by Foley, Mick
My choice in cool words? “Hey, Brian, how does it feel to be a member of my posse?” Oh yeah, great, Mick, that was really cool, you’re a real modern-day Fonz. A member of my posse? What was I thinking?
Brian mumbled an unenthusiastic response, and I went back to watching the warm-ups. Maybe there’d be a fight or two so I could make a smooth transition from real fights to my fights; a way to bring it all back around to my comfort zone.
But Brian had a question. “Mick?” he asked shyly.
“Yeah, Brian?”
“Am I really a member of your posse?”
Holy crap, he thought it was a cool question. Which meant, yes, that I was cool for saying it.
I looked Brian in the eye, my confidence suddenly returning. “You better believe you are, Brian,” I said. “You better believe you are.”
Now, what I didn’t tell Brian is that I didn’t actually have a posse; that by process of elimination he was the sole member of the Mick Foley posse. With thoughts of Good Grief in mind, I decided to use this opportunity to actually venture outside my comfort zone; to ask an important question that didn’t involve the WWE.
I said, “Brian, how do you feel about this operation you’ve got coming up this week?”
Brian paused for just a moment, then proceeded to confide in me, telling me all about his fears, hopes, and dreams. Finally, he said, “It’s just too bad I’ve already had my wish, or else maybe some Islanders could visit me in the hospital.”
I thought I had an answer. “You know, Brian, I work with this one group [the Marty Lyons Foundation] that sometimes grants second wishes.”
Don’t get me wrong, a wish granted through Make-A-Wish or other groups can be invaluable in lifting the spirits of children and their parents. I’ve known many children who cherish the memories of these granted wishes, and always consider the chance to look through family photos of these trips as a special honor. It’s amazing how often the memories involve Give Kids the World, a special village unto itself in Kissimee, Florida, that serves as a home base for “wish” families as they visit the great destinations (Disney, Sea World, Universal) the Orlando area has to offer.
But for a family facing a serious long-term health condition, a wish granted at age four can seem like an eternity ago as that same child reaches his teens. For those families, a “second wish” can seem like a godsend.
It certainly seemed like one for Brian, as he looked up toward the nose-bleed seats in Nassau, seemingly staring off into space. “I’d like to meet Metallica,” he said, almost in a whisper.
“Really,” I said. “Is that the type of music you like?” I had no idea. Although I’d been to the house on many occasions, I didn’t have a clue as to what his interests were, outside of WWE. By the way, Brian likes what I did to Tommy Dreamer and Terry Funk. He thinks I make a better bad guy.
“Yeah,” Brian said.
“You like heavy metal?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you like Twisted Sister?”
“Do you know Dee Snider?” Brian yelled. I don’t really know what prompted that sudden question. I guess Brian knew that Dee, lead singer of the classic 1980s band that belted out such rock radio staples as “We’re Not Gonna Take it” and “I Wanna Rock,” was another Long Island guy, and that it was not outside the realm of possibility that I might know him.
Now, during the course of my career in wrestling, I have had occasion to meet many famous people. And in truth, if I talk to any of them for longer than ten seconds, I consider them my friend. Like Katie Couric. I’ve been on the show, she held my baby. She’s a friend. But I’ve got a shocking confession to make—she’s not my friend. Not really. Which doesn’t mean that we couldn’t be friends sometime. If we, you know, spent some time together, maybe talked a little more, maybe a phone call, or…Oh sorry, where the hell was I?
My high school wrestling team photo. That’s Kevin James to my right.
Courtesy of the Foley family.
Oh, yeah, real friends. The truth is, I only have three famous real friends. Sarah Hughes is one. Kevin James, “the King of Queens,” is another. Kevin went to both high school and college with me—we were even on the high school wrestling team together—and we still talk every few years. He even called me up onstage last year and gave me a big public hug, then ridiculed me about my fashion sense once I sat down.
My other real friend? You got it—Dee Snider, one of the great bad boys of rock and roll. But in addition to being a bad boy, he’s a great guy, and over the last five years he’s become a good friend.
So I told Brian that, yes, I knew Dee Snider, and I’d ask Dee if he could possibly give him a quick phone call while Brian was laid up in the hospital recovering from surgery.
With the hockey game over, our big date finished, we waited for Brian’s dad to show up with the van. Once inside, Brian shared the new information with his father, saying, “Dad, Mick knows Dee Snider.”
“You know Dee Snider?” his father yelled, displaying a type of enthusiasm rare for grown men who aren’t either at a football game or institutionalized. Brian’s dad was neither. He was simply a huge fan who had come of age while following the band around the prefame seventies club dates of their Long Island stronghold. Things were different then, before the drinking age hit twenty-one and teens were entirely shut out of the club world. It used to be a rock-and-roll band could cut their teeth in the clubs and show up on the big stage of national exposure as a polished, finished product.
These days, big pop stars like Jennifer Lopez have TV specials touting their first-ever concert. But I guess, like all things in life, there is yet another parallel to be drawn from the world of pro wrestling. In the old days, guys who worked the old regional territories could hone their craft for years, and when given the opportunity could show up on the national stages of NWA (later WCW) or WWE as polished workers. Hell, I’d been in the business for eleven years before I finally got the call from J.R.
In today’s WWE, talent is often brought up before they’ve really had the chance to mature as performers. I don’t begrudge any of them for anything they’re given, but I’m glad it took me a long time. I was given a chance in WWE, and I was able to make the most of it, largely due to the poise and experience I’d developed along the way.
Any good athlete can be taught the moves. But you can’t teach poise. You can’t teach experience. And you can’t teach passion.
Back to Dee. Sure, a phone call would have been good, but as far as I was concerned, for Brian Hopkins, good wasn’t good enough. I gave Dee a phone call. Because as it turned out, Dee owed me a favor. And it wasn’t a “Could you pick up a dozen eggs at the Dairy Barn?” type of favor. It was, “Could you drive eight hours round-trip and do my radio show for four hours for free while I play myself in a VH-1 movie about the Senate obscenity hearings of 1985?” type of favor. I decided to call it in.
We made quite an impression upon entering the hospital. Dee had his long blond hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore a knee-length black leather duster, snakeskin boots that went up to his knees, and a pair of black leather pants that I wouldn’t be caught dead in. Even if you didn’t know who he was, you knew he was somebody. I, on the other hand, could have easily been mistaken for the plumber. Red and black flannel, sweats, sneakers.
As we neared Brian’s room, I told Dee to hang outside in the hallway for a minute. I figured I was kind of like the hors d’oeuvre, Dee was the main course. I didn’t want to ruin the meal by serving up both dishes at once.
Brian was happy to see me, despite the considerable pain he seemed to be in. But let’s face it—I was old news. I guess the first time he met me, he was thrilled and then the excitement started to wane. I was no longer a really big deal. I was just a friend who happened to have his own action figure.
Brian couldn’t hide his disappointment when he said, “I was kind of hoping Dee would call.”
Courtesy of Dee Snider.
“Well,” I said, “you
know Dee’s been really busy. They’re getting the band back together for a USO tour in Korea.”
“I guess,” Brian said.
Hell, I couldn’t make the poor kid wait any longer. It would be tantamount to torture. So I excused myself, saying something about having forgotten something in the hallway.
“Oh…my…God!” Brian said when I returned, upon seeing just what it was I’d forgotten. “It’s Dee Snider.”
Over the last twenty years, I’ve been involved in some pretty good entrance reactions. But this was among the finest for me, because even though Dee was the recipient of the adulation, I felt responsible for its existence.
Dee sat down at Brian’s bedside and proceeded to talk for an hour, maybe more, about the glory days of Twisted Sister; the music, the videos, the lawsuits, the verbal smackdown of Tipper Gore.
He wasn’t just going through the motions, showing up because it was in his contract, like that guy in the ESPN series Playmakers, who swiped kids’ pain medication while he was in their room. I heard a rumor that Rush Limbaugh used to pull the same sleight of hand when he visited hospitals to brighten the spirits of young bedridden conservatives. Just kidding—I doubt Rush Limbaugh visits kids in the hospital.
Dee and I headed home, stopping first at his favorite bakery so he could arrive with warm fresh muffins for the hungry Snider clan. I pulled up the drive and stopped the car, and Dee playfully punched me on the shoulder, saying, “Thanks a lot, man,” before getting out. But as I backed out of the drive, I saw Dee stop and put his arm out, signaling me not to leave just quite yet. I rolled down the window as he slowly approached. Actually, I just pushed a button and the window went down, but I think you get the point. Once at the door’s side, looking into the window, Dee seemed somehow different. A man who usually exuded self-confidence seemed to be uncomfortable, almost shy, as he struggled for words.
“I just want to thank you,” he finally said. “For helping to make me a better man.”
As I drove home, reliving the day’s events in my mind, I realized the significance of Dee’s words. After all, I was no longer just a three-time WWE Champion. I was no longer just a two-time New York Times best-selling author. No longer was I just a guy who’d been interviewed—twice—by Katie Couric. Now, in addition to those previous accolades, I will forever proudly consider myself to be the guy who made Dee Snider a better man.
May 23, 2006
12:08A .M. West Coast time—
Pasadena, CA
Dear Hardcore Diary,
I pulled into an Extended Stay America about half an hour ago, and after discovering that the air-conditioning wasn’t working in the first room, and finding out my key didn’t open the door of my second room, I finally settled into a semi-comfortable room that may or may not be my home for the next three nights. I say “may” because basically the chair at the tiny desk makes my orange Worcester Centrum folding chair seem like a king’s throne, and I just don’t know if putting my 315-pound body on it for extended periods of writing seems like the wisest idea.
The next two days are designated writing days. I’d like to put in a minimum of ten hours a day into the writing, pausing only to eat, sleep, and work out. I’m determined to have Hardcore Diaries finished by a day or two after the One Night Stand show, but I have to continue to work out, so as not to have a cardiovascular debacle to write about. I worry that everything will fall into place except my conditioning, causing the Diaries to fall victim to a flat ending.
Because, let’s face it—we need a hell of a match to really make the book. Otherwise, it’s like Ralphie not getting the Red Ryder BB gun on Christmas morning, or Rocky losing the big fight to Creed. Wait a second, he did lose that fight. But at least he didn’t gas out and stink the place up. At least he still had the energy to call out for his pet-shop girlfriend, even while the judge’s scorecards were determining his fate.
But honestly, even if my conditioning is not what it should be, we’ll probably have enough bells, whistles, and extracurricular activity to put on a good show at One Night Stand. Plus, the atmosphere should be unbelievable. But I’ve just been asked (yesterday) about my feelings on wrestling Ric Flair at Vengeance only two weeks later.
I’m not against it on principle, as I was two years ago following the publication of his book, which wasn’t exactly a glowing testimonial to the hardcore legend. But I am worried about how my body will react to the rigors of the ECW show, and how quickly I’ll be able to bounce back for the fast-moving, intense matchup that the Flair match really needs to be.
I’ve found that it’s really tough to simulate an in-ring pace with any piece of cardio equipment; it’s just a completely different feeling. I pretty much told Gewirtz and Michael Hayes that I’d probably be limited to tag teams or hardcore-type matches, which are easier for me to set the pace on. But this proposed Flair match does make sense, especially if he decides to get involved in our match at One Night Stand.
Vengeanceis in Charlotte, Flair’s hometown, where he’s like the unofficial mayor. So it should be another great atmosphere, provided, of course, that I don’t use up all the oxygen in the building. And provided that my knee holds out. Right now, it feels like it’s hanging on by a thread. I’m pretty sure it’s the left posterior cruciate ligament. I had the right one replaced with a cadaver (dead person) tendon back in ’92, but it tore again in 2004 following the Backlash match with Randy Orton. Injuries to the posterior ligament are rare, so I could be something of a medical marvel should I be without both of them.
I’ve got an MRI scheduled in a couple of days in L.A., which should help me figure out which plan of action to take for conditioning and match preparation. The pain has been getting gradually worse, to the point just getting into and out of the car is a considerable struggle.
It looks like Melina will be coming over to Raw, following her SmackDown! “firing” by general manager Theodore Long at last night’s Judgment Day Pay-Per-View. I wish I knew more. Hopefully she’ll be coming with Nitro & Mercury, her tag team, as one of them (Nitro) is her boyfriend. Should she arrive solo, I’d feel greatly responsible for the breakup of the team, as I can’t help but feel it was my proposed scenario that led to the Judgment Day results. I don’t want to break up a team or put strain on a relationship, no matter how good an idea I have.
Relationships within wrestling are rough—the success ratio is not encouraging. I had a failed one of my own back in 1988, with a wrestler twelve years my senior. She’d wrestled all over the world, and was far more accomplished than I was—a fact that dipped into my already shallow supply of self-confidence. As a result, I was pretty miserable for most of our two months together, although I must confess to reacting quite favorably to my initiation into the world of dirty talking—a dish she served up quite nicely with her sexy Australian accent and imaginative choice of words.
May 23, 2006
9:40A .M.—Pasadena, CA
Dear Hardcore Diary,
Well, I called several of the hotels in the area, and they are all sold out, so I may end up checking out and moving out of Pasadena, somewhere closer to Glendale, where the upcoming Christy Canyon interview will take place. As you could probably guess, Colette is not exactly thrilled with the prospect of that one.
Last night’s Raw went very well, although it didn’t feature the definitive Paul E./Mick Foley verbal toe-to-toe I had been anticipating. Which is probably good, because last night’s segment did an excellent job of setting up the actual match, and left the Vegas crowd awash in an enthusiastic chorus of ECW chants.
Much to my surprise, I’m actually a bad guy now. I had assumed that some people would boo me, but figured my ultra loyalty to WWE would keep people on my side for a while. Sure, some of the fans were cheering, and there was a subdued but noticeable “Foley” chant when I came out, but I guess I need to accept that I am now a wrestling heel—at least for a while. The truth is, I could probably take my six months off after SummerSlam and return to a babyface reacti
on, as if nothing had ever happened. After all, guys like Undertaker have been heavy heels, and come back after extended breaks to huge babyface reactions. But for the sake of successful storytelling, I want to have a sense of cohesion and logic to my departure and eventual return. And hey, if the return can generate interest in this book, then so be it.
Extended Stay America was nice enough to bring me a padded office chair, so it looks like I’ll be staying a while. The poor chair—it’s about to become better acquainted with my ass than anything, living or material, really deserves to. Maybe it’s not the rustic log cabin where so many writers seem to do their best work, but then again, it’s not an airplane or the front seat of a broken-down car, where I wrote part of the Uncle Dee chapter.
Unlike last week, I don’t have a videotape handy to offer word-for-word promo analysis. Besides, this was a very good but not historic or particularly emotional promo, and I don’t want to get so in-depth all the time that you guys are actually skipping over these “promo” entries in order to get to more Diva stories. Still, it was a very good segment, and an integral piece of the bigger puzzle, so utilizing the powers of recall that hundreds of chair shots haven’t yet stolen, here’s what went down last night, right there in Las Vegas.
Oddly, I didn’t show up at the Thomas and Mack Center raring to go. This West Coast Raw still throws me off. It just doesn’t seem right to go live in the middle of daylight. It had been a few days since I’d spent any substantial time in Promoland, and I’d already let the image of the “hardway promo” drift from my mind, accepting, I guess, that it just wasn’t going to happen this time around. Besides, trying to tie the eye injury into SummerSlam, as I hope to do, is a bit of a stretch. Three months is an awful long amount of lead time for what I have planned. Maybe a hardway at One Night Stand would work better, as it could be seen in all its gory glory the following night on Raw, allowing it to become part of the Flair match buildup, before continuing on to SummerSlam.
