The Hardcore Diaries

by Mick Foley

  The show was great. Katie was great, treating my whole family as if we were honored guests. It’s been so common in my experiences with journalists and television personalities to be on the receiving end of cheap shots or to be treated condescendingly. Katie did neither, which is probably why she’s Katie…and they’re not. She also flattered me by signing her children’s book The Brand New Kid to me in a nice way. And in a moment I have publicly claimed was the highlight of my career (much to the chagrin of fans who thought having a tooth sticking out of my nose in Hell in a Cell should have won the honors), Katie even held eight-month-old little Mick in her arms to end the show.

  To top it all off, Katie Couric, unbeknownst to her, helped me get my release from WWE.

  It was November 5, 2001—just a few days after my Halloween hobnob-bing with Katie. WWE was at the Nassau Coliseum, about thirty minutes from my house, but upon arriving at the arena, I was told I wasn’t booked on the show. I guess it would have made too much sense. I was told, however, that J.R. wanted to see me.

  J.R. is Jim Ross, Raw announcer extraordinaire and, at that time, head of WWE talent relations. Basically, J.R. was the liaison between the talent (wrestlers, etc.) and Vince—possibly one of the world’s most stressful jobs. J.R. probably won’t play much of a role in this book, unlike my other two WWE books, and after this little story, his name might not even resurface. So I will take this time to point out how instrumental he has been in my career. He helped get me my job at WCW, was almost solely responsible for doing likewise at WWE, where over Vince’s consistently unenthusiastic response he waged a steady campaign of support on my behalf for many years.

  It seems that every few years, J.R. gets taken for granted and is sent out to pasture. And every time, he comes back with a renewed, albeit temporary sense of respect from WWE. I sincerely hope that respect will at some time become permanent.

  While I’m on the subject of J.R., let me take the time to send a personal message to Vince concerning his 2005 treatment of J.R., which I’m sure WWE employees will be hustling to have edited, and which, no doubt, Vince will read and respond to with, “If that’s the way he feels, print it.”

  Vince, colon surgery is serious. Not only that, it’s a sensitive issue. It’s not funny. Exploiting it and humiliating a loyal employee because of it is not only in poor taste but downright baffling to me. As far as I know, only one person found it funny—you.

  Back to November 2001. I walked into J.R.’s office at the Nassau Coliseum. He looked up at me, that ubiquitous black cowboy hat on his head, a concession on his part to a time when Vince thought plain old Jim Ross wasn’t entertaining enough.

  “I heard about that Today show deal,” J.R. said.

  “I guess no one’s ever had WWE banned from an appearance before, huh.”

  “No, can’t say they have.” J.R. then got serious, leaning forward in his chair. He said, “Mick, we think we’re at a pivotal point in our relationship with you here.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  “Vince and I feel that if we were to keep you here, it might very well prevent us from doing business together in the future.”

  “I think you’re right,” I said.

  “But if we were to let you go, now, we might be able to do business in the future.”

  “You mean?”

  “Mick, we’re going to let you out of your contract.”

  Yes, free at last, free at last, thank…never mind. Sure, it was important, but not quite worthy of ripping off Dr. King’s famous speech. But for now, it was good to be free. So, with the exception of one final Raw, where I was infamously flown out to Charlotte, North Carolina, just to be fired aboard the WWE private jet, I was free.

  Free to pursue my own projects. Free to fail at them. Free to come back, of my own volition, with my tail tucked between my legs. But that was all off in the future. It would be eighteen months before I would see Vince McMahon again.

  May 2, 2006

  Dear Hardcore Diary,

  Who knows when inspiration will hit, or why? Some of the world’s greatest songs have been written on napkins or matchbook covers when inspiration struck at unlikely moments.

  I do know that I’ve just become inspired in a fairly unlikely place—a small commuter plane en route from Columbus, Ohio, to New York’s LaGuardia Airport. Luckily, I have my trusty notebook on hand, so no napkins or match-books will be required to document my extraordinary burst of brainpower.

  I once heard Julie Miller, one of my favorite singers, repeat a line that she’d grown up hearing—that there was no such thing as problems, only solutions. Well, the road to wrestling immortality is littered with these types of problems, bumps, and potholes blocking the creative process—bumps and potholes requiring immediate solutions. Because without those immediate solutions, that ultimate destination, wrestling immortality, can be an impossible place to reach.

  I know “wrestling immortality” sounds like a pretty pompous phrase. Wrestling fans are an extremely loyal group, but man, they can be a little fickle, too. Which I guess they should be. After all, they are constantly bombarded with spectacular images, dramatic storylines, and an ever-increasing array of physical maneuvers. During the late 1990s the stakes got incredibly high, and the Monday Night Wars between WWE and Ted Turner’s WCW upped the physical and creative ante to an unprecedented degree. Wrestling fans have seen so much, so often, that they have indeed become a little jaded.

  Yet even within this overcrowded context, it remains possible to capture a special magic, to catch lightning in our own twenty-by-twenty-foot bottle, to etch an indelible sports entertainment memory into the heart of even the most jaded of our fans. It’s those types of memories that made me love this stuff as a kid. It’s the very possibility of creating those types of memories for others that keeps me loving it today.

  And it was that type of indelible memory that seemed to be in jeopardy when I was given the news in Columbus that some unnamed person had taken issue with one of my ideas. Hell, it wasn’t just any idea—it was my best idea. It was the idea that made me call up Vince in the first place to request our historic meeting. It was the idea that had people falling out of their chairs in laughter at the damn meeting. It was the idea that was going to make millions of fans sit up, take notice, and realize in the course of just a few minutes that Terry Funk was someone to take seriously enough to tune in for next week’s Raw. Seriously enough to pay to see him at the ECW Pay-Per-View on June 11.

  Terry Funk is the greatest wrestler I’ve ever seen. I’m not saying he is the greatest wrestler ever, only the greatest that I have ever personally witnessed. No one made an impact quicker than Terry Funk, and there has never been a more believable wildman in the history of the game. Maybe Bruiser Brody was just as wild in the ring, but in my mind, when it came to a combination of ring work, promos, and antics that made even grizzled veterans suspend disbelief, no one could beat my friend and mentor Terry Funk.

  I still marvel at old tapes of the Funker in action, still wonder how he could just seemingly take over a wrestling show in a few short weeks. Whether it was building toward a bloody climax in the 1970s with Dusty Rhodes in the old Florida territory, or building intense heat in anticipation for the return of an injured Ric Flair in WCW in 1989, no one got over quicker, or was more authentic in their madness, than Terry Funk.

  He claimed to be “middle-age crazy” during that classic Flair feud. He was forty-two then, and yet it took him only a few weeks to make that whole show his own. But now, at sixty, he’s no longer middle age, he’s just damn old, and he no longer has a few weeks to make his presence felt, he has only a few precious minutes.

  So just how exactly can a sixty-year-old man, who hasn’t been seen in WWE rings in eight years, who is a virtual unknown to a large majority of our fans, be expected to become a main-event star in just a few short minutes of natural television exposure? After all, getting over with the fans isn’t easy—if it was, everyone would be doing it. There’s no
scientific formula, no magic wand to wave, even if Ric Flair did once insinuate that Vince McMahon had worked some type of special magic to turn a loser like me into a WWE champion.

  No, there’s no magic formula, but when it came to the WWE return of Terry Funk, I believed I had the next best thing. Terry Funk was going to bite a chunk out of Vince McMahon’s ass.

  Only, if a person on the creative team had their way, there would be no ass-biting, no instantaneous star-making, no reason to tune in next week, no reason to pay for the privilege of seeing an all-time great like Terry Funk.

  Why? They were worried. “How will it look if someone who isn’t even on our roster is the downfall of the ‘Kiss My Ass Club’?”

  I pleaded my case to Brian Gewirtz. He and I have always gotten along, possibly because he was a huge fan of mine during his formative years, and possibly because we each considered Professor Bob Thompson to be our favorite teacher in our respective college years. I had Thompson at SUNY Cortland, where he concluded that my senior film project (which consisted in part of a deranged doctor using human testicles as deadly projectile weapons) was an expression of a hidden longing to be a woman.

  Gewirtz had him several years later at Syracuse, thirty miles north and about twenty grand a year more expensive than my alma mater. To the best of my knowledge, Professor Thompson (who will actually love being in this book, as it will no doubt endear him to a whole new generation of communications nerds) made no such repressed-gender-jumping conclusion in regards to Brian Gewirtz.

  Professor Thompson and I still talk about once a year, and even discussed our fond mutual recollections of our respective Today show appearances with Katie Couric. We both agreed that making Katie laugh was one of life’s great moments. “It’s just such an honor to give her any type of pleasure,” Bob said. I agreed with the professor, and suggested maybe one day, the three of us, me, Bob, and former presidential candidate Bob Dole, could all get together to swap warm, fuzzy stories of our good times with Katie.

  Where was I? Oh yeah, Gewirtz. Yeah, I was pleading my case to him, even pointing out that the mere suggestion of the “Kiss My Ass Club” closing up due to a mere chunk out of an ass was ludicrous. “Why would it have to be the end?” I said. “Why couldn’t Vince just reinstate the club a few months later? He could do it with a whole new intensity, a sense of vengeance.”

  Gewirtz knows my passion for good storytelling and knows that in my mind, leaving the bite out of the ass of Vince McMahon would be like leaving the bite out of the apple in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Sure, you’d still have some funny gags and some likable characters, but no heat on the heel and a big hole in the storyline.

  “I’m not saying that it won’t get done,” Gewirtz said.

  “Only that it might not get done, right?”

  “Right.”

  Damn, I couldn’t take that chance. Not if I wanted this idea of mine to have a fighting chance at attaining immortality. From time to time, I’ve been accused of doing things only for the paycheck. And from time to time that’s true. Hey, not every idea is a great one, and sometimes a paycheck is our only solace. I even found out last night that a guy I considered a good friend had referred to me as a “whore” at a creative meeting a few years earlier—as a guy who did things only for the money. Again, I’ll admit to being guilty of that occasionally, even if “whore” is probably a little rougher term than I deserve.

  I should have been more pumped up following last night’s Raw. Man, we’d really laid down a hell of a foundation on which to build our program. But that conversation with Gewirtz was gnawing at me, taking little bites out of my confidence like a tufted titmouse on the suet feeder hanging from the dead Japanese maple outside my kitchen window. (I’m trying to make this book somewhere in the PG-13 range, so I’ve got to work in words like titmouse where I can.)

  I just couldn’t take the chance. I had to come up with a new twist, a way to persuade Vince and the whole creative team that we could not only have Terry Funk take a chunk out of his ass, but create a long-term storyline that would see the eventual reformation of a “Kiss My Ass Club” that was bigger, better, and badder than ever.

  My answer? Melina. For most people reading this book, the name Melina is self-explanatory. But as I am occasionally reminded by mothers who picked up their son’s copy of Have a Nice Day, or Foley Is Good (and to a much, much lesser extent, my novels Tietam Brown and Scooter ) and couldn’t put them down, the idea of a reader not being familiar with the name Melina is not inconceivable. Unlikely, yes. Unfortunate, definitely. But not inconceivable.

  So for those moms and others not familiar with her, I will simply describe Melina as a beautiful young lady that I have come to feel almost like a big brother to. Assuming, of course, that my sister would be Latina, exotic, voluptuous, and possess the single greatest ring entrance in the history of sports entertainment. Possibly in the history of all entertainment. As I write this, I’m willing to bet that in the process of transforming my writing from handwritten notebook paper to towering best seller, someone will see fit to put a photograph in the book right about now, thereby relieving me of the responsibility of painting any real descriptive written portrait of the lovely Melina. Turn back a page; there she is. Beautiful, right? Take a good look, because that’s the girl who is going to save my idea, the girl who will clear the road to wrestling immortality.

  May 4, 2006

  Dear Hardcore Diary,

  I may have neglected a very important point in my last journal entry. You see, none of this stuff actually happens unless Vince McMahon says it does. Like President Bush, Vince ultimately is “the decider”; what he says goes. Unlike our president, Vince is a brilliant man, and although that brilliance doesn’t always take the form of good taste and decent judgments, he is open to good ideas that may cause him not to “stay the course” if indeed he can be convinced that the current course is not the most prudent one. That’s where I come in. Vince may be “the decider,” but I’m “the persuader.” I need to persuade Vince that my way is the better way, and because I feel very strongly about my idea, and the urgent need for Terry Funk to take a chunk out of Vince’s ass, I’m willing to give up something very important to get my way. What exactly am I willing to give up to get my way?

  My dignity.

  I want to be really honest about the development of this whole ECW story. But my idea involves the sacrifice of my dignity at a later date, to get what I want now. I don’t want to get into details about that later date, but I can assure all of you that it will be compelling TV. I hope it will result in that rare wrestling phenomenon—the story that actually makes people think and ask hard questions of themselves. Don’t get me wrong, I love what we do, and have come to really value the importance of the escapist entertainment we provide. I also accept that for an awful lot of hardworking people, WWE television programming is a welcome oasis of big, bold, over-the-top fun amid a desert of dreariness. A lot of our fans like to check their worries at the door and enjoy the show on its own unique merits.

  But I firmly believe that once they arrive at our location, we can occasionally hit them with images, incidents, words, or actions that make them take notice. Occasionally we can make them feel that genuine emotion—real anger, fear, or concern. Who knows how many goose bumps are raised cumulatively around the world on those special occasions?

  If this willing loss of dignity idea goes as planned, it will involve a few of those rare moments, and in the process create sympathy for one character, and considerable heat for two others.

  I did have one slight concern—I wanted to make sure that Melina, on whom this whole plot revolves, liked the idea. Either that, or I was looking for a cheap excuse to call her.

  I met Melina only a few months ago, and was immediately touched by her warmth and kindness, which served as a sharp contrast to the “she-witch” character I had become a big fan of on WWE television. It had never even crossed my mind that the cruel young lady on my TV screen mig
ht be someone I would like to know, let alone become so immediately protective and fond of.

  But if you think that fondness involves romantic visions or thoughts that are anything but of the utmost respect, you’d be absolutely right! No, wait, I didn’t mean that. You’d be wrong, dead wrong. Honestly. I swear. For reasons that I can’t quite explain, talking to her brings about only feelings of childhood innocence. Hey, there’s a lot of things I can’t explain about myself. Why exactly am I listening to classical Christmas music as I write this, over eight months before Christmas? Why am I writing it in a year-round Christmas room, for that matter? Why do I leave drawings my kids made nine years ago up on my wall, as if the oak paneling was some sort of giant refrigerator, meant for little children’s artwork?

  As some of you who saw Beyond the Mat might remember, my daughter Noelle went through a stretch of time where she had a rather unusual favorite word. Well, the drawing I’m looking at now was obviously created during that “nipple” phase, as every Foley member in this family portrait features a prominent set of them.

  I can’t explain exactly why I keep them taped to the wall, or why I have the Christmas fixation, except for a very uneducated guess that all this stuff helps me reclaim the innocence of youth, and that every good thing in my life somehow leads me back to Jefferson, New Hampshire, and the trip to Santa’s Village my parents took me on when I was only three years old.

  Don’t get me wrong, I get improper thoughts all the time. As a matter of fact, in about three weeks, I will be doing a radio interview with Christy Canyon, the former adult film star that I used to have improper thoughts about quite regularly. Occasionally, I even acted on them. So, yeah, I get improper thoughts, just like everyone else. But Melina is not responsible for them. As a matter of fact, with the exception of a couple of borderline Candice Michelle thoughts, and a momentary Stacy Keibler exception, I have had nothing but proper thoughts about the whole Diva crew.