Have a Nice Day

by Mick Foley

  How could I disagree? At this point I didn’t think they would buy a match with me against anyone. Who knows-maybe a Mankind vs. Al Snow match with a loser must wrestle Pete Gas for a year stipulation wasn’t far away. I decided to verify my intuition by asking Russo, “So, I’m definitely out of the cell match,” I said with a whole lot of sadness in my voice.

  “No, no,” an excited Russo corrected me, “you’re still in the cell, it’s just that you’ll be in there with the Undertaker. Austin will wrestle Kane for the title.”

  I was overjoyed, but minutes after hanging up, I was plagued with feelings of certain failure in the cell. “I’m screwed,” I thought. “I suck inside a cage. Undertaker has a broken foot. No one cares about me, and besides, was the world really calling out for a sixth Mankind-Undertaker Pay-Per-View encounter?” At that point, I had no idea that it would be the most talked-about match of my career.

  A couple of weeks before the show, I made the tactical error of stopping by the World Wrestling Federation corporate offices in Stamford, Connecticut. It wasn’t stopping there that was the error, it was whom I brought with me, the legendary bastion of common sense, Terry Funk. We were on our way to Providence from a show in Connecticut, and we decided to stop by the office for a workout. Titan Towers probably has the most well-equipped gym of any office building in the country. After I finished punishing my pectorals and bombing my biceps, I called and asked the home video department if I could take a look at Bad Blood, the Pay-Per-View during which last year’s Hell in a Cell had taken place. I sat in a little office with the Funker as we watched Hell in a Cell unfold. “Damn,” I was thinking as I sat there watching Michaels and the Undertaker tear down the house, “there’s no way we’re going to live up to this.”

  There was one part in particular that had been impressive. It consisted of a frantic Michaels climbing outside of the cell to get away from the unstoppable ‘Taker. He got to the top, but there was nowhere to go, and ‘Taker had wreaked havoc all over the top of the cell. Michaels had actually been backdropped and slammed on the ceiling, and I winced at the sight of the 200-pound Heartbreak Kid’s body bouncing off the steel mesh. Finally, Michaels was dangling precariously off the side of the cage and ended up dropping onto the table from about the eight-foot mark in a scene that would live on for the next year via video highlights.

  Terry and I just sat there for a few minutes, without saying a word. Finally, Terry spoke up. “Cactus,” he mumbled, “that one is going to be difficult to beat.”

  “I know,” I agreed. “Plus I’m a hundred pounds heavier than Shawn-I just can’t do some of the things in that cage that he can.” Once again, we sat in silence for a couple of minutes. I was the one to break the silence. “What do you think I should do?” I asked my mentor, friend, and hero.

  His answer would help make me professionally and damn near break me physically. “I think you ought to start the match on top of the cage.” You’d think I would know better than to listen to Terry Funk.

  We continued to talk on the way to the show, but it was mostly joking around. “Goddamn, Cac,” the Funker said, laughing, “maybe you should let him throw you off the top of the cage.”

  “Yeah,” I shot back, “then I could climb back up-and he could throw me off again.” Man, that was a good one, and we were having a good time thinking of completely ludicrous things to do inside, outside, and on top of the cage. After a while I got serious and said quietly to Terry, “I think I can do it.”

  It took quite a while for me to remember the events surrounding Hell in a Cell. Which should give you some indication as to how it turned out. It took several weeks and repeated viewings of the match itself, to piece the whole scene together. I felt kind of like a private eye trying to put together the mystery of my own life. Now, almost a year later, I’ve got a good handle on the biggest and most memorable night of my fifteen-year career.

  I had told the Undertaker a week before the match that I was planning on starting the match on top of the cage. He hadn’t seemed real positive about it. Let’s face it, I had to tell him. Otherwise, if he walked out, saw me standing up on the top and decided not to follow, I would look like a big dummy climbing back down. Every day I would ask him, and every day he would shoot it down.

  The day before the match, I asked him again. He shook his head and asked me a question-not as the deep and dark Undertaker, but as a guy who had known me for eight years and who had, over the course of some titanic battles, developed a bond with me. We’d beaten each other half to death it seemed and then looked out for each other when we were hurt. We hadn’t ridden together or shared a room since we first hooked up under different names, but we nonetheless shared a deep and mutual respect. “Jack,” he said, “why are you so intent on killing yourself up there?”

  “Because,” I answered seriously, “I’m afraid this match is going to stink. You can’t walk, and, let’s face it, I don’t have any heat. We’ve got a heck of a legacy to live up to, and I don’t want this match to ruin it. If we can start it out hot enough, we can make people think we had a hell of a match even if we didn’t.”

  Taker thought it over and I thought I could see him cracking. “I’ll think about it,” he said before we parted ways.

  My music played and I walked down the aisle with my rusty steel chair. I got to the cage and threw the chair onto the top, as I planned to make use of it later. I put my fingers in the mesh and started to climb. I slipped. I tried to climb again, but my toes wouldn’t fit into the mesh to get a foothold. I cursed my half-thimbleful of natural athletic ability. For a minute, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to climb the damn thing. I did, but it sure as hell wasn’t pretty, and when I got to the top, I had no feeling in my right index finger from pulling so hard on the fence. It would actually take a week for all the feeling to come back.

  I stood up there in nervous anticipation and the scene recalled the memory of my scaffold match in Fort Worth. I enjoyed the feeling of power, but at the same time feared the results of what was about to go down. I had a sick feeling in my stomach, and my legs felt as if they could barely keep me up. A loud bong signaled the imminent arrival of the Undertaker, and the Pittsburgh Civic Arena rose in unison in anticipation of his eerie entrance. I had seen that entrance at least a hundred times, but it still often gave me the chills. I remembered the way I felt when his music played in the Market Square Arena in Indianapolis as we got ready to be “buried alive.” Paul Bearer had looked at me that night and showed me his arm, which was lined with goose bumps. I had smiled and shown him mirie, which was equally bumped. This was different, though. I was confident then. Quite frankly, I was scared as hell now.

  A blue spotlight shone, and the Pittsburgh fans held up lighters as was the custom when the Phenom was about to walk the aisle. Theatrical smoke filled the entranceway, and then he was there, walking through the smoke like a six-foot, ten-inch John Wayne. “Damn, I wish I had an entrance like that,” I thought as I took the opportunity to look down at the Spanish announcing team, who had the most hazardous jobs in the business. The height was incredible-sixteen feet down, but over twenty-two feet from my vantage point. I had been scared before, but it had always been a “good” scared. This was not good at all. I saw no chance for a happy ending. I walked back to face the aisle, and the

  ‘Taker was about to ascend. “This is it,” I thought. “Showtime!” ‘Taker climbed the mesh and even with a broken foot, he did it a hell of a lot quicker than I did. He peeked his head up and I gave him a shot, which left him hanging by a hand. Another one had him dangling again, but he blocked a third and came firing back. This gave him time to get up, but when he did, I was there to meet with a chair across the back. Thwack! It was a good one. Thwack! again. Another solid shot. I took the ‘Taker and started to walk with him. The crowd gasped as the cage sagged and almost gave way. We took another step, and the cage sagged even more beneath our 600 pounds. I attempted to suplex him on my chair, but he cut me off and had me headed
toward the edge of the cell structure. He grabbed me by my shirt and trunks, and suddenly I was airborne-sixteen feet high and falling fast, as the Spanish announcers dove for cover. It was the scariest moment of my life, but almost a relief when I landed on the announcer table and felt it crumple beneath my weight. I had missed the monitors, which was my biggest concern, and landed about as perfectly as one could hope for, but the impact had spun me halfway underneath the security railing so that my legs were in the audience. My upper body, meanwhile, was covered with the debris of the table. “Good God almighty,” J. R. had yelled upon the impact. “With God as my witness, he’s been broken in half.”

  Actually, I felt surprisingly all right as I lay there among the wreckage. My shoulder was hurting, as it had become dislocated from the fall, and I felt a dull pain in my kidney area. Other than that, I felt okay. I actually had a feeling of inner peace about me as I was tended to by officials, Terry, and even Vince, who had broken character by being legitimately concerned. “At least,” I mistakenly thought as I enjoyed the attention, “the worst is over.” I was about as wrong in that assessment as a human being can possibly be.

  The reaction of the crowd was phenomenal. I have never experienced or seen a reaction like it before, and I doubt I ever will again. For several days after the fact I would watch the video, and I never ceased to be amazed by the reaction. It was like a chain reaction as every single person in the place stood up, even though there was nothing left to see but a prone human body lying underneath what used to be a table. “Good God, he’s been-” I’d hear, and I would rewind the tape. “Good God, he’s-” Rewind. “Good God-” Rewind. The reaction lasted for minutes-changing from yells of disbelief to rhythmic hockey chants of “Un-Der-Tay-Ker,” clap, clap, clap.

  ‘Taker looked almost mythical as he stood perched atop the cage, especially when the cage began to ascend to make room for the stretcher, which was accompanied by a crew of emergency medical technicians. The technicians placed me on the gurney, and J. R. apologized for the short duration of the match. “How can you apologize for that?” countered Jerry “the King” Lawler, as I was rolled up the aisle. The Undertaker was already down the cage and on the floor when I rolled off the gurney and got to my feet. “Can you believe this?” said ]. R. in disbelief as I attempted once again to scale the cage. “And he’s got a smile on his face.”

  Climbing the cell with a dislocated shoulder was no easy task, but this time I wasn’t scared or hesitant-I was running on adrenaline. I was literally flying in my heart, as the Undertaker and I both raced to the top. The crowd reaction was unbelievable. They had sworn the match was over. They had just seen the damnedest thing in the history of the business, and now we were going to give them more.

  If I could change one thing about the match, it would be my next effort. A dynamic exchange of punches atop the sixteen-foot structure would have sent the crowd into a frenzy, but instead I stood there, sluglike, as the Undertaker battered me without any retaliation. He clubbed me once across my back with the chair and then unceremoniously dropped it on the cage. I really wish he would have put it somewhere else. Then he grabbed me around the neck for the “goozle,” or chokeslam.

  I didn’t remember a thing about the next two minutes as I watched the tape in great pain the next day. It was the only time in fifteen years that I have been knocked out cold. I had been knocked goofy countless times. I’d seen stars and rainbows and black patches as a way of life for a long time, but this was the first time that a period of time elapsed and I wasn’t aware of it. Like I said earlier, however, video and time have helped me to not only see but remember almost everything. Everything except what I was feeling as I broke through the mesh and crashed to the canvas.

  Looking back on it now, it was both the worst chokeslam and the best chokeslam that I’d ever taken. The worst because it was the only time in my association with the Undertaker that I haven’t gone high for the goozle. As matter of fact, one of my feet never left the cage. The best, because if I’d taken it correctly, I very well might have been dead. As it was, I landed hard on my back, my neck, and the back of my head. If I’d gone higher, I would have landed directly on my head and I probably wouldn’t be here-at least not in control of my limbs. It was indeed a violent, brutal fall, made worse by the fact that I landed in one of the “old” Federation rings, which have little give. The new Federation rings obviously have some give to them-actually, too much give for my taste. But the old rings were torturous in their stiffness, and guys were getting hurt too often and careers were ending early. As a concession, new rings were made, and yes, they bounce-but to tell you the truth, the fans don’t seem to care.

  To make matters worse, the chair that was placed on the cage followed my body down and smashed into my face from a height of twelve and a half feet. The blow to my face would result in one and a half teeth being knocked out, a dislocated jaw, and a hole beneath my lip that I could stick my tongue through.

  “Enough is enough! Would somebody stop the damn match!” J. R. yelled as the ring filled up immediately with medical personnel, office personnel, and Terry Funk. I get goose bumps thinking about it even now, as Ross’s call was not part of a wrestling match, but a legitimate cry for my well-being. It was probably the most dramatic call I have ever heard in any sport. Purists can have “The Giants win the pennant, the Giants win the pennant,” but I’ll take “Would somebody stop the damn match!” any day.

  Francois Petit and the EMTs tried to help me as I lay on my back with my arms outstretched and my legs sickly twisted to one side. I later asked the Undertaker what he thought when he looked down at me from atop the cell. His answer was chilling in its simplicity: “I thought you were dead.”

  I actually rolled over at one point, and when I regained consciousness, I saw a pair of sneakers in the ring. “That’s strange,” I thought as I tried to gain my bearings. What happened while I was out was actually a marvel of impromptu ingenuity and a credit to the business. As I mentioned in the first chapter, in a real sport, the action would surely stop if a player was knocked out. But no, we are not a real sport, and no, the action doesn’t stop. Instead, all the guys tried to buy me some time in hopes that I would come to, in time.

  The Undertaker held on to the cage, but free-fell several feet, and you could see him visibly wince and hobble from the pain in his broken foot. Unlike gymnast Kerri Strug, who vaulted to fame on the basis of one landing on a sprained ankle, there would be no White House visits for the Undertaker-only the recognition from the people who know what a tough bastard he really is. Terry Funk was there to meet him and willingly took a chokeslam to give me more time. TV showed multiple replays of my fall through the cage, and when they came back, I was on my feet, but just barely. “I don’t believe it,” said a stunned J. R. “He’s either crazy or he’s the toughest SOB I’ve ever seen.”

  “How is he still standing?” inquired the King, to which J. R. quickly answered, “I don’t have a damn clue.”

  The Undertaker threw a punch, and I went down-slowly. It may have been the saddest bump ever taken, because there was no strength left in my body. I don’t want to sound dramatic or pat myself on the back, but I really had been standing on sheer will alone. Now, as I lay in a heap, it seemed that even my will was gone. “Jack, let’s go home,” the ‘Taker quietly said to me.

  “No, no. I’m okay,” I replied in a statement that had to be right up there with telling Vince I liked “Mason the Mutilator” as the biggest whopper I ever told.

  He took hold of my hand and, in a trademark ‘Taker move, ascended to the top rope. Usually, this move results in a massive flying forearm across the chest, but this was no usual match, and I forced the Dead Man off his perch, so that he crotched himself on the top rope. In reality, he was trying to buy me more time, as it was still readily apparent that while the lights might have been on, there was nobody home. Students of the wrestling game have talked about this match for the last year, and most of the accolades have been in
my direction, as if Undertaker was just some innocent bystander who happened to be in this historic match. The truth is, without the Undertaker’s poise and experience, the match would have been over right after the chokeslam through the cage. The Hell in a Cell is actually the closest example I’ve ever seen of one wrestler “bottle feeding” another, until I was able to take my first baby steps.

  With the Undertaker temporarily incapacitated, the camera zoomed in on me to discover two rather odd findings. One, I appeared to be smiling, and two, there was something white sticking out of my nose. Actually, I wasn’t smiling, but was trying to let the camera get a look at me sticking my tongue through the hole under my lip. Unfortunately, with all the blood and facial hair in the way, the audience didn’t get to share that special moment. As far as the white thing sticking out of my nose, it was not, as first thought, a piece of table or even a white booger. It was actually half of a tooth. How it got there has been the subject of a great deal of speculation. The tooth almost seemed like the magic bullet in the JFK assassination. Did it go through the mouth and out the sinus cavity as some felt, or was it more likely to have just moved the two inches from mouth to nose, as I have come to believe? To add intrigue to the plot-just who picked up the whole tooth that was lying on the mat and had it sitting in a glass of milk when I returned from the ring?

  The match continued for several minutes, and as the fog in my brain lifted, I realized that my right kidney area was in tremendous pain. A look at the videotape reveals that the kidney is where the initial contact with the table was made. As I mounted an offense, I followed up a piledriver on a chair with a leg drop that was given with that same chair placed over the ‘Taker’s face. When I landed, I was aware of the incredible pain. That kidney would actually hurt me for the next eight weeks.

  After the leg drop, I stuck my opponent with a double arm DDT and bailed out of the ring to search for the “special surprise” that I had promised the fans. I returned with a large canvas bag. I reached into my special bag and withdrew it to reveal about a hundred silver tacks that sparkled in the light of the Pittsburgh Civic Arena (The Igloo). I scattered the tacks on the ground, and as the crowd stood in anticipation, I dumped the contents of the entire bag, revealing about 6,000 tacks in all. Since my introduction of thumbtacks into the world of sports-entertainment three years earlier, they had begun making their presence in small independent shows, but this was the first national exposure that the pushpins had garnered.