by Mick Foley
Mrs. Betcher lived in a tiny house on a tiny street. Pittsburgh was in the middle of a heat wave, and the little Betcher house didn’t have air conditioning. And I didn’t have a room, so I slept on the pullout couch in the living room. As a result, Mrs. Betcher, who like many elderly people was an early riser, was treated to a regular morning view of my hot, sweaty, twenty-year-old body sprawled in her living room, attired in only my Fruit of the Looms. I guess even at 210 pounds (which I was down to due to a lack of food in my budget), I had a body that spanned all generations in its ability to turn off the female gender.
A few days later, a professional football player died of a drug overdose, which, combined with the oil spill the size of a nickel I left on her driveway, spelled trouble. I guess one of her friends got into her ear and convinced her that the football OD meant all athletes, including me, were drug users. Apparently, she felt strong enough about it to wake me up out of a near naked sleep to request my immediate departure from her humble abode. “Ricky [yes, even older women forgot my name], you’ve got to go right now,” she yelled, as she shook a feather duster for emphasis. Sadly, I left the little house, and went to the University of Pittsburgh, where for $25 a week I sublet a room in a house with two college students that I got along fine with. When I got to Clarksburg, West Virginia, on June 24, for my first battle royal (where all the guys are in the ring at the same time), I was ready.
I was feeling cool and confident when I got to Clarksburg. After all, how difficult could a battle royal be? I had seen them as a fan and also sat ringside at Tommy Dee’s shows, so I knew that there wasn’t a whole lot to them. This, I felt, would be a great way to get my feet wet, without actually having to dive all the way in. Suddenly, Dominic appeared, and in one quick sentence, shot down my cool and confidence and my whole “feet wet” strategy. I was going to wrestle in a singles match. “Mickey, you a gonna wrestle Kurtains [Kurt Kaufman] in the second match tonight,” he informed me. “And I want to see some wrestling, no punch kick.”
Man, this was nerve-wracking. To be in the prestigious Clarksburg Armory alongside such wrestling luminaries as Jerry “the Wanderer” Macintyre, Bill Berger, Lord Zolton, Buddy Donovan, and Irish Mike McGhee was all I could have ever hoped for. I sought out ring announcer Hank Hudson to give him my statistics. “You’re one of DeNucci’s students, aren’t you?” the velvet-tongued Hudson asked.
“Yes, Mr. Hudson, I am,” I replied.
“Okay, what’s your name?” Hudson inquired.
That was a tough one. I wanted to be Dude Love, but I knew that I didn’t have the experience or the talent to be the Dude just yet. Maybe in another six months. In the meantime, I needed another name while I developed the poise to be the Dude. I thought back to a fantasy wrestling game that I had ordered a few years earlier, in which I had been Mick “Big Train” Foley, and my dad had been Cactus Jack.
The Cactus Jack name had come up as a joke when I asked Danny Zucker why everyone seemed to be nervous when they came over to my house. “Well,” Zuck had said, “we’re afraid to do anything wrong when your dad’s around.”
“Zuck, don’t be ridiculous,” I informed the former Grand Lizard, “my dad is nothing like that when he’s home. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t even want to be called Dr. Foley at home-he wants to be called Cactus Jack.” This was a complete lie that was told in the hope of Danny coming over and saying, “What’s up, Cactus Jack?” to my unsuspecting father, who would no doubt have put his papers down long enough to give Zuck a look as if he’d just farted in church.
So when Hank asked me my name, “Cactus Jack” was the answer that came out. “Where are you from, Cactus Jack?” the veteran ring announcer/postal worker asked next.
“Urn, urn, Bloomington, Indiana,” came my weak reply.
Hudson quickly showed why he earned the big bucks by responding, “I don’t think there’s any cactuses in Indiana, what about Arizona?”
“Okay,” I agreed, “is Tucson, Arizona, good?”
Now Tucson would have been just fine, but not to a man like Hank Hudson, whose postal training had exposed him to every hometown under the sun. “Isn’t there a Truth or Consequences in Arizona?” Hank asked my blank face. “Oh no,” he corrected himself, “that’s Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.”
The hometown fit like the pants of a man with five penises-like a glove. I liked the hometown so much that I kept it for the next twelve years. I kept the Cactus Jack thing longer than expected, too.
I had a name and a hometown-now I just needed to wrestle. I was lucky enough to be wrestling against the grizzled two-match veteran Kaufman, whose “Don’t worry kid, I’ll lead you through it” did little to soothe my nerves. Fortunately, I remembered a series of moves that we had done at DeNucci’s gym earlier, and asked him if we could try the “leapfrog dropkick thing” we were working on earlier.
“Sure, kid,” said the battle-tested Kaufman with a Backwoods stogie clenched between his teeth. “No problem.”
Despite Kurt’s reassurances, there was indeed a problem. A leapfrog, you see, can be done two different ways. In one way the man in the middle of the ring leapfrogs over a charging opponent. In the other, the man in the middle bends down for a backdrop and the charging opponent does the leapfrog over him. Can you see where this is headed? Midway through the match, I shot Kurt into the ropes and bent over for the backdrop, expecting a leapfrog. For his part, Kurt came charging off the ropes with his head down, expecting my jumping skills to carry me over him. Klong! We smacked our heads together like two rams performing a mating ritual. The force of the collision sent both of us on our asses, as the audience both gasped and laughed at the sick sound of our skulls cracking together. I saw stars, but also saw red. “Come on Kurt,” I pleaded. “Let’s do the leapfrog.” Another whip, two more heads going down, and klong, an exact repeat of our previous debacle. Luckily, I don’t remember the rest of the match, although whether it was due to the injury or selective memory I’m not certain. I do know that I lost the match, and that the show in Clarksburg was the first day that I met Brian Hildebrand.
Brian was a manager that night, although of whom, I can’t recollect. At one time or another, Brian managed everybody in the West Virginia-Ohio- Western Pennsylvania area. I believe the show in Clarksburg was his final one as Heimi Schwartz, as he has spent the last thirteen years as Marc Curtis. When he came to DeNucci’s the next day, it was obvious that he was far more than just a manager-at 140 pounds, he was one of the most well-rounded wrestlers I had ever seen. Brian had the ability to work any style, from brawling to technical to high flying. He was studying Japanese tapes and attempting their moves long before I knew such things existed. If he’d been fifty pounds heavier, he would have been a big star in the business, but his rapid metabolism never allowed him to put on weight. As a result, he went into managing as a second choice, and as a result, became my second manager, after the Grand Lizard.
I often wondered why Brian came to DeNucci’s at all, as after the Clarksburg show, he became a regular for the rest of the gym’s existence. “How much better does he need to be,” I thought, “especially when he’s a manager!” The truth is, Brian was simply out there because he loved this business more than anyone I have ever met, and he would do anything to be around it. His presence at Dominic’s was like having another teacher there, and because he was my manager for the next two years, I was privy to an expert’s analysis of my match immediately. I have since had the benefit of being managed by some very good people, many of whom have been national stars, and I can honestly say that none of them knew or loved wrestling like Brian did. His knowledge and presence helped me greatly and his friendship and support have been among the most prized possessions in my life.
Over the summer of 1986, I also began developing a strong friendship with Troy Martin. DeNucci now had several students, and many of them seemed to think that they would learn by proxy-as if all that was required was their presence in the gym to improve. Getting in th
e ring, it sometimes seemed, was not a prerequisite for success. For some of them, DeNucci’s became a place to joke around. For me and Troy, who had made something of a pact that summer, the gym became a place to make our dreams come true. By the time the summer ended, I not only had a partner to develop moves and matches with, I also had a place to stay every Saturday. Friday was still car night, because I could never guarantee my arrival, but Troy and his mom proceeded to house me almost every Saturday after that. As the summer came to a close, I was actually starting to show some potential, and was elated to get a mid-August call from DeNucci.
“Vince needs some boys to do the TV,” DeNucci’s unmistakable voice informed me. “Do you want to do?” I was dumbfounded. On one hand, I knew that being an extra, or a “job guy” (body to be thrown around), for the World Wrestling Federation was great exposure. On the other hand, I knew that performers were easily typecast in their role of loser, and once in it might be unable to get out. I know that I remember perennial World Wrestling Federation losers like Israel Matia, Gino Corabella, Ken Jugan, Mike Shape, Mac Rivera, S.D. Jones, and Steve Lombardi every bit as well as the guys who defeated them. Still, the World Wrestling Federation was on a roll, and I, along with Troy, Tony Nardo, Kurt Kaufman, and trainee Ray Miller, shuffled off to Providence and Hartford for a chance in the big leagues. It turned out to be a rude awakening.
I ran into Vince McMahon in the gym in Providence and we spotted each other on the bench. I helped him squeeze out a couple of extra reps by yelling, “Feel that pump, Vince, feel it burn!” Afterward, he thanked me and told me he’d been following me on the independent scene for a long time.
Actually, he just said a quick hello in a two-second encounter that he forgot as soon as it was over. For some reason, I just like the sound of the first story better.
When I got to the Civic Center in Providence, I basically stood around and stared at all the stars I had been watching on television and in the arenas for years. I wish I had possessed the Dude’s confidence and charisma, but instead I just sat in the room like a 235-pound slug (weight training and emergency food relief from my parents had plumped me up). Some time later, Pat Patterson (of current stooge fame) asked to speak to me. Pat informed me that along with my partner for the night, Les Thornton, I would be taking on the British Bulldogs-Davey Boy Smith and Dynamite Kid-who were the current tag team champions.
“What’s your name?” Patterson asked me.
“Cactus Jack” came my reply.
“Well, we can’t let you use a gimmick name,” Pat told me. “We’ll have to use your real name. Also, kid, you’ll have to get rid of the bandanna.”
Patterson then asked me how many matches I’d had, and I made the mistake of telling him the truth. “Just one,” I quickly answered, while Pat shook his head in disbelief.
“Well, what can you do out there?” he wanted to know.
“I can take a lot of bumps,” I was glad to inform him.
By this time, the Bulldogs had walked over to get a look at this guy they would be facing. “Hey Dynamite, it’s nice to meet you,” I said to the man who pound for pound may have been the top wrestler in the world. In addition to his World Wrestling Federation matches, I had seen tapes of many classic encounters in Japan that, for my money, were among the best matches of all time. I felt privileged to share the same ring with him, and I wanted him to know that I was going to be doing my best for him. “You can give me that snap suplex if you want,” I offered the man who had been responsible for bringing high risk into the Federation, and who would also be responsible for my inability to eat solid food for the next month.
“Thanks, mate,” he said with a smile, as he turned and winked at Davey.
Hey, I didn’t want to forget about Davey-1 had something special lined up for him too. “Hey Davey,” I offered. “I throw this really great elbow, and I was going to try to work that in. Is that okay?”
I saw Davey and Dynamite laugh, but didn’t think anything of it, as Davey said in his thick British accent, “Yeah, sure, I think we’ll do a lot of great stuff out there.”
I went out to the ring and started yelling at the fans. There was a whole world of difference between the 300 who were scattered about the armory in Clarksburg and the 18,000 who jammed the Civic Center in Providence, so I actually had a little bit of a rush going through my body when the fans responded to my verbal taunting. At this point in my career, with Dude Love still off in the future, I figured I would concentrate on making Cactus Jack kind of a rebel with an attitude. Really, for a beginner, a lot of finding a gimmick is simply throwing as much crap at the wall as possible and seeing what sticks. And what usually ends up sticking is not all that much different from the guy who is throwing it, although I was too green to see that at the time. In Providence, Rhode Island, in 1986, I thought I was doing just fine.
The Bulldogs came to the ring accompanied by Captain Lou Albano and their royal English entrance theme. I began to feel slightly out of my element. When the match started, I knew instantly that I was in trouble. Les Thornton was, like the Bulldogs, an English wrestler, and a technical expert. For two minutes, he and Davey did some fine technical wrestling, and then Davey tagged the Dynamite Kid, and Les tagged the scared twenty-year-old kid. An announcement might as well have been made, saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, the scientific part of the match has just concluded, but please stay tuned for a major ass whipping.” It was devastating. I tied up (began the match), and right off the bat, in accordance with my previous wishes, I was snap suplexed nearly out of my boots. The suplex offered me my first chance to experience the Federation ring, and although stiff, my body seemed just fine, at least for the time being. A snapmare came next, followed by a diving head butt so painful that I could see my eyes crossing on the video replay. As I struggled to get to my feet, Davey Boy was tagged in to resume the fun.
A big horizontal suplex and a powerslam followed, but hey, these were both moves I’d endured countless times at DeNucci’s gym, and when Smith hooked me in a loose front facelock, I figured it was my time to have some fun. I immediately began firing weak-looking elbows at his midsection, in a quest to get in my big elbow on national television. Davey could have no doubt clamped down on the hold and shut me down completely, but instead he let go. Knowing Davey as I do now, I think he was probably just getting a kick out of my youthful exuberance and wanted to see where it would take us. It took us right to the ropes, where I fired off my amused opponent, and caught him coming off the opposite strands with my big flying elbow. I’d done it-I’d landed my big move on Federation television. Sadly, instead of the “ooh” or “aah” that I felt such a devastating move would merit, I heard laughter, and looked up to see Smith smiling. One headbutt later, which thankfully didn’t hurt, Davey tagged out, and a fired-up Dynamite Kid came in with bad intentions in his mind.
Dynamite had broken into wrestling as a skinny fifteen-year-old in England, where for years he’d been told he was too small to make the big time. As a result, he had worked harder and became more vicious in the ring than anyone I’ve ever seen. I also believe he had a genuine mean streak in him. With 225 pounds of muscle packed onto a frame that was probably never meant to hold more than 180, he was a devastating mental and physical presence. Looking back at it, I honestly think that he saw my weak attempt at offense as a slap in the face, and his body started physically shaking on the ring apron as he begged for the tag. When he tagged in, there is no doubt in my mind now, as I believe there was none in his then, that he planned to hurt me. He shot me into the ropes and followed me a half step behind the whole way. When I came off the ropes, he clubbed me across the jaw with his biceps, in what I guess was technically a clothesline. I never saw it coming, and the effect was devastating. Pain shot from the tip of my jaw through my ears. Then, with my ears still ringing and my head was pounding, I was suplexed backward off the top rope, and I fell in an awkward way onto my shoulders and the back of my head. As future Minnesota governor Jesse Ventu
ra called the slow-motion replay, I could see Dynamite looking back at me with a combined look of concern/satisfaction.
I was helped to the back by one of the referees, and when I got there, saw a look on veteran wrestlers’ faces that was comparable to that of an observer of a car wreck. Even Greg Valentine, whose career had not exactly been characterized by touching displays of affection, gave me a concerned, “Are you okay, brother?”
“Do you know where the Bulldogs are?” was my only reply.
“They went in there, brother.” Valentine smiled, and I could see others raising their eyebrows in surprise at what they probably viewed as the beginning of some stupid retaliatory locker room attempt. I have since seen many a locker room incident over wrestlers “taking liberties” on their opponents, and if anyone ever had just cause to be a little bit peeved, it would be me.
I opened the door and saw them standing together, looking like the cumulative cat that swallowed the canary. I didn’t hesitate a bit in telling them what was on my mind. “Thank you very much,” I said, while shaking hands with both men. “I really appreciate it.” They smiled with a touch of disbelief, and let me know that they too had enjoyed themselves.
Wrestling is strange in that way. Respect for the veterans is a necessity, although, in my mind, so too is respect for your opponent’s body. I learned a long time ago that in the wrestling business, as well as in life in general, you run into the same people on the way down that you did on the way up. It is my hope that through kindness and respect, these people will see fit to let me down gently instead of dropping me. Unfortunately, it seems that the Dynamite Kid has been dropped, and his ex-wife told me he lives, unable to walk, in his native England. Although I don’t agree with what he did to me in my second match, he was extremely nice to me when I toured Japan with him in 1991, and I recently spoke to his ex-wife about organizing a benefit that may one day help him walk. After seeing how much he gave to his sport, and how little it left him in return, I would consider it an honor to try to help him.
