Have a Nice Day

by Mick Foley

  I remember Michael Hayes pumping me up before I stepped into the room by saying, “Cactus, this is the match that you’ll be showing your grandchildren, and saying, ‘This is what Grandpa used to do.’” I stepped in and waited for the ‘Taker to arrive. The psychology was that in “the room,” I would have the advantage,. because since Mankind’s Federation debut, he had been filmed inside the room, as if it were his lair. My heart was pounding as he came near. There was no crowd to pump us up, so a great deal of mental preparation had gone into my prematch ritual. I had to fight the urge to feel stupid inside this big, dark room with only one cameraman as a spectator. Looking back, I honestly feel that there were three things wrong with the match-two of them conceptual and one of them in the execution. For one thing, the entire match was a one-camera shot in dark, murky conditions. The cameraman did a tremendous job, but I later felt that the whole thing had looked like a well-done love movie instead of a Pay-Per-View main event. The second conceptual problem was even more damaging, although the decision itself was born out of a compliment. Vince liked the match so much that he decided not to do commentary over it, even though, as usual, I had visualized much of the match with Vince and J. R. in mind. The third fault, if you can call it that, was that the brawl itself was just too long. Seventeen minutes inside the room itself was an awfully long time, and many people could not see past the silence and length to see the quality and intensity of what we were doing.

  One journalist described it as being “like a Hollywood fight scene, except way too long.” I think that needs to be rethought a little. A three-minute Hollywood fight scene can take weeks to rehearse and film. We did ours in one take, with one camera. So I think a more accurate critique might read “like a Hollywood fight scene except without rehearsing, choreography, editing, special effects, sound effects, grips, or a best boy.” It may have been too long, but damn, we put a lot into it, including a bump that went astray.

  Near the end of the match, I had Undertaker down and pulled out a ladder from the darkness. As usual, I could hear the announcer in my head as the match progressed. “He’s got a ladder, J. R …. I believe he’s going to attempt to hit the … “

  “No Vince, Mankind is setting the ladder up and is ascending its wooden rungs.”

  “J. R., he must be ten, fifteen, twenty feet in the air-UNBELIEVABLE!”

  Unfortunately, we got nothing of the sort, even though the live crowd seemed to enjoy watching on the monitors in the arena-especially when Undertaker sat up and dumped me off the ladder. He was able to pull the ladder toward him, and as I started to go, I tried to land in relative safety on a pile of cardboard boxes that were scattered on the floor. Unfortunately, the top of the ladder became caught on the rafters of the boiler room, and I was landed violently several feet short of my intended target. My upper body landed somewhat safely, but my lower half (where I actually store nine-tenths of my body weight) landed roughly on the cold, hard concrete below. The botched landing would actually result in the onset of a seven-month sciatic nerve problem that, for a while, I legitimately thought would cause me to retire.

  I was actually the first one out of the room, but I was feeling much worse for the wear. We had both beaten on each other pretty good, and I was ready to crash into a comfortable bed after a long, hot shower. Instead, I stood for over an hour inside the building, waiting for one of the TV contract guys to show up in his rented Lincoln and take me to my crummy Days Inn room, across the street from the porno shops, before checking himself into the Marriott.

  The next evening, we picked up where we had left off, with me trying to get to the ring, and ‘Taker beating on me the whole way there. I kept throwing obstacles in his way, and like Michael Myers from Halloween, he kept coming back. I finally got the edge with a somewhat less than my best piledriver, and tried to enter the ring, where Paul Bearer nervously held the sacred urn. The cold, purple-gloved hand of the Dead Man stopped my progress, and we jockeyed for position on the ring apron. ‘Taker stopped me for a moment and, using the ropes as a slingshot, hurled my body backward, where it crashed flat-backed on the concrete (which was cold and hard) with a sickening thud. He then dropped to one knee and reached out with his waiting glove for the urn that would signify victory.

  There was only one problem for the ‘Taker-Paul wouldn’t give it to him. He held out his hand again, this time impatiently, while the crowd stood up, and I rolled back into the ring. Undertaker got to his feet, but I was there to cut him off with my mandible claw. Once down, the Undertaker started crawling toward Paul, as I laid in heavy, and I do mean heavy, boots to the head. I can’t believe that I kicked someone I actually liked that hard, even if it was a big show. Even with the boots slowing down his progress, he kept crawling to Paul until he was on his knees and looking at his chubby buddy with a “why me” look that made me think of Nancy Kerrigan after the Gillooley/Harding pipe job scandal. Uncle Paul then methodically lifted the magic urn and came down hard with it on the Dead Man’s head. He handed me the urn, and we left triumphantly as a team. Undertaker and I had been wrestling each other for five months, but in essence were just getting started.

  I left for Puerto Rico three days after the match. Savio Vega was a Puerto Rican wrestler who was running opposition to the longstanding Capital Sports-the company that Bruiser Brody was killed working for. I took the three dates in Puerto Rico as a way to pay for a playset that I was planning on getting the kids. The Undertaker was scheduled to be my opponent for the tour and was still sporting a large gash on his elbow that he had received in the boiler room.

  My first night on the island resulted in one of my worst memories. As I heard my music, I made my way to the entrance and was immediately doused with a full cup of liquid from close range that was not just thrown at random, but actually poured down the back of my neck. I’d been hit with beer and sodas for years and had long ago accepted it as part of the job. But this liquid was different. It was, urn, well … it was warm. I felt the warmth, smelled the foul odor, and knew right away what it was. Someone had poured a full cup of urine on me. Needless to say, I didn’t want to wrestle. I really thought maybe the kids would be fine swinging on the $94 Kmart special. I did end up wrestling, and I did buy that playset, even though every time I watched my two peanuts swinging happily or sliding joyfully, I’d automatically think of being doused with bodily fluids. And I’m not talking about the bodily fluid I used to douse Al Snow with either. Yes! Maybe not a knockout, but definitely a stiff jab!

  The next day, the Undertaker walked in looking like hell warmed over. This time the Dead Man really did look like a dead man. His face was pale, and he was sweating profusely. Worse yet, his elbow was swollen to twice its normal size. Staph infection was a common casualty of the business, but this was the worst case I had ever seen. A doctor was brought in and lanced the elbow. He then squeezed hard, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that pus shot ten feet across the room. It was nauseating, but somehow the ‘Taker made it to the ring and performed the next two nights. After that, in his absence, the old cowboy was called in, resulting in the classic Mankind-Watts showdown I described earlier.

  “Genius” is a word often used to describe Vince McMahon. I have been around Vince long enough to feel that it is true, but Vince also has a couple of other attributes that are equally important in the success of his company: common sense and a willingness to admit when he’s wrong.

  Stone Cold Steve Austin is probably the biggest draw in the history of the sport, but during Labor Day weekend 1996, he was just another guy trying to make a living. And at that time his salary was about half that of Marc Mero.

  Labor Day weekend meant the World Wrestling Federation traditional “tent town tour” of New England, where we wrestled in such prestigious venues as the Cape Cod Melody Tent. Actually, the shows were a lot of fun, and promoter Larry Bonhott was a great guy, but nobody got rich in the tent towns. It was outside one of these tents in the backstage area that I heard one of the most ironic comm
ents of my life.

  I was approached backstage by a man named Jimmy Miranda. Now Jimmy has approached a lot of men, but this visit concerned merchandising. He had a list of names on a chart with various marketing ideas listed for them. I could see that Marc Henry, the Olympic weightlifter, figured to be a big part of the World Wrestling Federation’s merchandising future. Checked off by his name was everything ranging from foam fingers to red, white, and blue bandannas-at least twenty-five items in all. Also figured in prominently was the Stalker (Barry Windham), who probably had about fifteen potential items. Miranda said that the company wanted to merchandise Mankind and asked what I thought about a Mankind mask for kids. I told him that I was flattered but didn’t think that a mask that was supposed to be scary to kids should be able to be worn byV kids. I did tell him that I thought a shirt and an action figure would be a good idea, and he checked off both.

  At that time, Austin came walking over and said, “Hey, Miranda, when are you gonna come out with some Stone Cold merchandise?” Miranda grew silent and didn’t seem to know what to say. Steve again questioned him, jokingly asking, “Come on, Jimmy-how about a shirt for Stone Cold?”

  Miranda again seemed at a loss for words and paused at length before slowly breaking the bad news. “I’m sorry, Steve, but the office just doesn’t see any interest in your merchandise right now.” WOW! And to think, within a year, Austin’s merchandise would outsell Marc Henry’s two to one. Two million to one, that is.

  That illustrates the difference between World Wrestling Federation and WCW. In WCW, a guy’s spot was his spot. There was, and still is, no room for upward mobility. If WCW had Austin, they wouldn’t have done a damn thing with him. Hey, wait a minute, they did have Austin, and if my memory serves me correctly, they didn’t do a damn thing with him. Vince, on the other hand, sensed the momentum and went with it, riding the Austin craze to huge levels of popularity and financial gain. In the Federation, merit actually counts. Maybe that’s why Tuesday mornings aren’t quite as fun for Eric Bischoff anymore.

  Bischoff had once been quoted as saying, “I used to really look forward to Tuesday mornings to see the ratings, but lately we’ve been kicking their ass so bad that it’s just not that fun anymore.” I guess Eric must have never heard the old proverb about counting your chickens before they hatch. Also, if kicking the other company’s ass so bad isn’t any fun, I feel real sorry for Vince-he must be miserable.

  But, hey … let’s give Bisch his due-at this point, they were on top and would stay that way for a long time, largely due to the hiring of Nash, Hall, and host of other big names who had jumped ship for some of Turner’s guaranteed big money contracts. It got so bad that Vince had to start guaranteeing money as well, in order to keep Titan Sports from sinking like Titanic Sports. The new blood and the hot WCW vs. NWO feud would keep Bischoff on top for most of the next year and a half, but time and greed, and a lack of focus, would eventually send my former company into a tailspin … to the point that their audience is now limited mainly to older men and kids whose parents won’t let them watch our show. For his part, Vince never panicked and instead focused his shows around his remaining stars and new additions like myself, Austin, and Goldust, who were more than happy to pick up the pieces.

  Strangely, in retrospect, losing so much talent may have actually helped the World Wrestling Federation, as well as the competition, and wrestling in general. The loss cleaned out a lot of talent that was stale, made for better morale in the dressing room, ignited the wrestling “war” that spring-loaded the sport’s resurgence, and, most important, allowed thirty-year-old Mick Foley a chance to have the spotlight.

  I had been training diligently for my next Pay-Per-View match, which I had high hopes for. In a period of twenty-four hours, I had gone from trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do on the show with Marc Mero, to being told I would wrestle the champion, Shawn Michaels. Wow, I went from being a curtain jerker to wrestling one of the top guys in the business-with one phone call.

  I was excited as hell about working with Michaels, who had a reputation for two things-being a pain in the ass and being a brilliant performer. As far as being a pain in the ass, well, I got along fine with him, even though I couldn’t blame others who didn’t. As far as being a brilliant performer, he certainly was. He actually looked like the perfect opponent for me, in that he was everything I wasn’t. Small, handsome, a great physique, athletic, and a decent dancer too. He was actually a classic babyface wrapped inside a nineties’ attitude. I watched hours of tapes of Michaels, hoping to pick up on certain things he did. Instead, I learned that it wasn’t necessarily what he did, but how he did it. Literally everything he did looked good. I didn’t have to worry about copying anyone else-I would just do it my way, and Shawn Michaels would take care of the rest.

  The match, to be held at the Philadelphia CoreStates Center, was on my mind for hours every day. I could visualize every detail and had no doubt that it would be a tremendous match. Going into the match, I was more confident than ever before. I was completely focused, and I knew that I was in shape-a factor that usually haunts me until the moment I step into the ring. That night in Philly I was given interview time to try to turn the fans against me. The World Wrestling Federation crowd was vast in scope compared to the Bingo Hall, but the old Cactus Jack still had his share of fans in the City of Brotherly Love. I don’t know if my interview was successful, but there were certainly fewer Mankind fans when I was through. I was also met with scattered shouts of “You sold out,” which had been common throughout my Federation tenure. I still don’t understand the whole “you sold out” mentality. Selling out suggests going against personal principles and priorities for the sake of money. I guess, in that case, I need to check my personal principles and priorities in wrestling, which are:

  I like to wrestle.

  I like to do it well, and in front of a large number of people.

  I like to be paid well for doing so.

  So far, during my four-month run in the Federation, I was wrestling better in front of bigger audiences, and for more money than I ever had before. So even though I usually carry enough guilt with me to start my own religion, in the case of Foley vs. the selfish fans of the world, I was innocent of all charges.

  The match itself was even better than I could ever have expected. The pace was tremendous, the timing was perfect, the story was well told, the crowd was hot, and the execution was excellent. We put twenty-seven minutes into what was undoubtedly the finest match of my career. There is no doubt in my mind that it was the best match of the year, and one of the greatest in history. Unfortunately, it often goes overlooked when classic matches are talked about, because it was a matchup with no real history, on a card that was relatively free of hype, and ended with a finish that many didn’t like. While it’s true that the run-in ending featuring Vader, Psycho Sid, and the Undertaker did tarnish the match a tiny bit, I don’t think it should detract from the other twenty-six minutes and forty-five seconds that we worked so hard on. I think it also should be noted that Mind Games in Philadelphia in September 1996 was the first time that Shawn Michaels and Mick Foley had ever faced each other in any way, shape, or form. It was truly a special night, and try as I might, I don’t think I’ve ever been quite that good again. This match is also on the short list of the three best things I’ve ever done in wrestling.

  Coming off the heels of Mind Games, I was pumped for my next Pay-Per-View engagement-this time a main event with the Undertaker called Buried Alive. The goal was simple-take your opponent from the ring to the graveyard, which was located by the entrance, and “bury” him alive. Now obviously, no one was really going to die, but we had ourselves a hell of a match anyway. I actually lost the match, after being partially buried, but with a little help from Terry Gordy as the Executioner was able to put the Dead Man in the ground. At one point, the office wanted me and Terry to fill the hole by ourselves, but I thought the prospect of filling a six-foot-by-four-foot hole
with two guys might be a little unrealistic. As it turned out, my intuition was wise, because not only was I exhausted from wrestling for twenty minutes, but my partner the Executioner was filling the hole in the same manner that a cat covers up poop in a litter box. Thankfully, every bad guy in the company helped out, and even with all that help, we still only got the hole half filled. Then, dramatically, a lightning bolt hurtled through the audience and struck the grave, and the Undertaker’s gloved hand broke through the earth as Jim Ross yelled, “He’s alive, he’s alive,” as we went off the air. When we went off the air, the Undertaker emerged through the dirt, where he was helped to the back. No, I’m sorry, that’s not what happened. When we went off the air, the wrestlers dug him out of the grave, and he received emergency medical treatment. No, that wasn’t it either. Oh yeah, I remember.

  When we went off the air, the New Rockers’ music played, and Marty Jannetty and Al Snow came running out to wrestle the Bushwhackers in a special “bonus” match.

  Once home, I threw a tremendous Halloween party for my kids and their friends. Our new playset was up, and we rented a moonwalk for the driveway, which was a huge success. Following last year’s Batman-with-cowboy-boots embarrassment, I gave in and let the kids buy the cheesy costumes I had once sworn they never would. So it was with just a bit of sadness that I watched my children kill off tradition, dressed as Buzz Lightyear and a Banana in Pajamas.

  On the heels of Buried Alive, I came back again against the Undertaker in November’s Survivor Series in what was probably the biggest disappointment of my career. In front of the Madison Square Garden fans I was amazingly mediocre. It was a tough one to put behind me, but I vowed to have a strong showing on the following evening’s Raw.

  My opponent the next evening was Steve Austin, in what was the first ever Mankind-Stone Cold match, or the first singles match that Steve Austin and Mick Foley had ever been in … period. Steve’s character was really catching on, and he’d just had a tremendous Survivor Series match with Brett Hart. Steve and I had been talking frequently about the contracts we’d recently been offered that, while not embarrassing, were not nearly on the level of Marc Mero. This filled us both with the potent combination of pride and anger, and we vowed to show Vince the error of his contractual ways. Without even talking about what we’d do, we tore the house down in a match that many called the best Raw match in several years. There was nothing fancy about it, just a great give-and-take contest, but the intensity was high, and the chemistry was there, as it would continue to be during our World Wrestling Federation history.