The Hardcore Diaries

by Mick Foley

  I’m sure I’ll be hurting after our June 11 show, possibly even injured. But there will be no rest for the weary, as I’ll have to crank up the emotion that very next night to start creating interest for the June 28 match with Ric Flair. There will be some people out there expecting an awful lot out of the match, myself included, but unlike most of those people, I don’t have a whole lot of confidence in Mick Foley’s chances of really tearing down the house.

  Of course being in Charlotte will help a great deal. Unlike most cities, where I’ll probably be cheered by a decent portion of people no matter what I do, I’ll be hated in Charlotte. Which is cool.

  It’s been a very productive trip from a Diaries standpoint. Over a three-day period, from Sunday afternoon to yesterday (Wednesday) afternoon, I’d written 20,000 words by hand, including almost 9,000 on Tuesday alone. Hopefully as you read, you’ll be able to get a sense of how much I’ve enjoying writing it. I know some chapters may seem like emotional downers, and there may be some extended periods where I don’t talk about wrestling at all, but nonetheless, I hope you don’t regret your decision to pick this thing up.

  I saw Chris Jericho last night, who is writing a book of his own—about his formative years in wrestling, leading up to WWE. Chris and his family came over to Barry’s for dinner, and we all laughed and told exaggerated stories until almost midnight. I always liked Chris, and considered him to be a great wrestler, a tremendous promo guy, and a class act. And his wife Jessica, for some reason, has always thought I was cool.

  Chris remarked on how odd it seemed that so few people stayed in touch after he left WWE about nine months ago. It just seems to be the nature of the business. You can work intensely with somebody, draw money together, trust that person with your life, share that obligatory post–Pay-Per-View honeymoon period watching your previous night’s match on the lunchroom TV monitor, and then, poof, that person is more or less out of your life. You’re both on to new partners, and what you both worked so hard to create just fades into history. Unless of course you write a book about it, and then it lives on in perpetuity.

  Hey, I plead guilty. As much as I like Chris, I haven’t stayed in touch, even though I’ve been very happy for his successes outside the ring. He’s got quite a lot going on, singing, acting, writing, so I’m not sure if wrestling even fits into his future. But should he ever choose to return, WWE fans would love to welcome him back.

  I told Chris that I’d actually had something of a George Bailey moment a few nights earlier. George Bailey was the Jimmy Stewart character in It’s a Wonderful Life , the guy who becomes convinced that his life has been meaningless until an angel shows him just how full of meaning his life really has been. Okay, maybe I wasn’t in need of an angel, and I certainly don’t think my life’s been without meaning, but I was lying awake, following a late-night Diaries session, trying to figure out just how many real friends I’d made during the course of a twenty-year career.

  The answer? Not many. Not many at all. I get along with almost everybody. I like almost everybody. I’m genuinely thrilled to see most of the guys (and girls) in our WWE family during the course of my sporadic returns. But when it comes to “real” friends—wow, there’s not an awful lot there.

  The actual low point of my career, a defining moment of sorts, came in Calgary in 1999, on a hospital visit to see Davey Boy Smith, who had been laid up for several days with a bad staph infection that had gone into his spine. At his peak, Davey, as one-half of the British Bulldogs tag team, was one of the top wrestlers in the world, and as a singles competitor had engaged in many great battles, including a couple of classics with his brother-in-law, Bret “Hit Man” Hart.

  He was well liked by all of the guys, and had several close friends that he traveled and trained with. He had an infectious laugh and a great sense of humor, often pulling elaborate pranks that eased the monotony of the road, but really hurt no one.

  I remember talking to Owen Hart, getting directions to the Calgary hospital, which was just minutes away from both the airport hotels and the arena. “Davey’s really excited to see everybody,” Owen said. “I think it’s going to really help lift his spirits.”

  Except “everybody” wasn’t there. In fact, nobody was. Except me and Biff Wellington, a longtime Calgary wrestler. And I wasn’t even a good friend of Davey’s. Not like some of the guys were. Yet nobody showed. I guess there were tanning beds that were lonely, or weights that needed lifting, or any number of reasons not to complete a ten-minute drive. But the message it sent me was chilling and simple—this isn’t family. And on that day, I promised myself that I would make as much money as possible and retire on my terms, without kidding myself that I owed the wrestling business a thing.

  May 25, 2006 11:48A .M., Burbank, CA

  Dear Hardcore Diary,

  If I am ever to mount a congressional run, this will probably be the day that will come back to haunt me. What was I thinking? Christy Canyon? Ginger Lynn? An interview? Man, am I in trouble. I asked the show’s producer just what I could expect, and she said, “Oh, the girls will probably just play around with you a little bit.”

  Now some of you longtime Foley fans might recognize Ms. Canyon’s name from 2001’s Foley Is Good as being something of an inspiration in the conception of little Mick—or at least in one of the many attempts over the course of a grueling three days.

  Christy knows about it, too. How? I was kind enough to send her a copy, along with a letter, telling her how much I’d enjoyed her autobiography Lights, Camera, Sex. I told her there was an underlying sweetness to the book, and that it read like a very good action adventure/coming-of-age tale that just happened to center on the world of adult films.

  So Christy had written me back, with a very nice letter of her own, telling me about her radio show, and inviting me on when I came to town. So, I guess I actually have two famous pen pals. John Irving and Christy.

  Along with the copy of Foley Is Good I had sent a signed copy of Tales from Wrescal Lane. Because I remember way back in the eighties, sometime around ’85, when a friend who I won’t name here showed me a film of a young, twenty-or-so Christy. I vividly remember seeing the spirited, naturally busty young lady in action and having one distinct thought: “Someday I’d like to sign a children’s book for her.”

  That was over twenty years ago. But I’ll never forget how she stepped into my solitary young sex life, filling a void that English veteran Kay Parker’s retirement had left. Kind of like Mantle replacing DiMaggio in centerfield for the Yankees, or Hogan stepping down for a fiery Sid Vicious.

  Back in the dog days of the summer of ’89, following my return home from the World Class territory in Dallas (know as USWA by the time I left), I was in the process of transferring a Christy video onto a blank VHS tape when I heard a knock on my parents’ door. Outside stood a young lady who should best remain nameless, who I had known for years and had always carried a small torch for. Which, at the risk of falling victim to outmoded phrases, meant I had a longtime crush on. Obviously, I turned the Christy video off. Fortunately, I hadn’t been in the process of going a few rounds with my baldheaded champion, if you know what I mean. Unfortunately, I looked kind of ridiculous, which was a pretty constant fashion statement for me back then. Really long hair, red flannel shirt, an old pair of shorts, cheap snakeskin boots, and a burgundy cast, just short of my elbow—a hard-earned trophy from a Fort Worth Scaffold match landing that didn’t work out quite as I’d hoped.

  The girl sat on the couch, and I began consoling her. She’d been through a rough few days, and felt comfortable allowing me into her confidence. I just thought she was beautiful. The more she talked, the more beautiful she became, until it reached a point where I had never been more attracted to a girl in my life. Well, at least until Colette came along about a year later and set a whole new standard for me.

  Keep in mind, I was shy. I still am, in a way. And the attraction I felt wasn’t of the Christy Canyon video variety. It was more inno
cent. Like a first-love type of thing. A mutual thing. Perhaps I should have leaned forward, just gone for the kiss, instead of asking permission—which is what I ended up doing. Asking permission, that is.

  “Can I kiss you?” I asked, feeling almost sure the request would be granted.

  Maybe I should bring in Marv Albert to make the call. “Foley drives the lane, takes the shot. It’s no good! Rejected!”

  The girl swatted my attempt away as if she was Dikembe Mutombo in his shot-blocking prime.

  What had gone wrong? Well, I took a wild guess. There was only one person to blame—Christy Canyon. It was karma. To this day I believe that had I not been taping the porno, the kissing attempt would have been successful. Well, I don’t want to be too hard on Christy, because after reading her book, I know that she’s sensitive. Come to think of it, it may have been the shorts-and-boots combo that cost me the kiss. Not a real fashion winner in any era, even an era that featured the mullet.

  May 26, 2006

  12:10A .M.—Toluca Lake, CA

  Dear Hardcore Diary,

  I’m now at the home of Barry Blaustein, who I met ten years ago when he began work on Beyond the Mat, a wrestling documentary that was well liked and acclaimed by just about everybody who saw it, except Vince McMahon. Years ago, back in 1999, the release of the movie caused some friction between me and Vince, but to this day, I stand by it, and will always be proud I was a major part of it.

  It seems funny now, but at the time of our first meeting, Barry thought my career was fascinating, but was thinking of covering me as the guy who’d had a few years of stardom before heading back to the minor leagues. Luckily all that changed.

  Barry went on to direct The Ringer , a real funny film with Johnny Knoxville as a guy who pretends to be mentally challenged so he can win the Special Olympics for big money. Despite its coldhearted premise, the film has a nice heart, was warmly received by many critics, and is currently the number-one video across the United States. Hanging out at Barry’s house has always been a pleasure, and just as importantly, it saves me big bucks on L.A. hotels. Okay, maybe it’s not quite as important, but it does help. I learned a long time ago that its not how much you make in wrestling, but how much you save, and though I may no longer be the tightest man in the business, the guy who pinches pennies so hard he makes Abe Lincoln scream, I am always aware of how easy it is to live life too large while on the road.

  As for that once planned congressional run—you can forget about it. Following last night’s appearance on Night Calls with Christy Canyon and Ginger Lynn, I would be a ridiculously easy target for any attack ad. I could just hear the voice: Mick Foley claims to be for family values, but is he really? Cue specific sound bites from any number of the show’s shenanigans, and I’d be lucky to get a job cleaning toilets at a top-secret CIA wiretapping meeting.

  Which isn’t to say I didn’t have fun. I did. The girls were both great, and I think I did a reasonably good job of being a good sport while the deviant duo assaulted whatever is still left of my innocence with a barrage of innuendos, straight-up sex talk, half-nude wrestling, mutual boob groping, and a litany of lavicious one-liners that had me shaking my head in sheer disbelief. Christy even whispered sweet nothings into what was left of my right ear, prompting a telltale tingling in my trousers that hasn’t completely subsided.

  Colette called during a break in the show, and I was dumb enough to answer, freely admitting to my locale and the company I was keeping. For some odd reason, she wasn’t thrilled. Sure, I felt like I was promoting the ECW Pay-Per-View while engaging in some harmless fun, but I guess I need to see some things from her point of view.

  We are about to leave Pornoland—no relation to Promoland—but not without one last stop, which took place at the nation’s largest video convention, back in 1999.

  I was representing WWE at the convention, signing videotapes (DVDs weren’t yet big) in front of a respectable line—a couple hundred strong. Occasionally, I would notice a scantily clad woman cutting the line with permission, getting an autograph, before heading back behind a massive curtain. This strange occurrence happened several time before I asked our sales rep, 1980s WWE Superstar Hillbilly Jim, about the mysterious destination of the nearly naked girls.

  Hillbilly laughed. He’s a gregarious guy, and a heck of a salesman, from what I have heard. “Son, they’re from the adult annex,” he said, slapping me on the back for emphasis.

  “Adult annex?” I asked.

  “Son, they’ve got their own little world right behind that curtain.”

  “Really.”

  “Sure,” Jim said. “How would you like to go there after you’re done with your signing?”

  Wow, what a question. Would I like to go? I thought it over momentarily. Colette was 2,000 miles away. How would she find out? Unless, of course, I was going to be dumb enough to write about it in a book or something. Besides, I would be just walking around. I wouldn’t really be doing anything wrong. After my signing, I took that walk.

  Behind that curtain lay a whole new world. I posed for pictures that, if discovered, would have cost me a shot at any type of political career long before the Night Calls naughtiness. I saw old stars I remembered from my much younger days, and new stars with whom I wasn’t even vaguely familiar. Then I saw a glimpse of one of the world’s beautiful women, Janine, a goddess in the adult film industry.

  I don’t really know how she ended up in adult films—she should have been on the cover of Cosmo , with her radiant looks. She commanded a lot of attention from what seemed to be a legion of fans: a long line that snaked out into the vast reaches of the annex.

  Hillbilly smiled. “Do you want to meet her?”

  “Sure.”

  But just as Hillbilly Jim was ushering me to the front of the line, a big-time wrestling fan jumped between me and Janine.

  “Do you know who this guy is?” the fan said. “This is Mick Foley. Cactus Jack. Mankind. He’s done the most unbelievable things that you’ve ever seen. He’s been thrown off the cell, he’s been blown up, he’s been in barbed wire.”

  This was pretty cool—almost like a dream come true. A daydream come true, at least. I mean, I used to literally daydream about someone singing my praises in front of a beautiful girl. Even back when I didn’t have praises to sing about. This daydream goes back quite a while, like back to eleven or twelve, when I daydreamed about looking real good in front of the girls in Mr. Perkins’s sixth-grade class. The realization of this dream in front of Janine was almost enough to make up for all the heartbreak and ridicule I’d suffered at the hands of unrequited loves during my formative years. Almost enough to make up for the incredible rejection I’d suffered on the couch in my parents’ living room after dubbing the early Canyon video offering onto a blank VHS. Almost.

  “Wow, who was that guy?” I said to Janine, after the fan had finally finished up his fond Foley affirmations.

  “Oh, he owns the video company,” Janine said. Before asking, “Which group do you wrestle for?” with genuine interest.

  “WWE,” I said, proud of the company, proud of myself. But I saw Janine’s nose and eyes crinkle in a look of great disappointment. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Well, no offense, but I don’t let my son watch you, because of the ‘Suck it.’”

  “Well, that’s quite a coincidence,” I said.

  “What is?” said Janine.

  “Well, I don’t let my son watch you either.”

  The train is now leaving Pornoland. Please leave all your bad thoughts behind.

  Plan B

  I may indeed have made Dee Snider a better man, but to the best of my knowledge, I didn’t inspire the Twisted Sister reunion. Dee and the boys had done a couple of USO shows in Korea for the troops, and had decided to hit the road in the summer of 2003 for a full-fledged comeback tour. As a tune-up, the band, under the clever subterfuge of “Bent Brother,” kicked off the tour with a couple of club dates, including one at Long Island
’s “Downtown,” which as a pal of Dee’s I received a VIP ticket to.

  Quite frankly, I was a little worried for Dee. He’d had such massive success in the 1980s and was a veritable cultural icon. Why ruin it almost twenty years later? I thought I’d seen the last of old guys in tights with the fall of WCW.

  My preshow concern for my friend triggered one of the dumbest comments of my life, during a conversation with Dee’s teenage son, Shane.

  “Is your dad excited about the tour?” I said.

  “Yeah, he’s been working out and doing a lot of yoga.”

  “Yoga?” I said, with joking sarcasm. “I bet he doesn’t want anyone knowing about that.” Yeah, I know it’s great exercise and that my good buddy Diamond Dallas Page wrote a book called Yoga for Real Guys, but you can’t deny that it still has a certain stigma surrounding it.

  Apparently that stigma didn’t mean that much to Shane, who said, “Mick, my dad dressed up in women’s clothing for ten years, I don’t think he cares if people knows he does yoga.”

  So having been put firmly in my place by a teenager, I went out toward the stage, fearing that I was about to watch a good friend embarrass himself. Hey, I knew how this felt. I’d been embarrassed by the last several months of my active wrestling career, before an early 2000 angle with Triple H allowed me to retire with my dignity, courtesy of a couple of classic matches. From time to time, I’d even considered a comeback. Every once in a while, I’d see a great match, and I’d get the itch, and every month when I got my financial statements, I’d be reminded that my Clinton-era plan of living off the interest from my investments was just not going to happen.

  Sure, I’d saved a lot of money. And unlike a lot of investors, I hadn’t bailed out at a loss when the market got rough in the wake of 9/11. Within a couple of years, the markets had largely stabilized, but I also knew I could never count on them again. As soon as the Dow Jones got close to 11,000, I shifted most of what I had into fixed-income investments, meaning I would never fall victim to the volatility of the stock market again. But neither could I sit back, do nothing, and reap the late 1990s harvest of yearly double-digit gains. Tietam Brown had done okay, but not as well as I’d hoped. I had another novel, Scooter, largely written, but I wasn’t foolish enough to expect any type of sales miracles from it. Writing novels, I realized, was not going to provide a whole lot of extra security for my family—which, with the additions of Mickey and Hughie, was obviously of slightly more concern. My refereeing experience at Hell in a Cell had shown me that there was still a market for Mick Foley, the wrestler. I would be a fool not to consider it. After all, I felt better than I had in years. But I really feared returning, to find that Father Time had played a rib on me. I had been proud of the legacy I’d left behind. I didn’t want to mess that up. Let Dee Snider mess up his own legacy. I was going to leave mine alone.