Have a Nice Day

by Mick Foley

  Two weeks later, WCW came to the Meadowlands arena in New Jersey. Colette and I decided to go-after all, in this business, as in many others, if you’re out of sight, you’re out of mind. I almost didn’t get into the back until Paul E. Dangerously, who would later play a much larger role in my life as the genius behind ECW, granted us access.

  I said hello to some of the guys, including Barry Windham. If you remember the Barry Windham of 1987 to 1991, you would surely recall one of the best wrestlers in the game. Barry was not someone that I was especially close with, but he pulled me aside and told me that the company was desperate for talent, and that if I stuck around, there was a good chance that I could get hired.

  Two days later, Magnum called with news that would change my life. I should probably point out that for the previous few weeks I had been in touch with Kevin Sullivan, who had gathered together another band of misfits, and thought that I would be a perfect fit.

  Mag: “I’ve been talking with the Dream [Dusty Rhodes] and we think we’ve come up with a spot for you.”

  Me: “Really, is it with Kevin’s guys?”

  Mag: “No, we’d like to put you into a program right away with Sting.”

  Sting! Man, that was like hitting the jackpot. Sting was the number one man in WCW, a well-built, charismatic athlete with spiked bleached hair and a painted face. The Stinger was not the greatest interview in the world, but his athletic ability and his enthusiasm usually made up for it. Sadly, Sting’s marquee value had dropped slightly over the past several months due to poor opponents and lackluster feuds. That’s where I came into the picture.

  I later learned that this run with Sting, as well as my stint in WCW, were planned to be short-lived. The office, knowing of Sting’s slightly shriveling value, hoped to “feed” him a string of “monster” heels in rapid-fire succession. Jim Ross, who apparently had been trying to sell Dusty on me for quite a while, was able to volunteer me for this limited role. It was thought that a quick conquering of so many monsters in such a short time would boost Sting’s image, enabling him to draw more money with a real wrestler. In retrospect, I guess I’m lucky I didn’t know of this plan, because I flew to Sioux City, Iowa, without the pressure of that knowledge.

  Believe me, I was relieved to see that the Steiners were not on the board against me-instead, my opponent for my return to WCW was the notorious Larry Santo, notorious for both the worst-looking tights and best pained facial expressions of all the “underneath” wrestlers. I was flattered that many of the WCW wrestlers gathered around the monitor to watch the return of Cactus Jack. Apparently, Rick Steiner was my biggest fan in the back, as he encouraged the other wrestlers to “watch this” and “wait till you see this.” I didn’t disappoint. I felt like this was a big moment and I took advantage of it.

  I actually received a nice response from the crowd-the kind of response that said, “We missed you.” It’s funny, sometimes people perceived as big stars leave for a while and receive no response when they return. I guess I had carved out a reputation with my work ethic, reckless style, and tight, firm buttocks. (What the hell!)

  This was a triumphant return for me as I dropped the big elbow on Santo on the concrete, performed the flying upside-down Cactus Jack crack smash (front somersault) off the ring apron, and offered the WCW debut of the Double Arm DDT -a move that I blatantly stole from Kenta Kobashi of All-Japan Wrestling. But hey, what the hell, they’ve stolen half a dozen moves from me. At one point, Jim Ross added to the drama with one of his classic calls. “My goodness, Larry Santo has a family-and Cactus Jack doesn’t care.” Over the years, Ross has added so much to so many matches that I’ll often visualize moves with his announcing calls in mind.

  Later that night, I was given a chance to do a few thirty-second interviews for the company’s syndicated television shows. I cut a promo on Sting that ended with the line, “When you feel that lump in your throat, it won’t be emotion, it will be your liver!” I also did a promo where I talked about having trouble sleeping and having to count all the ways I would hurt Sting in order to get some shut-eye. “I fell asleep at 789 and I hadn’t even gotten to your legs yet!” I squealed. Apparently Diamond Dallas Page-at the time solely a manager and not yet the master of the “Diamond cutter,” ran to Dusty and said, “You’ve really got to take a look at this guy.” I think WCW opened their eyes to Cactus Jack in a pretty big hurry.

  A few days later, I received another call from Magnum, requesting that I come to Philadelphia. Nikita Koloff had quit the company, and Sting had no opponent for the next few evenings. I drove with Colette to the show, where I had a most interesting conversation with Sting. At this point in time, my match with Larry Santo hadn’t aired yet, and I had never been informed as to just exactly what my role was supposed to be. Hey, according to Magnum, I was coming in as a top guy.

  “Hey,” said Sting, “do you have any ideas?”

  “Yeah, actually, I’ve got a lot of ideas,” I said enthusiastically.

  “Man, that’s great, I’m so tired of working with guys who don’t have any.”

  I proceeded to share my thoughts, some of which were pretty wild. Sting’s eyes grew wide. “Hey, I thought you were just coming in here to put me over.”

  “I know,” I replied, “but I don’t see any reason why I can’t get myself over at the same time.”

  Sting looked at me as if this were a completely foreign idea, and in many ways it was, because with the exception of Flair, it had been a long time since Sting had wrestled somebody who could accomplish both at the same time. Aware of the attention that we were attracting, Sting asked me to step into the bathroom. He looked somewhat worried, not because he thought I was going to jump him backstage or anything, but because I did have a reputation for being a little bit strange, and maybe he felt like this whole Cactus Jack idea was a mistake.

  “Do you really expect Sting, a guy who’s been pushed on top for five years, to go fifty-fifty with a guy who hasn’t even been on TV?” the stunned Sting asked.

  “Yes,” I stated simply.

  “Why?” he wanted to know.

  “Because I feel that with one month of TV exposure and one month of interviews, I can get over, and therefore be in a better position to get you over.” This was actually a very lofty goal, but I was so full of confidence that I wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “Look,” I said getting a little impatient, “let’s just set up one thing. If it doesn’t get a reaction that you like, we won’t do anything else. If it does, we’ll work from there.”

  So that’s how we left it-me ready to take on the world and Sting wondering whom he’d pissed off to draw this assignment.

  When we did our first series of moves, culminating with me taking a big bump over the guard rail, the crowd went crazy. Sting got a big smile on his face. The rest of the match went off without a hitch; as a matter of fact, it was probably one of Sting’s better matches in a while. When we got backstage, Sting was excited-he’d actually found someone he could look forward to wrestling. He shook my hand, and I can honestly say that we never had another problem after that. He’s someone I consider one of my favorite all-time opponents, and in the back of my mind, I’d still like to lock up with him one more time before I’m through.

  Abdullah the Butcher, my opponent from a year earlier, was another of the wrestlers brought in to “feed” Sting. With the success of Cactus Jack, the “feeding” angle was stopped, and Dusty decided to team me up with Abdullah. Abby was one of the great monsters in the business. In real life, Abby was a sharp business man and an even sharper dresser who now owns and operates Abdullah the Butcher’s House of Ribs in Atlanta. He chewed unlit cigars and spoke with a surprisingly high voice and was a man with such class that he once held a fart in for over 200 miles so as not to offend my wife, who was traveling with me. There was a small bit of irony attached to this team. As a freshman in college, I had taped a picture of Abdullah to my wall, and by the end of the year had everyone in Fitzger
ald Hall believing that Abdullah the Butcher was my father. Strange, when you consider that Abby was a 400-pound black man, with grooves carved into his head so deep that he used to flip out people in casinos by inserting gambling chips into them.

  At the end of August, Magnum asked to speak with me in Richmond, Virginia. He had a contract with him that he wanted me to sign. The contract was for a first year of $78,000 and an option for a second year at $156,000. Now, coming from my $10 days at the Polka High School, this seemed like a lot of money, but I had two things going for me. One, I still believed that Joe Pedecino had a $10 million backer, and the contract offer of $100,000 he had given me was legitimate. And two, I had a great belief in myself.

  “I don’t want to seem like a big shot, but I’ve got an offer of $100,000 in Global that would have me home in my bed four nights a week,” I said. (Of course, the $10 million man never did appear.)

  “Cactus, that seventy-eight grand is just the dangling carrot. After a year, you’ll get 156,” Magnum countered.

  I thought about it, and speaking from my heart, to a guy who knew what it was like to have his career taken away from him, said, “Magnum, you’ve seen me wrestle. With my style, there might not be another year for me. I need 156 now.”

  That logic seemed to hit home with Magnum, as he quietly said, “That might be possible-I’ll speak with Jim Herd.” Herd, a former Pizza Hut bigwig, was at that time the president of WCW.

  In the afternoon of September 4, 1991, Jim Herd approached me in Albany, Georgia, the site of that evening’s Clash of the Champions. Herd had a reputation as a hard-ass, so I didn’t know quite what to expect when he opened his mouth. What followed was the shortest contract negotiation in history. “Cactus, Magnum told me what you wanted, and he said he thinks you’re worth it and so do I. I’ll have legal draw up the contract.” That was it. With those few words I was now making six F’ing figures!

  On the Clash in Albany, Sting had a match with Johnny B. Badd (Marc Mero), the future husband of Rena Mero (formerly known as Sable). Midway through the match, a large gift-wrapped refrigerator box with a bright red bow on it was wheeled halfway down the wooden ramp that led from the entrance area to the ring. I would, in my three years with WCW, go on to execute many painful moves on this wooden ramp which was used for all the big shows. I was nervous as hell inside that box and kept saying prayers for my son, who was at this point four months in utero. When the time was right, I burst from the box. I blew right past Badd and assaulted Sting. Sting fell to the outside, and while he lay prone on the blue mats, I ascended to the second turnbuckle. The announcers’ table from which Jim Ross and Tony Schiavone were calling the match was directly in front of me, so I knew I had to get quite a bit of distance just to clear it. With as much spring as I could muster in my “this white man really can’t jump” legs, I took flight, and in a clip that would be shown hundreds of times over the next few years, dropped the most perfect elbow of my career. It looked like it killed Sting, and I’m sure at the time it probably felt like it, but the important thing was it made for great television. Sting was helped to the back and there was a new sheriff in town. His name was Spaceman Frank Hickey. No, I’m sorry, it was Cactus Jack.

  Later in the show, I was set to give my first live interview. As they were counting us down-ten, nine, eight, seven, six-Paul E. Dangerously, who was conducting the interview, turned to me and said, “Who would have thought-two homeboys from New York, live on national television.” Paul E. handed me the mike, and in my big live debut I … sucked. Well, actually it wasn’t that bad, but the angle that followed it was tremendous. While I was talking, another gift wrapped refrigerator box (hey, I don’t know where they kept getting them from) was rolled onto the ramp. I assumed it was “my business partner and close personal friend, Abdullah the Butcher. I think I’ll give Abdullah a big Cactus Jack hug.” (In addition to being a great kisser, I’m also quite a hugger.) “That’s a good idea” said Paul E., “give Abdullah a big Cactus Jack hug.”

  Now when I hugged the box, it wasn’t my big, black, butcher buddy who appeared, but a fired-up Sting, who apparently possessed remarkable healing powers because only twenty minutes earlier, his career had been called “over.” After a few punches, the Stinger grabbed me and in a shocking move, hip tossed me off the five-foot-high ramp to the cold, hard concrete below. This was a brutal move and was especially shocking in a time period when the cold, hard concrete gimmick was mine, mine, all mine. Try taking a piece of raw liver out of your refrigerator and place it on your kitchen counter. Good. Now push it off the table and listen to it hit the kitchen floor. Good. Did you hear that sound? That’s what my 287 pounds sounded like when it hit the cold, hard concrete. But did I stay down? As Steve Austin would say, “Oh, hell no.” I got up and hit the Stinger with a garbage can, then emptied the contents on him, before brawling though the curtain. Arn Anderson, after seeing the melee, offered this opinion in his patented style: “I know one thing, if I threw someone off the ramp like that and he got up … I’d run.”

  When we got to the back Sting looked at me and said simply, “You’re great.” It was definitely a big night for me-l had a six-figure income, and the Stinger thought I was great.

  For some reason, WCW kept me off the road for a month after this angle-hey, we wouldn’t want to actually draw fans, would we? I couldn’t understand it, but I had three grand a week coming in to comfort me.

  In the meantime however, Abdullah and I were getting over like a million bucks on TV. Our interviews were becoming a much anticipated and enjoyed part of the shows. Abby didn’t talk, but his mannerisms and facial expressions were tremendous. Dusty loved “bang bang,” and encouraged me to use it in every promo. It was his idea to throw a birthday party for Sting, which turned out to be one of my favorite segments of the year. Paul E. hosted the interview in which Abdullah and I emerged with a pink cake that read “Happy Birthday Sting.” (And no, believe it or not, it didn’t end up in anybody’s face.) I began by singing to Sting in my deranged warble.

  “Happy birthday to you. Bang bang, happy birthday to you, bang bang … ” I looked at the crowd, they weren’t laughing; some of them actually looked scared. With the song over, Abdullah started eating up the cake, until Paul E. cuts in, “Urn that’s really nice, but, urn, it’s not the guy’s birthday.”

  “I know that,” I shot back. “Don’t you think I know that? But I wasn’t at Sting’s last birthday; I wish I had been at Sting’s last birthday. But it’s really important that we celebrate it now,” I continued, my voice gathering volume and my eyes locked on Paul E. “Because Sting’s last birthday … was Sting’s last birthday. Bang bang! Bang bang!” Somehow we had come into Center Stage theater with a birthday cake and a children’s song, and managed to leave it bigger, better, and badder heels.

  Abdullah was always an adventure to team up with. Some guys like to plan lots of moves and then perform them, like a dance in the ring. Abdullah was the exact opposite. You didn’t plan anything with Abdullah, because (1) he didn’t like it that way, and (2) he wouldn’t remember, anyway. So for the next several months, for the most part, we wrestled Sting, Steiner, Sting and Steiner, or a three-man team consisting of Sting, Steiner, and someone else. It was like a theater of the bizarre, and sometimes it worked out well, such as at the Omni in Atlanta, where a tag match in a cage had the fans rocking in the aisles. And sometimes it worked out badly, such as in Lakeland, Florida, in December 1991.

  Abby and I vs. Sting and Steiner was the evening’s main event. I locked up with Steiner and out of the corner of my eye could see Abby fumbling around in his pockets for a foreign object. Abby always came to the ring with an assortment of things to use-a fork being his perennial favorite. He kind of reminded me of the kid in Old Yeller emptying his pockets and having a frog jump out of them. Except Abby was about fifty years older than the kid. And 350 pounds heavier. And black. And with huge divots in his head. Anyway, I brought Steiner to our corner, and Abby was still fumbli
ng with his pockets. We went back to the center of the ring. I tried bringing him to our corner a second time, and again, Abby wasn’t ready. Suddenly, Steiner darted behind me, and with about as much care as an airport baggage handler throwing a piece of luggage off a plane, launched me high overhead with a belly-to-hack suplex. I landed high on the top of my head, to the point where I ended the move lying on my stomach with my feet lying on the bottom rope.

  “Why would you do that to the guy?” asked Sting later in the dressing room. “I mean the guy has beaten himself up trying to get me over, and you nearly killed him.”

  “I thought he was going to try to take something on [take advantage of] me,” Steiner replied.

  Now I’m not a liberty-taker inside the ring. I’m rough and much of what I do is quite painful to be on the receiving end of, but I have too much respect for my opponents to try to take something on them. And if I ever decide to start, Rick Steiner definitely won’t be the guy I do it to. I mean, I’m not that deranged, nor do I really love pain, no matter what you’ve been told over the last fifteen years.

  The next evening, Terry Taylor walked up to me in the dressing room. He probably was spouting one of his Terry Taylorisms, such as: “Two questions: who is your favorite wrestler, and why am I?” Terry was a funny and charming guy, to the point where even my mother-in- law had a tiny crush on him. That evening, however, Terry’s humor and charms were falling on deaf ears-literally. A few minutes later, I could barely hear Grizzly Smith, a weathered agent who was also the father of wrestlers Sam Houston and Jake Roberts, speak to me, and I felt as if the conversation was taking place underwater. Grizz looked into my eyes, the pupils of which were about the size of pinpoints, and said more words that I had trouble hearing. “Son, I think you’ve got yourself a concussion.”