by Mick Foley
“It’ll never work,” Todd stated dismally. “The only guy the fans wouldn’t shit on is Big Al,” referring to a huge wrestler whose chokeslam had made him a cult favorite in the arena. Al chokeslammed everybody: Santa Claus, midgets, two wrestlers at once, women—even the guy playing the National Anthem. Aside from that one move, however, Al didn’t do a whole lot well.
I thought about the situation for a minute before asking, “What about Mikey?”
The real-life John Watson was a smallish nineteen-year-old kid who grew up idolizing Cactus Jack and didn’t look like he had an athletic bone in his body. He was trained by a guy named Sonny Blaze, whom I myself had trained in Mark Tendler’s garage. John was so unimpressive that Sonny refused to charge him money to train, out of guilt, because he assumed the poor kid would never make it. John began setting up the ring at the ECW arena, and was spotted performing moonsaults and various other high-flying maneuvers inside the empty building. Paul E. saw this unassuming kid, and somewhere in his mind, Mikey Whipwreck was born.
Paul cast Mikey as the ultimate loser, a gimmick that had been a cult hit for his Jim Ignitowski-like “wrestling school dropout” several years earlier. The difference was, Mikey had talent. Paul began booking him against the top guys in the company, and every week, he’d take a world-class ass kicking. Dressed in sweatpants with shorts over them and a long-sleeve dragon-printed shirt, and looking all of about eleven years old, Mikey didn’t exactly send shivers down spines. Throw in a hometown of Buffalo and the theme music of the Beck song “Loser,” and you’ve got a pretty good idea of what was going on.
It was months before Mikey even got in an offensive move. When he did, it was major news. “Oh, my God, oh, my God!” announcer Joey Styles yelled. “His first offensive move!” So without any offense, Mikey got beat up-a lot. But he was so good at it that fans actually started taking notice. The ECW fans may have been heartless, but they could recognize good wrestling. Soon Mikey was a cult favorite. One night, several months before my ECW arrival, Mikey won the ECW television title on a fluke, and the place went ballistic.
As a champion, Mikey was finally given a chance to talk. Unlike traditional wrestlers, Mikey didn’t exude confidence while talking on the contrary, he was terrified. He’d get on the microphone and attempt to hand the belt back. He’d claim that his mother didn’t want him to wrestle. He’d start to say, “Let me tell you something, Pit Bull number 1,” before thinking about it and crying, “I’m gonna get killed!” Then for several weeks straight, Mikey would wrestle, get destroyed, but somehow win by fluke. The guy was winning title matches without getting in a single offensive maneuver. By the time he lost the title, he had been on the receiving end of some brutal beatings, but was also the recipient of tremendous applause.
Without Funk, we knew we needed a gimmick, and I felt like Mikey was it. I went to the ring alone to the sounds of Steppenwolf’s “Born to Be Wild.” The fans were aware that Funk was not in attendance, but no substitute had been named. When Public Enemy hit the ring, I grabbed the house mike and said I would be returning shortly with my partner. Joey Styles called the action as I disappeared behind the curtain. “Who is Cactus Jack going to find? What tough guy, what tremendous athlete, what former world champion will he return with-it’s MIKEY! Oh, my God, it’s Mikey!” I came though the curtain dragging Mikey by the arm, as he tried desperately to get away. He looked like a child who doesn’t want to sit on Santa’s lap,or an adult who is forced to watch an Al Snow match.
I started in with the P.E., and Mikey promptly ran away to the back, leaving poor Cactus Jack defenseless against the ECW tag team champions. After a few minutes of this beating, when all looked lost, Mikey reemerged-and in true ECW fashion, he had a foreign object. But it wasn’t a chair or any other normal instrument of destruction because that wouldn’t be Mikey-like. Instead he held a flimsy piece of paneling that looked about as threatening as a gaggle of baby geese. Flimsy or not, the paneling made a hell of a noise upon impact, and he took turns bringing it down on the heads of the P.E. When the paneling broke, Mikey Whipwreck-the man of no offense-began throwing lefts and rights to the jaws of both men. The roar of the crowd rose with each blow, until he was laid out with a vicious doubleteam move. As he lay unmoving, Grunge and Flyboy Rocco Rock (P.E. members) began the attack on me.
As we went over the railing, I noticed Mikey still lying there, motionless. Now we were in the crowd, and still no Mikey. For five minutes I took abuse while Mikey lay motionless inside the ring. Finally we returned, and Rocco went to the top rope for what would surely be the coup de grace. As the Flyboy stood perched atop the ropes, I got up and stumbled, falling into the ropes, sending the Flyboy testicles-first into the turnbuckle below. He screamed on impact, fell into the ring, and tripped over Mikey, who still hadn’t budged. With Rocco prone, and holding his testes for comfort, Mikey found the strength to drape an arm over him. I stopped Grunge from interfering, and the referee made the historic count. One, two, three, and ECW had new tag team champions. There was a whole tour of Japanese wrestling fans sitting ringside at the show, and when I saw them, I hopped the rail and celebrated, as the Japanese media flashed away. I had no idea then just how much I’d see the Japanese fans and their press in the future.
Victor Quinones was a longtime promoter from Puerto Rico, who was booking talent for a small blood-and-guts group in Japan, called IWA. I received a call from him about coming to Japan and competing in their death matches that featured barbed wire and a variety of other torturous devices. I told him that I’d pass. At that time, I was having fun in ECW and was being booked around the country, and I had no desire to have my body torn to shreds. I really had no idea just how shredded I would become.
Chapter 26
I had a weekend of matched for the ECW in November, and decided to bring Dewey along with me. He was two and a half years old, and I figured it would be a great bonding time for father and son. He enjoyed the trip, and even rolled around the ring a little when we got to the small arena in Hamburg, Pennsylvania, that the World Wrestling Federation had used to tape television in before it went big-time. I bailed out of the ring to do a telephone interview, during which I told the interviewer that the two most important philosophies in life were simple ones learned in childhood: “He who smelt it, dealt it,” and “Bang bang, you’re dead.” Actually, I find the whole “He who smelt it” theory to be full of holes, as is its counterpart, “He who denied it, supplied it.” In reality, especially in wrestling dressing rooms, the dealer of a gaseous emission is more likely to exit the room, and leave others to enjoy it, or else laugh with pride-thereby shooting the denial theory to pieces.
I was booked in Hamburg with Sabu. The two of us had become a hot ticket around the country, and I certainly was earning my money. We had engaged in more than a few classic battles, including one at the Silver Nugget in Las Vegas that included a foray into the casino area. I piledrove Sabu onto the blackjack table, sending gamblers scurrying and chips flying. Looking back at it, however, it may not have been the wisest decision in the world-if we had been at a bigger casino, with more money at stake, there is the possibility we could have been physically punished for our action.
I pumped myself up mentally for a long time in Hamburg. Dewey was fast asleep in the dressing room on a mattress made out of ring robes and turnbuckle pads. Sabu’s music was playing when I heard a faint sound. My son had awakened, and he didn’t seem pacified by the shaved heads and wild outfits all around him. He started to cry softly at first, but with progressively more volume, until it escalated into a full-blown tantrum. “This can’t be happening,” I said out loud, as I could feel my entire hour of mental preparation sailing away. I tried to comfort the little guy, but he was beside himself, and I could hear “Born to Be Wild” booming from the loudspeakers. I had to go. I kissed my son goodbye, placed him in the arms of the towering wrestler named 911, and walked sadly out the door.
I was not prepared for Sabu, but I knew that m
any fans would drive hundreds of miles for a Sabu-Cactus Jack showdown. I was always determined not to let them down, and I tried my best to make this match a great one-even with the extenuating circumstances involved. I didn’t mention these circumstances to Sabu-for some reason, I didn’t think the “homicidal, suicidal, maniac,” as he was known, would be all that sensitive to my paternal problems.
Instead, we went at it full tilt. I knocked the Indian madman to the corners, and picked up a wooden ringside chair to crown him with. Sabu moved, and the force of my swing ricocheted off the middle rope and propelled the chair backward into my own waiting head. I stumbled in my old faithful 360-degree angle-or the watusi as some call it-while Sabu stepped to the second rope on the outside ring. He was ready to attempt a moonsault, and under perfect conditions, would make chest-to-chest contact. Not too difficult, except for the fact that his body would be upside down and in mid-air when the desired contact would be made. In this case, however, our chests never connected. Nothing did. I reached my hands up to try in vain to intercept him, as this 210-pound missile flew high overhead. Now, in fifteen years of wrestling, I’ve heard plenty of sickening sounds-many of them from my own body-but this was among the worst. Sabu’s body impaled itself on the steel guard rail, and I grimaced as I heard the one-two combination of ribs breaking on steel, and guttural, animal-like screams welling up from deep inside Sabu’s lungs. The crowd sensed in an instant that something was wrong, and actually cleared out of the way to allow him room to breathe.
I stalled for time, but returned shortly to see if he could go on. “Gimme time, gimme time,” he yelled, and I commenced to throwing chairs into the ring and using whatever else was available to allow him some recuperation time.
When I came back, he was still gasping for air, but was struggling bravely to get to his feet. We then continued, and actually had a hell of a match. We fought down the aisle to the dressing room, and before heading back to the ring, I reached into a garbage can and pulled out an empty Coors Light bottle. “Use this,” I said.
“To do what?” came the reply.
“To hit me with,” I insisted. I crawled into the ring, again using the dependable watusi, as I waited for the crashing sound of glass and the oohs and ahhs from the Hamburg crowd that would lead to the end of the match. Well, I got the oohs and ahhs, but not the crashing sound I was anticipating. Instead, there was a loud thunk as the glass bottle literally bounced off my head and spun clumsily on the canvas.
In my beer-bottle-battered haze, I looked at the spinning Coors container, and thought back fondly to Spin the Bottle on our sixth grade camping trip, and how excited I was when the bottle pointed to Sue Cirisano. The memory of Sue running for the door instead of honoring the strict and time-honored tradition of giving me a good one on the smacker finally brought me back to my senses, and I said the only words I could think of-“Hit me again.” Again the bottle came down, and again it thunked off my skull. “Again,” I said. Another thunk. By this time, even the bloodthirsty ECW fans were starting to feel a little bad about this whole scenario, but dammit, we had a match to finish, and I wasn’t about to do a job for the bottle. One more swing and one more thunk. Then another swing, and finally the satisfaction of shattering glass showering around me.
I went to the dressing room, where my recovered son was waiting with a two-and-a-half-year-old hug that only a father can truly appreciate. “Did you win, Daddy?” he asked innocently.
“No, buddy, but it was a good match anyway-would you like to see Grandma and Grandpa now?” So, with five lumps on my head and glass in my hair, we hopped into my rented Lumina, and off to Grandmother’s house we went.
It was during this time that I began working for Jim Cornette’s Smoky Mountain promotion. Without a doubt, Corny had more energy than anyone I’ve ever met. Even while working as a manager in the World Wrestling Federation, he somehow found the time to book and star in his own promotion. Smoky and ECW were like night and day. Instead of hardcore, bloodthirsty fans, Smoky had old-time fans. These were fans who still believed in good guys and bad guys, and to whom cheating was still reason to become upset.
As Cactus Jack, I was instantly embraced as a fan favorite, but more importantly, as a guy whose shirts they wanted to buy. I was embroiled in a feud with Chris Candido that was actually a lot of fun, and I was making money courtesy of the generous fans of Kentucky, Tennessee, and North Carolina. Corny gave me free rein over my interviews, which for some reason were laced with double entendres and bad poetry. During one promo I compared my quest to free the simpleminded Boo Bradley from the evil clutches of Chris Candido to that of a missionary. I then stated that I was to going to really enjoy the “missionary position.” The feud with Candido also inspired these thoughtful verses.
Candido, oh Candido, Ill beat you up,
Ill make you bleed-o
Like Rocky did Apollo Creed-o Oh Candido
Ill scare you stiff, oh yes indeed-o,
Youll leave a skid inside your Speedo
Oh Candido
Pretty serious stuff. I was able to work quite a few shows for Cornette, highlighted by the traditional Thanksgiving and Christmas shows, but I was most happy to be able to spend some time with my old friend Brian Hildebrand.
While I had been busy traveling up and down the roads for the past several years, Brian had been stuck on the independent circuit. While guys without an ounce of his talent had made it big, Brian had continued managing at whatever shows he could find, and would even wrestle as a Ninja Turtle or some other creation that was geared to the kids. When Corny opened up the territory, Brian was among the first guys he called, and when I got there, he was firmly entrenched as not only a referee, but the head of merchandise, and a dozen other jobs as well. “This place would shut down if it weren’t for Gerbil,” was a common comment from veteran grappler Tracy Smothers, referring to Brian’s new nickname.
When Smoky began an interpromotional feud with the USWA, Brian had finally gotten a chance to wrestle, and as a vicious heel referee turned wrestler, was finally able to truly showcase his talents. I feel bad for any wrestler who never gets his big shot, but my heart had gone out for years to Brian, because he was so damn good and no one seemed to notice. I was genuinely glad for him that, by the time I got to Smoky, his skills had been recognized. During my time in the area, I had met his lovely wife, Pam, and had the pleasure of watching more wrestling, eating more pasta, and seeing more mountain views than at any other time of my life.
I saw Brian a few days ago at the Brian Pillman show. Even at ninety-eight pounds (due to a long battle with stomach cancer) he had the determination to referee two matches, and he even looked good doing it. I was also able to read him some of this book, and it was gratifying to see how much he enjoyed it. He later told me that the story of the gay beach in Fort Lauderdale had caused him to laugh harder than he had in months. Hang in there, Brian-you’re a credit not only to this business, but to the better angels of our nature. [Editor’s note: Brian passed away after the writing of this book on September 8, 1999.]
In late November, I received word that Terry Funk had signed a contract to wrestle for the IWA in Japan. I picked up the phone and called Victor Quinones. It was the only time in my eighteen months as an independent that I asked for work. I was booked to leave on New Year’s Eve for a ten-day tour. My body would never be quite the same.
I flew to Tokyo in style. Seat 38E was far enough away from the movie screen as to make viewing difficult, but close enough to both the toilet and the smoking section to ensure a pleasant sensory experience. Northwest Airlines’ cold soba noodle breakfast is an especially disagreeable one, and when we landed, I was exhausted, sick to my stomach, and smelled like a 290-pound cigarette. Tracy Smothers was on the flight as well, and we were met at the airport by one of the “young boys,” as the beginning Japanese wrestlers were commonly referred to.
I waited at baggage claim for my two travel bags and my twelve dozen “Wanted” shirts to arriv
e. Before my trip, my old partner Kevin Sullivan had spoken to me and advised me to take shirts to sell. I figured it would be a lot harder for the promotion to say no once I was there, so I never called for permission. As it turned out, I made more money in Japan as a seller ofT-shirts than I did as the King of the Death Match.
Tairi, the young boy who met us, spoke very little English. Apparently, his Japanese left something to be desired as well, as the cab dropped us off six blocks from our hotel-forcing us to walk with all our luggage. “Sorry, sorry” was all Tairi could say, as I shouldered two huge boxes, and wondered if maybe an apologetic phone call to Eric Bischoff might have been a better move than coming here. “What are we doing here?” I kept whining to Terry as, even in the winter weather, the sweat began trickling down my brow.
We finally checked into our hotel, where after dinner with a Japanese superfan named Masa-who still remembered me from my trip in 1991-1 tried to sleep. As a small promotion, IWA had to cut corners to survive. It flew all the wrestlers on coach, bused us for hours every day, and lodged us in some pretty crummy accommodations. At $300 a day, I was, with the exception of the Funker, the most highly paid gai-jin (foreign) wrestler by far. As a true Japanese icon, Terry had a deal that was pretty lucrative, but some of the South American wrestlers were working for seventy-five a day. The next day, we headed for the venerable Japanese venue, Korekeun Hall. Korekeun was a 2,200-seat auditorium on the fifth floor of a Japanese office building, which was used by several different promotions. It was not unusual for three different promoters to use the hall on the same day, and as I walked in the dressing room, a few women wrestlers were still in the process of packing up.
When the doors opened up, I was waiting anxiously with stacks of Cactus shirts in front of me and a jumbo marker in my hand. I was already dressed for my match, which would be a no rope-barbed wire death match, pitting Terry Funk and Japanese daredevil Shoji Nakamaki against me and Tracy Smothers. Interestingly, four years before the invention of Mr. Socko, I was wearing a long tube sock on my right arm, as I was planning on doing the Cactus clothesline over the top of the barbed wire. I knew the possibility was strong of catching my arm on the wire as I went over, a possibility that could do massive amounts of injury to my skin, veins, and tendons as well. The sock, as it would later in my life, would protect me.
