation isn’t right, and the emotion isn’t real? Well, then we fake it, depending on experience and a cache of clichés to carry us through. Sometimes they suck. Hence the need for scripting. But on Monday night I’ll be in that ring face-to-face with Terry Funk, the greatest wrestler I’ve ever seen—my mentor and friend. And deep down, I’ll want to show him that when I’m in my groove, I’m as good with a mike as anyone. And deep down, he’ll want to show not only his Lubbock fans, but millions more around the world, why he’s even better than me. We both believe in ourselves, but more importantly, we both believe in each other. We each understand that it’s not really about him or me—it’s about us. We have the same goals—get people talking about One Night Stand. The situation will be right. The emotion will be real. We have the genuine ability to create magic on Monday. Please don’t hand us a script.

  And if they give us a script anyway? I say do what comes naturally and then blame Funk afterward. What are they going to do, fire him?

  I may do verbal battle with Paul Heyman the following week in Las Vegas. In which case, I’ll just say reread the last two paragraphs and apply all the same principles to Paul E. He’s one of the greatest promo men in the history of our business, and better yet, he lives, eats, and breathes ECW. He knows he’ll be fighting for ECW’s very existence out there, and will have a deep belief in every word he says. And I’ll believe in everything I say. And better yet, I’ll go out to that ring believing it was Paul E. who called me a whore. Vince, please do yourself and your shareholders a favor—don’t hand me a script. Let us make some magic.

  I think there is an even bigger long-term danger to the scripting process. It eliminates the need for a wrestler to think for himself. I will admit that some of my best lines have been written for me. Hey, Tom Hanks has a couple of little golden men on his mantel, thanks to saying scripted lines, and I’m pretty sure DeNiro didn’t ad lib most of Raging Bull. So I’m not ashamed to admit that not all of my material has been my own.

  Luckily, most of the scripted lines came later in my career, when Mankind became something of a comedy character, and Commissioner Foley regularly held court in center ring with a cast of thousands. Well, maybe not thousands, but you get my drift.

  But that was fourteen years into my career, when I had already been thinking for myself through the course of hundreds of interviews. And it seems like I was always thinking. Much to the chagrin of my wife, I was obsessed with those damn promos. She would see me staring into space, one eye twitching, right hand shaking, and she would know I had just ventured into Promoland. Sure, I’d return once in a while to pay a few bills or conceive a child, but for many years, I was only an occasional inhabitant of the real world.

  Many of today’s WWE Superstars have never even seen Promoland, let alone taken up residence there. They’ve had no reason to. It’s almost like a defunct mom-and-pop amusement park, made obsolete by the advent of computer technology. But just as there will always be a place for the classic out-and-back wooden roller coaster in today’s world of high-tech, big-dollar thrill rides, there will always be a place for the heartfelt promo in today’s tightly scripted sports entertainment environment.

  I spent quite a bit of time in Promoland today. Physically, I may have been elsewhere—throwing junk from my garage into a rented Dumpster, hitting the gym, buying authentic German cold cuts for Mother’s Day. But mentally, I spent most of my day at the old park, hearing lines in my mind, squinting an eye, shaking a hand.

  I bounded in my front door around sixP .M., soaked in sweat, drenched with excitement.

  “Colette, Colette!” I called.

  My wife met me at the stairs, rushing to my needs as if I was Hughie with a boo-boo. “What’s wrong, Mick?”

  “Listen to this promo idea.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, there’s this scene in my last book where Scooter is having the gash on his cheek stitched by his mother.”

  Courtesy of the Foley family.

  “Okay.” I love my wife, but like most people, she doesn’t actually read my novels, so I had to kind of spell it out for her.

  “Well, while she’s stitching him up, he comes to find out that his mother never told him that the girl across the street used to try and visit him when he was injured years earlier. [His father accidentally shot him.] He says ‘Mom, did Nina ever come by when I w
as hurt?’ She says, ‘Oh, that Spanish girl?’ Even though Nina was Puerto Rican.

  “Well, when Scooter finds out that his one real friendship was sabotaged by his mother, and that she also hocked his grandfather’s engagement ring, he ends up pulling away from his mother before the stitches are done, leaving the needle hanging from its thread, swinging back and forth across his face.”

  Colette’s look of mild uneasiness was vivid proof that my visit to Promoland was time well spent. “What does this have to do with you, Mick?” she said.

  “That’s how I want to do my promo.”

  Colette stared at me with a mixture of shock and intrigue.

  “I’ll have Funk hardway my eye. We’ll go to the trainer’s room, and I will actually do the promo while I’m being stitched. It’s never been done before.” Who knows, maybe it has, but I’m on a roll here.

  “Then, when I really start getting into it, I’ll tell the doctor to leave me the hell alone, pull away from him and do the rest of the promo in close-up, making sure I move my head around a little so that the needle can swing back and forth, like a pendulum. Then, if I feel like it, I’ll give the thread a real good tug and undo all those stitches.”

  With that, Colette jumped into my arms and we made passionate, hardcore love right there on the stairs. Okay, so I made that last part up. Besides, there’s no S-E-X allowed in Promoland. It’s a family place.