The Hardcore Diaries

by Mick Foley

  Fortunately, little Mickey, now five, disagrees. He likes his dad’s music just fine, but he can be just a little on the compulsive side when he finds a tune he truly loves. So over the course of the last few years, Foley family vacations have tended to become dominated by one particular song played continuously for days on end. Hershey, Pennsylvania, 2004 was the “We Will Rock You” vacation. Santa’s Village 2005 was Tom T. Hall’s “Sneaky Snake” and “Everybody Loves to Hear a Bird Sing.” But for everyday usage, for sheer frequency over an extended time, nothing could come close to AC/DC’s “Stiff Upper Lip.” Until, of course, the little guy happened to hear “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” and his dad made the decision to put the Stay Hungry CD into the car stereo, a place it would remain without pause for several months.

  I’ll get to Twisted Sister in a few moments, but for now, let’s get back to “Stiff Upper Lip.” Sure, it was a good song, maybe even great. Rugged Angus Young guitar riff, typical over-the-top Brian Johnson braggadocio on the mike. But come on, hundreds of plays over the course of the years? “Play it again, Dad.” Over and over? It just lacked that certain something that turns a great song into a classic. It wasn’t the top-down, feel-good adrenaline rush of “You Shook Me All Night Long” or the spine-tingling slow build of “Hells Bells.” Although I guess I should count my blessings—at least my little guy wasn’t happily crooning along to “Big Balls” or “Given the Dog a Bone.”

  Hey, I just ran to my stereo to find that the Back in Black album was actually still on the turntable, a part of a failed experiment in my WrestleMania conditioning program, where I came to realize that no music, no matter how cool or how loud, was going to disguise the fact that the Foley knees just can’t tolerate Hindu squats anymore.

  But, hell, it will make for great writing music. So last night it was Tschaikovsky, tonight Angus Young. How’s that for versatility?

  Come to think of it, Angus was the main reason I wanted to TiVo AC/ DC’s performance on the 2000 Saturday Night Live hosted by The Rock. Sure, it was the show that helped launch The Rock into the stratosphere, but for me, it seemed like my only chance to capture “Stiff Upper Lip” live, thereby showing little Mick and new “Lip” fan Hughie what true Angus rock-and-roll faces look like. Sure, the image of a fifty-year-old man dressed in a schoolboy outfit might be a little frightening, but not necessarily any more so than the sight of Don Zimmer in a spandex baseball outfit. Or his dad (Hughie’s dad, not Zimmer’s) in tights and brown leather mask, for that matter.

  I entered AC/DC into my TiVo wish list about a month ago, a move that was bearing no musical fruit until one fateful day, when the 2000 Saturday Night Live popped up under “Upcoming Programs.” I hit record and waited for May 3, the scheduled air date, to arrive.

  I watched the show this morning with my children, and found it did more than live up to my fond remembrance of it. The Rock was spectacular, and very much deserving of the attention Hollywood lavished on him as a result of it. Cheri Oteri was every bit as beautiful as I remembered her, and seeing her made me think back to how nice I was to her nephew, so that Cheri would think I was cool.

  As for AC/DC—they rocked. Little Mick seemed transfixed by the classic Angus mannerisms, and Hughie happily belted out the same few words over and over. “Stiff lip, stiff lip, oh stiff lip, oh stiff lip.” Granted, the lyrics in their entirety are not likely to be confused with Bob Dylan’s best from the sixties, but come on, a song with only three words in it would be a little ridiculous, right? Wait a second, my “Dude Love” theme music had only three words in it: “Dude Love, Dude Love, Dude Love baby, Dude Love.”

  Mickey and Hughie, my little rock-and-rollers.

  Courtesy of the Foley family.

  Unfortunately, watching “Stiff Upper Lip” also brought back some bad memories, long-repressed images of horror that had seemingly been brushed from my conscious thoughts. But as I watched my little guys rocking out in the Foley Christmas room, those distant visions come flooding back, putting me face-to-face with two truths I could no longer deny.

  It all started as a great bonding experience. Although The Rock was clearly the star of the show, Vince had done a little maneuvering that allowed me, Triple H, and Big Show to appear as well, a move that we hoped would create interest in our upcoming four-way main event at the 2000 WrestleMania . The Rock, of course, was the other entrant. At first, we all kind of felt like dogs trying to pick scraps off Rock’s plate. There just seemed to be no reason for us to be there.

  Fortunately, one of WWE’s writers, Tommy Blotcha, who came from a background as one of Conan O’Brien’s writers, was able to make some changes that gave us all a little more to do on the show. It all came off well, did monster ratings, helped The Rock immensely, and for a short time made Big Show look like a potential breakout comedy performer. I still think Show should give Hollywood a real shot one of these days.

  Yeah, it all worked out well in the end, but during that interim period, the three of us scrap-pickers all stuck together, passing the time by exaggerating our in-ring abilities, waiting for the AC/DC sound check that we hoped would be the highlight of the day.

  The boys didn’t disappoint, tearing through not only their two scheduled songs on the show but three others as well for the benefit of the couple dozen cast and crew members who enjoyed the hell out of their own little mini-concert. They even dedicated “Highway to Hell” to us sports entertainers, probably because they’d earned a small fortune lending the tune to WWE for its SummerSlam Austin vs. Undertaker showdown.

  We were all rocking out when Triple H made the first shocking discovery. I know I’ve expressed my desire to write a PG-13 book, and it seems like I’ve danced on the border of R-rated territory a couple of times. Something tells me I’m about to bust right over that border now. But, damn, there’s really no other way to put it. I’ve really got no other alternative but to quote Triple H directly on this one. And Triple H’s direct quote was pretty much, “Holy shit, look at the cock on Brian Johnson!”

  Of course we all looked. We simply had to. It wasn’t like he had it out and was waving it around. It was more subtle than that. But only slightly so. Because, I swear (and you can ask Hunter and Show about this), the damn thing ran about a third of the way down his thigh. It looked like an armadillo was resting in there. Like he was harvesting zucchinis or something. No wonder half the songs in his repertoire are thinly veiled tributes to his penis. I’d write songs about mine too, if it took up that type of room in my trousers.

  As I write this, I can almost see the legal red flags being raised. “You can’t print this,” I’ll be told. “It’s slanderous.” They tried the same stuff when I wrote Have a Nice Day and the zucchini farmer in question was Too Cold Scorpio. I’ll tell these lawyers the same thing I told the other ones—men don’t consider accusations of possessing a giant penis to be slanderous. They consider it a compliment. (Not that I’ve ever gotten one.) Besides, if Johnson decides to play rough, I’ll forewarn him—I’ve got witnesses. And they saw the same damn thing I did.

  We all did our best to enjoy the rest of the song, but found our effort to be in vain when Big Show unearthed an equally shocking image. “Oh, my God,” he said, in a voice befitting a seven-foot, 450-pound monster. “Look at Vince!”

  For the second time during the course of the same song, we turned our eyes to a hideous sight. And no, Vince wasn’t hiding animals in his shorts, or growing vegetables in his trousers. He was quite simply putting on one of the worst displays of dance moves ever witnessed by man or in this case, Mankind. This is where my limitations as a writer are obvious, because words alone simply cannot do justice to how bad Vince was. You have to use your imagination here. Think of Kenny Mayne on Dancing with the Stars, and multiply it by ten. No, it was worse than that. Think of Elaine Benes with the “thumbs-up” dance on Seinfeld. Then add a pompadour and shades of Elmore “crazy legs” Hirsch. You’re now in the general neighborhood.

  In the unlikely event that
Brian Johnson does indeed find my contention that he had a massive member to be slanderous, I think I may indeed have a solution, albeit a slightly erroneous one. I’ll simply do a little literary sleight of hand—pulling a slight switcheroo. In the new telling of the story, Johnson will have the bad dance moves, and Vince will have the produce department in his pants. Something tells me Vince wouldn’t mind that change at all.

  May 7, 2006

  Dear Hardcore Diary,

  My weight could pose a problem. I weighed in at 315 about ten days ago, when I started training in earnest for the ECW show. I realized that I’d dodged a bullet at WrestleMania, as my weight and conditioning wasn’t much of a factor. But that match had incorporated several strategic moments of rest following brutal action, which allowed me to catch my breath. I didn’t want to take any chances on this Pay-Per-View. I know the lead-up (unless the execution will be extremely screwed up) will be captivating, but unlike WrestleMania, this matchup is not just an “intangible”—it will be the foundation of the whole show.

  Sure, the title match (at this point looking to be John Cena vs. Rob Van Dam), will have great heat, and other matches will shock and awe, but I firmly believe our match will be the one on which success hinges.

  In all likelihood, I could get away with being 315. I mean with all the bells and whistles that the match will certainly entail, and with a tremendous partner like Edge to carry our team’s workload, I will probably be okay. I am still capable of short bursts of great energy, and as a guy who took Clint Eastwood’s Magnum Force advice—“A man’s got to know his limitations”—to heart a long time ago, I do have a knack for working to my strengths and avoiding my weaknesses.

  All the same, I’d really like to put “endurance” on the “strengths” list, which will require a couple of definite sacrifices. I need to work my ass off (or at least a good portion of it) in the gym, and I have to learn to just say no to all the candy, cakes, pies, chips, and especially ice cream that have been the staples of the Mick Foley diet for quite a while.

  Actually, I eat a sensible, balanced diet for about twenty-three and a half hours a day. That other thirty minutes, however, can get a little ugly. That refrigerator (or freezer) door opens, and common sense just seems to disappear. I’ve made some pretty startling rationalizations while assuming that late-night/early-morning refrigerator stance. I have convinced myself that the rice in rice pudding is a mainstay of many Asian diets, and that the milk in the pudding is helpful in building strong bones. I have also noted that a portion of the proceeds from Ben & Jerry’s Rain Forest Crunch is used to protect the environment. Hey, what more reason do I need? I’m a tree hugger of sorts. Two thousand late-night calories down the hatch.

  But I’ve been fairly good these last ten days. Sure, I’ve authorized the consumption of some questionable items that most WWE performers wouldn’t touch, but at least I’ve hit the gym on about eight of those days. Surely I would be able to chart my progress on the Gold’s Gym scale. I’m mentioning their name because they comp me a membership, and I plan to point to this book, upon its publication, as reason they should continue to do so.

  I stepped up on that scale and watched those numbers fly north: 297, 307, 312, and rising. Oh, no, 317. I’d actually gained two pounds. And something told me it wasn’t muscle tissue.

  I think back to 2004, when I was able to drop sixty pounds in six months, and I remember how stubborn my body seemed to be about giving up any more weight once I hit this 315 territory. I just had to blast through it. Train harder, eat smarter, avoid those late-night sojourns to the fridge.

  I was in the middle of a sensible eating day when I foolishly said yes to the in-flight meal en route from New York to Los Angeles. So now I’m counting on my hardcore diary to take my mind off the guilt I feel on account of my decision.

  This is my first time writing on a plane in several years. Wait, that’s not exactly true. It’s not even mostly true. I did quite a bit of writing on our trip home from Afghanistan this past December. This is, however, the first time I’ve worked on an actual book while flying in about five years. I actually did about ten hours of writing on that trip, about a young Afghan child who had been severely burned in a kerosene fire, whose image wouldn’t allow my body or conscience to rest. I’ll include that writing a little later in the book, but I don’t think the time is quite right for something so heavy.

  Because if I’m right, you are so caught up in my creative struggles, weight battles, and deep-rooted psychological issues that heavy talk about a sad child ten thousand miles away might throw us all off course.

  I also wrote some letters on that trip, one of them to Candice Michelle. I know I’ve teased her name before, so I’m going ahead and giving you a little taste of Candice. No, this is not my “dream come true” story, but a cute little anecdote about a very kind, charming young lady, who also happens to have big boobs. And knowing Candice, I don’t think she’ll find that last comment insulting.

  We were several hours into a flight that took forever, onboard an Air Force transport plane, not designed for asses like mine. Unlike other wiser wrestlers and crew members, I did not have the foresight to pack a DVD player, nor do I have the technological prowess to operate a computer. So it was basically me and a yellow legal pad with which to pass the time.

  So, I withdrew my Pilot rolling ball pen like an ancient warrior’s mighty broadsword and set about catching up with kids I sponsor around the world. I’ll talk in greater detail about one of these children in particular a little later, but for now I’ll just mention that sponsoring kids through Christian Children’s Fund over the last fourteen years has come to be one of the most important parts of my life.

  Let’s see, how do I segue from sponsoring children to Candice Michelle? How about casually dropping the name of John Irving, possibly America’s greatest novelist.

  I had written to Irving, along with eight or nine other authors whose work I enjoyed, before the publication of Scooter, my latest novel, hoping to get a treasured “blurb,” words of praise from fellow authors to slap on the cover of the upcoming book.

  My editor at Alfred A. Knopf, Victoria Wilson, had sent out several letters to critically acclaimed authors prior to the publication of my first novel, Tietam Brown, and had gotten exactly zero responses in return. I figured I would send out handwritten letters to authors that I personally enjoyed, figuring that they might actually enjoy my stuff, as well. So I was basically asking complete strangers to take ten or twelve hours our of their lives to peruse the literary ramblings of a one-eared pro wrestler and then say something nice about it—for free. Ms. Wilson let me know that my prospects were fairly bleak. “I’ve read your letters,” she said. “And they’re very charming, but don’t expect anything to happen.” I didn’t.

  But, to my surprise, I received a call from esteemed novelist Richard Price about a week later. Price has been nominated for both an Academy Award and a National Book Award, and is universally respected in the literary world. Cinematic adaptations of Price novels include The Wanderers, the Spike Lee film Clockers, and Freedomland, starring Samuel L. Jackson, Julianne Moore, and Edie Falco.

  “I’m really enjoying the book,” Price said. “I’m going to give you a quote after I’m done.”

  “Wow, thanks, Mr. Price,” I said in meek, non-hardcore fashion. This was kind of like a Little Leaguer receiving a phone call from Roger Clemens, saying, “You got some good heat on that fastball, kid.”

  “It really brought back memories,” said Price, a born and raised Bronxite, who apparently found my depiction of the borough in its mid-1960s upheaval to be fairly authentic. “Maybe we could get together sometime and trade stories.”

  “Sure,” I said, a little puzzled. “Stories about what?”

  “About growing up in the Bronx.”

  I let out a little laugh. “I didn’t grow up in the Bronx.”

  “You didn’t?” Price said, surprised. “Wow, you must have really done your homework.�
� It was the greatest compliment of my literary life.

  A week later Price called me up and read me his quote, which was better written then anything appearing in any of my books.

  In turns ashcan realist and operatic, lurid and heartfelt, sentimental and hard-nosed,Scooter is an absorbing tale of one kid’s growth into young manhood via sports; sports as an instrument of love, of revenge, of celebration and of destruction. It also, most compellingly, offers an athlete’s contemplation of pain, and the unique brand of salvation that can come of its forbearance.

  —RICHARD PRICE

  To my editor’s great surprise, the blurbs kept coming—well, at least two of them did. Jonathan Kellerman, my favorite crime novelist, e-mailed me a good quote (which of course my son Dewey had to retrieve for me), and I also received a humorous one from Dave Barry, the beloved and hilarious columnist, memoirist, and novelist.

  Most surprising of all was a call I received from my publicist at Knopf, Gabrielle Brooks, wanting to know if I had a problem with her giving John Irving my address. Problem? No, I didn’t have any problem with that.

  A few weeks later, it arrived in the Foley mailbox. The letter. Now I know how it felt when that kid received that bedside visit from Babe Ruth so many years ago. Or how Charlie felt when he got Willie Wonka’s last golden ticket. Or how Test felt just about every night of his unfathomable relationship with Stacy Keibler.