by Mick Foley
A drastic problem like this required a drastic solution. I drew up an emergency three-point plan.
1. Shift WCW praise into overdrive.
2. Don’t be quite so angry in interviews.
3. Under no circumstances give the fans a match that they could respect.
Number three was the key. Out went the chair shots, elbows, incrowd fighting, punching, kicking, headbutting, suplexing, slamming, or anything else that could be construed as entertaining. In come the headlocks. Long headlocks. Lots of headlocks. Boring headlocks. Lots of long, boring headlocks. I was going to stink up every gym and arena I came into contact with. And not only that-I was going to brag about it, as well. I would openly claim that I was going to have bad matches, and then … I would. I had a match with guy called El Puertoricano (Babu from World Wrestling Federation) that was so bad, it was good. Ten full minutes of headlocks. I turned in other sterling performances as well. For three weeks I did my best to do my worst. My worst was pretty bad indeed.
Todd Gordon and Paul E. started claiming on television that I was stealing money from the company by wrestling so poorly. I shot back with the claim that as a former WCW star, I carried enough weight to do whatever I wanted. This got to Dreamer, who claimed he was going to “beat the hardcore out of me!” To do so, he even brought back my old nemesis, Terry Funk, to be in his corner. After Kawasaki, Terry’s body was so worn-out that he needed time to heal and hadn’t been to the arena in a while. The match to settle this strange score was set for October 28. What began as a goofy concept very nearly ended in tragedy. ECW calls its annual November show the November to Remember. I later joked that this was the October to Forget.
The match opened with Tommy slapping me repeatedly and daring me to retaliate. I wouldn’t. He slapped me again. I wouldn’t. He slapped me one more time, and finally I couldn’t take it. I reared back with my left hand and … put on a headlock. The fans were very vocal in their dissatisfaction. Dreamer fought up, but I took him down again. Hey, by this point, I knew my headlocks. He got up and stopped me and threw me to the floor, hoping the change in scenery might spark my hardcore memory. It did. I fired at Dreamer, to the crowd’s approval. I had Dreamer reeling, and knowing he was about to fall, I reared back and … put on a headlock. This was great stuff.
Finally, Tommy mounted an offense and forced me to retaliate. I did. I threw the blatantly brown-nosing bastard to the concrete and stepped through the ropes to the familiarity of the ring apron. I put up the arm, and the ECW faithful knew just what to expect. The legendary madman, Cactus Jack, was about to drop the legendary elbow-except I didn’t. Instead, I stopped in midstride and led a WCW cheer by spelling out the letters of the company with my arms-W-C-W, W-C-W, W-C-W. It was more than Dreamer could stand. It made his hardcore blood boil. As the self-billed Innovator of Violence, Tommy had some pretty neat tricks up his sleeve, and he started using them on me in great volume. I was taking a little bit of a beating and decided that in the immortal words of Owen Hart, “Enough is enough-it’s time for a change.” If Tommy wanted to get hardcore, I was going to show him how it was done. Unfortunately, this was what resulted in the previously mentioned failed eyebrow experiment. With Tommy’s face lumpy and red from my errant blows, I reared back for the big one. Actually, this one was only going to look like a “big one.” I thought he’d been punched enough already. I threw the haymaker and howled in pain. “Owww!” I yelled, “It’s my hand … I think I broke my hand.” I got on the house mike and addressed this serious health issue. “Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, I suffered tremendous damage to my hand and, as a result, I just can’t go on. The pain is too great. I am truly sorry, but I’m afraid that this match is over. The bout will be ruled a ‘no contest.’”
Referee Jim Molano’s voice stopped me. “Cactus Jack, this is ECW-there’s no such thing as a ‘no contest.’”
I thought about that and came up with a solution. “Then do your job and count me out,” I countered.
Molano was feeling daring. He got on the mike and said, “Cactus, why are you being such a pussy?”
Whoa! Hold on here, Jim. Pussy is a fighting word-Chuck Cheeseman had proved that in the Chris Anderson altercation back in ‘77. Still, it wasn’t strong enough. I continued my walk to the back.
With Molano’s not counting, out came Bill Alfonso-better known as Fonzie. No, not the Fonzie who made up a story about having relatives in Waukesha because he was too proud to accept Richie’s invitation to have Christmas dinner with Mr. C. No, not the Fonzie whose crash into the chicken stand outside Arnold’s messed up his confidence so bad that he almost never rode his bike again. No, not the Fonzie who had to break it off with Pinky, because he didn’t want to go through life as Mr. Tuscadero. This Fonzie was a referee who had earned the hatred of the fans by actually enforcing the rules. Fonzie had only three teeth in his mouth, and they were rotten, but he was a hell of a referee, and he had the Pennsylvania state rule book in his hands. Fonzie got on the mike, and in his high-pitched, whiny, nails-on-achalkboard voice, pleaded my case. “Not only is it in the Pennsylvania state rule book, but it is Cactus Jack’s constitutional right to be counted out if he so desires.” One, two, three, four-the fans were getting hot, as this was shaping up to be the worst ECW main event since Cactus vs. Drake. Five, six, seven-Funk had seen enough.
“If you count one more number,” the Funker warned, “then I’m going to knock your god damned dick in the dirt.”
Fonzie looked at the washed-up Texan and spoke his mind. “I’m not afraid of the fans; I’m not afraid of Tommy Dreamer, and I’m certainly not afraid of you, Terry Funk. It is Cactus Jack’s CONSTITUTIONAL right to be counted out, and I’m going to do it.” Fonzie looked contemptuously at Funk and continued his constitutionally allowed count-“Eight.” Bam! Down went Fonzie to a stiff left hand.
Funk got on the mike and attempted to lure me into a fight using the same psychology he’d used on Bullet Bob Armstrong, “Cactus Jack,” Terry bellowed, “you’re a goddamn coward, you son of a bitch.” I remained in the back. “Your wife is a whore.” Still in the back. “Your mother is a whore.” Nothing. “Your children are both whores.” That should have done it. But … nothing. I could not be broken. The Funker had one more ace up his sleeve. “Bischoff is a homo.” That did it! I was out from behind the curtain in a flash to defend my main man’s honor. I meant business as I hit the ring, but as I got to the blasphemous Funk, Dreamer stepped in front and started peppering me with big rights. BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM-the crowd was exploding, and I was doing my best to make each one look its most devastating.
Some people didn’t seem to get the concept of the match and gave it low marks. I guess if they were looking at it as a standard match, it wasn’t that good. But in my view, anytime you can get the ECW crowd oohing and aahing and getting out of their seat in the final match using only punches-you’re getting something right.
At this point, Raven made his presence known by using a steel chair on both Funk’s and Dreamer’s backs. With Funk down, Raven pulled out two foreign objects-a ten-pound weight and a roll of athletic tape. Slowly, I lifted my foot while he taped the weight to the top of my boot. This was great. Unless the Funker was also doubling as Iron Balls McGuinty, he was going to go down. Sure enough, I kicked a field goal with Terry’s testicles, and the wounded Texan was helped to the back.
Tommy was all alone now and about to find out what hardcore was all about. Raven and I doubled on him until Funk miraculously returned carrying his flaming branding iron. Raven and I peeled off Dreamer and fed Funk one by one for shots to the back and stomach. The arena was whipped into a frenzy. Our quest for righteousness was not to be denied, however, as referee Bill Alfonso (who had been taken to the back after suffering his one-punch knockout) reemerged with a weapon of his own. It was my old Japanese standby-the fire chair! I was handed the unlit chair and knocked Terry down with a nice shot to the head. Dreamer turned as well and was dropped with a crushing blow to the sk
ull that was lessened only slightly by the kerosene-soaked towel. Raven touched Funk’s iron to the towel, and the fire chair lived again in the ECW arena.
I looked at Funk, who was flat on his belly. I raised the chair slowly and could feel the heat on my arms. As I came down with my swing, Dreamer made a dive for Funk and used his body as a shield to spare Terry the blazing consequences. The effect was awesome. Dreamer had seemingly risked his life to save the fallen Funker, and the crowd loved him for it. Everything was going great, when I heard Terry’s voice.
“Pick it up again,” Terry mumbled in a voice so low that I could barely hear it above the roar of the crowd.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Use it again,” he reiterated. I picked up the fire chair and slowly raised it again. Terry was getting to his feet, and I stalled to give him more time. When he was fully standing, I slowly charged him with the chair. I could see he was bailing out of the ring, so I started a slow swing that I knew wouldn’t come near him. All I wanted was to hit the ropes with the fire chair and give the impression that I was trying for Terry.
Before my shocked eyes, I saw our plan fall to pieces. What appeared to be a giant fireball flew off the chair and instantly ignited Terry, who was bent over by the ring apron. My first thought was to save him. I completely abandoned my character and my story line and dove through the ropes to try to put out Terry. I knew that flames had about three seconds of contact time before they really did their damage. Terry was up to at least two. I took off after Terry, but he was running like a madman. To this day, I try to relive these events in my mind and try to figure out why I couldn’t catch him. Was he moving too fast to catch, or was I simply a coward under pressure? The question still haunts me.
I do remember thinking, “I’ve got to catch him,” and then wondering, “What do I do once I’m there?” I had no answers. I wish I could point to a burn on my body and say, “This is where I saved my hero, Terry Funk,” but all I have to show for it is a heavy conscience. I remember thinking, “He’s gone-Terry’s gone” before fate or God or luck lent a hand. The fire seemed to roll off Terry’s shoulders as if by magic, and Terry collapsed to the floor. In actuality, a fireball had not flown off the chair, and Terry himself had not become ignited. Instead, the towel that was on fire had flown off the chair and landed on his back. The towel had been burning-not Terry, although I’m sure that was small comfort to Terry as he was helped to the dressing room.
When I got to the back, Terry was on a rampage. His right arm had been severely burned, and he was more than a little annoyed about it. The Funker was throwing furniture, and there were some pretty tough guys cowering in fear of the ticked-off Texan and a host of flying chairs, fans, and tables. As I approached Terry, I could see that his wife, Vicki, was crying. Life is never easy for a wrestler’s wife, but for Vicki, who had already seen her husband injured countless times, this night was especially traumatic. I didn’t know what to say, and as it turned out, my choice of words was not all that comforting. “Are you all right?” I asked, and was met by a flying chair and a string of obscenities that even my dad would have envied.
“Goddamn motherfucker, there’s no excuse for that shit, you son of a bitch!”
Again, my words were not all that soothing. “Sorry, Terry.”
He looked at me with rage in his eyes. “You damn well ought to be sorry, you son of a bitch!”
Vicki tried to calm him down, but it was no use, so she tried to calm me down instead. “Terrance is just upset,” she assured me in her west Texas drawl. “Just go home … he’ll be all right.”
I went home, but I was an emotional wreck. I swore to myself that I was going to quit wrestling, but by the time I reached Staten Island, I had decided that I just wouldn’t wrestle in this country anymore. By the time I got home, I was thinking that we could probably cut some promos on each other over this. Still, I was very upset when I told Colette about the night’s events. Unbeknownst to me, Terry had checked out of the hospital later that night and come back to the arena to cut promos for the next month’s match. If I had known, I probably would have slept a little better.
The next morning, I made sure that I called Terry’s house. I knew he wouldn’t be home, but I wanted to make sure that my voice was the first one he heard when he turned on his answering machine. I went out for the day, and when I came home, he had left a message. I was relieved to hear that he wasn’t yelling, but had gone back to the whisper/ mumble that I knew so well. “Hello, Cactus. This is Terry Funk, and I just wanted to say that I acted like a damn fool, and I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t my fault, it wasn’t anybody’s fault-it just happened. But goddamn, huh huh, we sure did give them something to talk about, didn’t we? And I’m sure people are going to be talking about this for a long, long time. Goodbye, Cactus Jack, and don’t pay any attention to what I said last night-I’m just an old fool.”
I liked the message so much that I played it for Colette. I saw her eyes well up with tears as she listened to kindly old Uncle Terry. “He really is a nice man,” she said as she handed me the phone. I saved that message for a long time.
We celebrated Halloween two days later. As for most holidays at the Foleys’, we made a big deal out of Halloween. When I’m on the road a lot, I try to build up certain events in the kids’ minds, as it seems to take the sting out of being gone so long. “Guess where we’re going when Daddy gets home,” was a familiar battle cry over the telephone. If I didn’t have my little perks and special days with the kids to look forward to, I don’t think I could last out there.
I had always been a Halloween fanatic. When I was a kid, I used to start plotting my next year’s costume as soon as the current Halloween was over. I tried to be creative and flat-out refused to buy one of those cheap, ready-made costumes that other kids wore. It just seemed like you should have to strive a little more for the privilege of eating free candy. My brother didn’t share my sense of theatrical importance. As a result, in every picture of us on Halloween, I looked cool, and he looked like a doofus. My mom would never admit it though. “You both look great,” she’d say, although photographic evidence certainly seemed to disagree with her.
My kids could not, under any circumstances, look like doofuses on Halloween. I consider myself a pretty lenient parent, but sometimes a dad has to take a stand. Dewey was a huge Batman fan, and exactly as my mom had twenty-five years earlier, I would be summoned into the room to call the action as Adam West and Burt Ward laid the smack down on all the villains’ candy asses. “Bam! Pow! Biff! Kapuff!” I’d yell as my kids both threw kicks at imaginary bad buys. Dewey wanted to be Batman and Noelle wanted to be Batgirl, which was a dilemma, because I knew that half of West Babylon would be wearing the cowl and cape. I was determined that my kids would have the best of all the costumes, so I special-ordered some outfits from the lady who made my wrestling tights. Sure enough, my kids were the best-looking Batman and Batgirl in town. And they weren’t wearing the trendy new black outfit with the built-in muscles either. No, my kids were wearing the classic Adam West blue and gray-the way it was meant to be, dammit!
I may have a reputation for pinching pennies so hard that it makes Abe Lincoln scream-and in some cases, rightfully so-but not when it comes to Halloween. Or Halloween candy. My mother had long ago established a tradition of at least three quality fun-size bars in each little Halloween baggie, along with an assortment of other little goodies. With the exception of the year that I slipped dried cat turds into little Baby Ruth wrappers and gave them to Jacqueline Miller, everybody came out a winner on All Hallow’s Eve at the Foleys’. I had been carrying out that tradition for years. Anyone who came to the Victorian house in Georgia walked away a winner, and I was determined to continue that tradition at our “sweatbox on Long Island.”
We prepared thirty-six bags and waited for the trickle of innocent toddlers to start coming by. It was more like a flood. The moment school let out, there were kids everywhere. A lot of t
he teenagers didn’t even have costumes, unless they were dressed up as pimply guys with bad haircuts. The candy was gone literally in twenty minutes.
At least we broke even. When we trick-or-treated that night, we went so damn far into the immense neighborhood that by the time we were done, the kids had been asleep in the stroller for an hour. Colette or I would just knock on a door and point to the stroller and accept a single piece of candy on behalf of our sleeping kids.
I will always treasure that Halloween-especially a picture taken the night before, when the kids had worn their costumes to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. We had bought Dewey a pair of imitation snakeskin boots at a secondhand store a week earlier, and Dewey thought those boots went with everything. They didn’t. I guess that’s the reason Adam West never went Western while laying the smack down. Because if he had, he would have looked like my son. Despite all my great intentions, hopes, and ambitions, my son did indeed look like a doofus.
I think my affection for the holidays has played a part in the struggle with my weight. I just seem to associate food with happy memories, and happy memories with food. If I were to play a word association game with special memories, I would almost automatically answer with the food that it reminded me of. Birthday-cake. Christmas-cookies. Halloween-pumpkin pie. Fourth of July-hot dogs. Baseball games with Dad-peanuts. I had such a good time at Hershey Park with the kids a few years ago that I actually started eating Hershey bars with regularity.
We returned to ECW arena for the much-anticipated November to Remember show that pitted Cactus and Raven against Funk and Dreamer. After the fire incident, many felt that ECW had finally crossed the line and that there would be a backlash against the promotion. On the other hand, there were many who thought the match was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. There were actually chants of “ECW, ECW!” while Terry was on fire. I ran into some fans a week after the incident who said, “Man, how’d you do that stunt with the fire-that was great.” Unfortunately, wrestling has become so good at creating the illusion of disaster that when disaster does hit, it’s very difficult to tell the difference. Sadly, when Owen Hart died in the ring during a World Wrestling Federation Pay-Per-View, many initially thought it was just part of the show. I really wish it had been. The fact that the show went on, and that fans still enjoyed themselves-and that I stood two feet from the spot where Owen died-is something that I am having a hard time dealing with.
