The Hardcore Diaries

by Mick Foley

  Outside of Disney’s Haunted Mansion with Hughie and Mickey.

  Courtesy of the Foley family.

  Dee took the stage. And I stood mesmerized, awestruck as a near-fifty-year-old rocker blew away all my preconceptions. He wasn’t just the Dee Snider of old—he was better. Full of emotion, full of passion; full of all the things you can’t teach in a studio, or fake in front of fans. He still had it. And I vividly remember thinking that I would not return to WWE unless I could be as good at wrestling as Dee was on that stage.

  Meanwhile, I had been watching Randy Orton. Watching him progress and mature into a rising young star. Perhaps I could play off my Madison Square Garden mishap after all.

  Scooterwas now approaching the final editing stage, although it would not be published for another year and a half, in the late summer of 2005. One of Scooter ’s central themes involved incidents of inaction or cowardice at inopportune times in the main character’s lives, leaving the reader to wonder whether a life should be looked at and judged in its entire context, or whether it should be judged based on one regrettable moment.

  How, I wondered, would our fans judge me if I were to fall victim to such a moment? I sat on the idea for months, letting it grow, visualizing it, waiting until it kept me awake for many nights. Then, in late fall of 2003, I gave Vince a call.

  I am a firm believer in backup plans, especially when trying to stay afloat in the tumultuous ocean that is WWE. The Scooter scenario was actually my backup plan. Plan B. Here, let me show you plan A.

  “Vince, I was thinking about showing up as a surprise entry at the Royal Rumble. I would win the Rumble and then, because I wasn’t technically a Raw or a SmackDown! wrestler, would challenge both champions to a three-way match at WrestleMania, which I would win, making me the undisputed WWE champion.”

  “No,” Vince said. “I have no interest in doing that.”

  “Okay, I’ve got a different idea involving Randy Orton.”

  I told Vince that I wanted to be the first pro wrestler to ever chicken out of a match—accept a match and just walk away from it. Vince nodded his head, intrigued.

  “Then, after I walk out, Randy will launch a political attack ad campaign on me.”

  “Attack ads?” Vince asked.

  “Yeah, you know those things. Everyone hates them. Imagine that deep voice we always hear, saying, ‘Mick Foley claims to be the hardcore legend…but is he really?’”

  Vince laughed and began writing feverishly.

  He liked the idea. On December 15, in Tampa, Florida, I was going to make history.

  But it didn’t happen without a fight. A couple of nights before the Tampa show, I received a call from Stephanie McMahon, telling me that a variety of well-respected wrestling minds had voiced opposition to my idea, feeling that quite simply, any character who walked out on a match would never be forgiven by our fans. Instead, Steph told me, I was going to walk out for the match, and be jumped by Orton’s brothers in Evolution—Triple H, Ric Flair, and Batista.

  So it seems that our fans can indeed accept gullible, naive, stupid wrestlers—just not courageously uncertain ones. Man, I was confused and upset. I will always love certain aspects of WWE, but the unwillingness to take chances with characters is akin to creative suffocation. And no, by taking chances, I’m not talking about doing angles involving necrophilia or terrorism. I’m talking about allowing characters to show faults and vulnerabilities that our fans can empathize with and talk about.

  We can’t get away with just being shocking or cutting-edge anymore. So many of the elements that made WWE so big in the late 1990s have been borrowed, stolen, or hijacked by various elements of the entertainment spectrum that the onus is on us to give our fans scenarios that they can become emotionally caught up in. From Bill Clinton’s arrival at the 2000 Democratic Convention being captured with the Raw low-angle shot, to rappers wrestling on video games, to the everyday shock and awe of reality shows, the new pop culture seems to have a never-ending hunger for crumbs from the WWE pie. We have to constantly adapt. And in my opinion, that means broadening our characters’ range of emotions, and giving our fans enough credit to broaden their expectations of what WWE can be.

  I stated my case as best I could to Steph, and then left a long, rambling message on Vince’s machine. I knew that a nonmatch with Orton might displease some viewers, but argued that those types of fans weren’t likely to order Pay-Per-Views anyway.

  I remember one specific line from my return call from Vince. “Did you ever see the movie Shane? ” I asked, in reference to the classic 1953 Western in which a reformed gunfighter is forced to confront his past demons to defend his honor.

  “Yes,” said Vince. “I have.”

  “Well, go back and watch that movie some time,” I said. “And tell me how good it would be if Shane accepts the heel’s challenge the first time.”

  “Okay, I get your point,” Vince said. “But, Mick, you’re the only person who could make this thing work.”

  We did make it work. I walked out, and Randy hocked a major-league loogie right in my face. He ran several weeks of major attack ads, building from the somewhat subtle to the outright shocking.

  They worked, too. I watched with pride as Randy Orton’s confidence and star seemed to grow with each passing week. As general manager, my old buddy Steve Austin played a valuable role as well, more or less promising WWE fans that I would be returning for vengeance at the Royal Rumble.

  And return I did. Where I learned two valuable lessons. One—three months of hard training and strict dieting didn’t mean anything when I got into the ring, where I gassed out in less than a minute. And two—the very real punches that Randy and I threw at each other during the Rumble didn’t look any different than the punches WWE fans see every week on Raw. Actually they might have looked worse. As a matter of fact, as of this writing not one person has ever commented on those punches, leading me to believe that the very thought of them was a waste of time, pain, and swelling. Sadly, the lesson of the real punches was not one I would fully absorb, in 2004 or 2006.

  January 26, 2004, was my day—for explanation and for retribution. It was one of those promos I’d done so many times in my head that it seemed to beg for a chance to escape and have a life of its own on millions of televisions across the world. Rarely have I been so fired up as I was on that night. And rarely has a promo lived up to my expectations of it as it did that night in Hershey, Pennsylvania.

  MICK FOLEY:Thank you…it’s very nice. But I think that following the events of December 15, 2003, maybe a little explanation is in order; every day since that day, I’ve heard one comment over and over: “Why, Mick, why?” I think I have finally come to a place where I can answer that question as best as I can, but I think to understand “why” you need to understand where I’ve been, or maybe, more accurately, what it is that got me there. When I think about my career—when fans refer to my career—they come up with a lot of really nice accolades. They talk about my heart, my guts, my courage, my love for the business. The truth is, yes, some of that came into play, but the main benefit I had was hatred—the ability to take something in my life, to hate it very much, and then channel it in a very useful way. To go into a deep dark part in my heart and produce things inside this ring that were thought to be humanly impossible. That’s really good, as long as I was an active wrestler, but then I thought of a guy like Pete Rose—the most competitive player of his era—who when I was a kid played the game as if he was angry at the world. To see Pete Rose dive into third base headfirst was pretty cool. To see Pete Rose knock over Ray Fosse at the ’70 All Star game or take a swipe at Bud Harrelson in the ’73 playoffs was really cool. But to see that same guy, ultracompetitive, still angry at the world at age sixty-one, lying about betting on baseball, is pretty sad. I don’t want to be the sad guy. I don’t want to be the bitter guy. So when I retired from wrestling, although it was very difficult, I had to let go of all that anger. And I heard throughout my career, “Mic
k Foley is a hell of a guy.” I was a hell of a guy as long as I had that avenue to channel all the hatred toward. When I retired, I needed to let go, and after a long time I did, and got to a place where I was truly for the first time happy with myself. So I’ll admit to making a big, big mistake on December 15, 2003, in Tampa, Florida. The mistake was not walking out on the match. The mistake I made was accepting the match to begin with, because as I walked down that ramp to face Randy Orton, who is the Intercontinental Champion and is a hell of a wrestler, I realized I wasn’t willing and maybe not able to go inside that place in my heart to do what was necessary to get the job done. Now, Randy kind of seized that opportunity, and I think he took advantage of it a little bit, and he’s chosen to make my life a little bit difficult over the last seven weeks. So even though I know he is probably very angry at me for costing him his shot at the main event at WrestleMania, I still think Randy Orton, all things considered, owes me a little favor. So what I’d like to do is call Randy Orton down to the ring without Evolution. One on one, right now. Randy, I will wait here all night if I have to.

  Randy Orton comes to the ring.

  RANDY ORTON:You want a favor from me, Mick? I dare ask, after blowing my chances at a main event at WrestleMania! I dare ask, what do you want from me?

  MICK:Wait, wait…hold on! Don’t be so angry. This may seem out there…this may seem downright kooky, but what I would like you to do is, I’d like you to spit in my face again.

  Blood and loogies—the Hershey promo with Randy Orton.

  RANDY:You want me to do what?

  MICK:I told you it was kooky, and look, I know you can do it, because I felt the warmth of your spit that night in Tampa. I’ve seen the replays seventeen times, I’ve seen it in slow motion, hell, I’ve even seen it in rewind, but I’m just wondering if maybe that was a fluke and if you have the guts to spit in my face again right here in Hershey, Pennsylvania.

  RANDY:Mick, listen, man, listen. [Mick snatches his mike and throws it.]

  MICK:Listen here, you little bastard! I was spilling blood on six continents while you were still latched onto your mother’s breast! I’ve been hearing you run your damn mouth for seven weeks! Now I’ve got the microphone and I’m talking, and you do as you’re told! I am telling you, no, I am ordering you, to spit in my damn face! Do it! Do it! Do it! [Mick smacks Randy in the face a few times.]

  Randy spits. A yellowish green wad of phlegm can be seen on Mick’s cheek.

  MICK:What! What! Why, I ought to…why—I am not going to hit you, Randy, I am not going to hit you. Not only am I not going to hit you, I’m going to take the advice of a very good book I read a little while ago that said “Turn the other cheek,” and I am going to turn that other cheek. What I’m going to do is ask you to spit on that one as well, but I couldn’t help but notice that this was one lackluster loogie, Randy. My goodness, it’s cold and flu season, the harshest winter in fifty years, and I’m willing to bet that you can exhume something real green from way down deep. Dig it up and plant me right here! But hold on, hold on, maybe Randy needs a little inspiration, so if you join me, maybe we can get a chant going, “Loogie, loogie, loogie.” Deeper, deeper…there you go!

  Randy spits.

  Yeah! Wooahhh! Take a good shot of that! Realize that you can look at it close, and it is still only spit. Still just spit, and, Randy, you have to realize, I’ve got four children. During the course of twelve years of raising those kids…I’ve been peed on, I’ve been pooped on, I’ve been thrown up on, I’ve been sneezed on, and yeah, I’ve even been spit on. So being spit on by you one more time is not really a big deal. When it came to you calling me names, I had it on good authority that “sticks and stones may break my bones but names, that’s right, they’ll never hurt me.” I am willing to bet that whoever came up with that helpful adage was never referred to as Randy Orton’s “bitch” on national television. You see, Randy, it was about at that point that something sank into my brain. Something that never occurred to me before—that is, people were starting to believe you. Understanding the definition of the big lie, which says, “If you tell a lie that’s big enough and you tell that lie long enough, the public will accept it as fact no matter how big a pile of crap what you’re saying actually is.” Randy, the idea of you as a hardcore legend is one big pile of crap! Take a look, because this is not just spit anymore. Because I have come to realize that when you spit on my face, you spit on my name, you spit on my legacy, you spit on the very business that I love and I cannot…cannot [Mick punches his own face] accept that, you understand. I worked too hard and I suffered too long to have my reputation torn up by you. You little bastard! I’ve seen my ear thrown away in Munich, Germany! I’ve seen my skin hanging off the barbed wires in Japan! And I’ve been bludgeoned in Nigeria! [Blood starts streaming from Mick’s eyebrow.] Now I no longer have to wonder whether I have a place in my heart where darkness dwells, because I’m already there! I’m already there, and I don’t have to deny the hatred anymore, and that’s why I accepted the hatred that exists in my heart. I will welcome it home as a long-lost friend, saying, “Welcome home, where you been?” because there is a time and a place for hatred, Randy Orton. The place is Hershey, Pennsylvania…and the time is now!

  I later learned that several top WWE stars had not liked the promo, thinking that it made Randy Orton look weak. Yeah, I know that in the era of the ultra- cool heel who no one actually boos, doing something as heelish as showing fear might seem like the death knell to a career. But come on, guys! Give me a little break here. Sure, maybe it wasn’t a promo that was going to sell T-shirts, but I sure as hell do believe that it sold tickets and WrestleMania Pay-Per-Views.

  And as far as making Randy Orton look weak? I’m not always right on everything, but I think I know a little bit about the human mind, and its capacity for evil and revenge. Randy Orton, once taken out of the comfortable cocoon of self-assured cockiness he had created for himself, would feel an irresistible drive to overcompensate for his perceived shortcomings, causing a violent, uncontrollable reaction toward the revealer of those shortcomings. Thus, what some very good wrestlers saw as weakness, I saw as potential for character growth. Of course, you’d have to ask Randy Orton himself whether or not being involved with me was a good idea.

  Marcos

  Following the promo in Hershey, I was awash in compliments, from both fans and fellow wrestlers. Indeed, there has never been a time when I was part of so much emotion following a show. Yet I knew very little, if any, of the response had to do with my promo with Randy Orton. For something far more special had taken place inside that arena.

  A few weeks earlier, I was contacted by the Marty Lyons Foundation concerning a boy, Marcos Diaz, whose time on earth appeared to be drawing to a close, and whose wish, it seemed, had been to be a part of WWE. I have a photo of Marcos on a bookshelf, revealing him to be a handsome, well-muscled teenager. At one time, he dreamed of being a WWE wrestler. But cancer, and the countless operations that accompanied it, had stolen those dreams, and now, with only a short time to live, Marcos’s dreams had unfortunately been altered. He wanted, more than anything, just to be a part of WWE. In some way. In any way.

  I rode with Marcos to the show in Hershey, where he was treated like a king by all who crossed his path, from Ric Flair to Stone Cold to RVD to Vince McMahon. I wheeled him down the entrance ramp to ringside, and Marcos just stared, eyes wide open, at the WWE ring; the very space he had yearned to enter for so long. But Marcos was so frail, so devastated by the long battle with his disease, that his goal would never be realized.

  It was Richie Posner, the “magic man,” the man responsible for everything from painting Mankind’s old referee shirts to formulating Mae Young’s prosthetic sagging boobs, who suggested bringing Marcos into the ring. Without hesitation, Dave Batista picked the young man up in his massive arms and handed him to Randy Orton, who was waiting to help Marcos into the ring. A little earlier, Bruce Prichard, a longtime WWE fixture best known from h
is days as Brother Love, had given Marcos an official WWE replica belt as a gift from the company. Marcos took a couple of labored steps inside that ring and then held the belt aloft, closing his eyes, savoring the sound of cheers he must have known he’d never live to hear.

  Except he did live to hear those cheers. I made sure of it. So did Chris Benoit. So did Bill Goldberg. So did Stone Cold Steve Austin. For after Raw ended, with traces of Orton’s loogie and a tiny trail of my own blood still on my face, I announced to the Hershey crowd that I had a special friend in the audience, who unfortunately didn’t know what it was like to hear thousands of people chant his name. But with our help, he would. With Benoit’s help. With Goldberg’s help. With Austin’s help. With the help of the thousands of fans in Hershey that night, we accomplished something special. We made one of Marcos Diaz’s last nights on earth one of his best.