The Hardcore Diaries

by Mick Foley

  A few days later, I asked Vince if I could address the entire Raw roster—the first time I’d ever done so. Vince, for all his faults (which I’ve been kind enough to discuss in detail), has always had a heartfelt belief that what we do on our TV shows actually matters in the most important of ways; we entertain people, we take their minds off their problems. He has often said that short of curing diseases, the most important role in life is to make people happy through the gift of entertainment. Until that day, I’m not sure I ever really agreed with that.

  “Mick Foley has asked for the opportunity to speak to you,” Vince said. “You know, so many times we travel from town to town, doing what we do, that we forget about the difference we sometimes make while we’re there. I think Mick would like to remind you of one of those times.”

  I just started shaking. I’d addressed so many crowds, so many times, often without hesitation or concern, but this situation was so different. I was addressing my peers. About a kid I’d grown to care so much about in such a short time. A kid I’d eulogized at a funeral service just hours earlier. A kid I’d seen laid to rest, buried in the clothes we’d given him. A Stone Cold shirt, a Socko cap, the championship belt.

  I know that during the course of this book, I have sometimes seemed like an outspoken critic of things I see wrong with WWE. But on this particular afternoon, at Penn State University, I just wanted to thank all of the guys for all their acts of kindness. Every single person in that room had gone out of their way to make that kid’s day a special one. Every single person. And I appreciated it. And every one of them had made me so damn proud to be part of the business.

  I concluded by telling the whole group that I hoped they would feel like they could come up to me at any time and ask me about ways they could help out. Unfortunately, I didn’t actually know of any ways to help out.

  I don’t know Dave Batista that well. To this day, I’m not sure I’ve had a conversation with him that’s lasted more than five minutes. But I’ll never forget that he was the first person to come up to me, his eyes filled with tears, and say, “How can I help?” No, I don’t know Dave that well. But I will always respect him, and I will always be grateful to him for fulfilling the last wish of a dying young man.

  Comeback

  How would I feel about The Rock being part of the WrestleMania match? About making it a Tag Team match?

  To tell the truth, I was a little confused. “I’m fine with it,” I told Brian Gewirtz, the placer of the phone call. “But I read that Rock only wanted to come back if it was a really big deal.”

  “He thinks this is a big deal,” Gewirtz said.

  “Really?” I liked The Rock, had done great business with him in ’98 and ’99, and had long gotten over whatever problems we may have had during our working relationship. But I honestly wouldn’t have guessed that The Rock considered anything involving me to be a big deal. I was flattered.

  “Yeah,” Gewirtz said. “We wanted to make it a handicap tag. You and Rock against Evolution—Orton, Batista, and Flair. Do you have any problems working with Ric?”

  “No,” I said. “I’d be glad to have him in the match.” Hey, until Ric’s book was published, I actually liked the guy, and considered it an honor to have him involved in our deal.

  So, for the next few weeks, we set about creating an urgent need for The Rock’s return. And what better way to necessitate his return than to beat the living crap out of the hardcore legend on multiple occasions, including a battering in Bakersfield, California, on February 16, 2004, that has to go down as one of the most brutal in sports entertainment history?

  The WWE seems to be constantly going through phases, be it the “serious” phase, the “real people don’t play kazoos” phase, the “hot lesbian action” phase, or the “necrophilia equals ratings” phase. On February 16, we were in a short-lived “wrestling” phase, where no damage could be caused by or attributed to an outside object, such as a sledgehammer, barbed-wire bat, or even a set of ringside stairs. Blood was also not an option. So I wondered how, exactly, to make a three-on-one beatdown seem brutal enough to inspire a Hollywood movie star to play the role of my knight in shining armor, riding in for an “Emotional Rescue,” which for you trivia buffs is the name of a dreadful Rolling Stones song—probably the worst one they ever recorded.

  I called Randy Orton over right before we went out.

  “You know, Randy, sometimes in this business we make our own breaks.” Randy looked at me, eyes wide open. Despite the grumblings of those stars who thought I’d made him look weak in Hershey, Randy trusted me implicitly. “I want you to catch me with a couple of punches right here,” I said, pointing to the outer part of my left eyebrow. “Try to split it open. If you get any heat from the office, just tell them that I called it in the ring, okay?”

  “Okay, Mick.”

  And with that I was off. Off to catch eight punches in the left temple. Off to feel consciousness leave my body like a Garden crowd streaming toward the popcorn stand during a Test match. Off to drive to LAX with the left side of my skull swollen like the Elephant Man, making only a brief pit stop to puke all over the interstate. Despite the throbbing in my skull, my biggest pain of the night came from realizing that Randy Orton had never bothered to check on me following the Bakersfield beatdown. I have always gotten along very well with him, and I always appreciate how willingly he gives me credit for the success he’s enjoyed, but unfortunately, the first vision I have when I think of Randy is the vision of no Randy at all backstage at Bakersfield.

  I was supposed to be off for a couple of weeks following Bakersfield, at which point I would reappear with the other half of the “Rock ’n’ Sock Connection,” hell-bent for vengeance, and a potentially huge ’Mania payoff. This angle had really been connecting with fans, and it figured to be a major part of what we all felt would be an extremely successful WrestleMania .

  Four days after Bakersfield, however, I gave Vince a phone call. “Listen, Vince, I know we talked about keeping me off for a few weeks, but I think you really need to get me on camera. My eye is a mess.”

  Indeed, it was. Despite the fact that the botched hardway attempt had not yielded a single drop of external blood, the internal bleeding had been severe, leaving my face a work of abstract art: splashes of purple, greens, and black, with a dash of red thrown in the eyeball for good measure. Kind of like a Jackson Pollock rendition of Rocky Balboa.

  I drove the ninety minutes to Stanford, cut a short in-studio interview with Coach—Jonathan Coachman—and drove on home, not completely thrilled with the interview, but relieved that we had captured the eye in all its swollen beauty.

  Vince, however, was a good deal less than completely thrilled with the interview. In fact, he wasn’t thrilled at all. Deeming it “the worst work of his career”—meaning mine, not Coachman’s (which would really be saying something)—Vince demanded an immediate reshoot, this time with J.R. manning the microphone. Dutifully, I climbed back into the road-worn Impala and put a slightly better threat down on video, warning Orton and his Evolution cohorts that I wasn’t coming into Atlanta alone.

  The Return of The Rock was one of my finest moments. Sure, it was his pop, technically speaking, but I savored it as if it was my own, for I had worked so very hard to set the table from which he dined. And what a meal it was: know-your-own rolls, a pint of shut-up juice, and a special helping of The Rock’s favorite pie for dessert.

  Speaking of “pie,” that most thinly veiled of sexual euphemisms in the WWE repertoire, the following week in Bridgeport, Connecticut, on March 8, the word pie was responsible for one of the great unintentionally hilarious moments in WWE history.

  As you know, I’m not a big fan of rehearsing segments for television. I’m very much a believer in improvisation and the resulting magic it sometimes provides. In Bridgeport, however, The Rock was hosting a “This Is Your Life, Mick Foley” segment—an ode to a similar segment I had hosted for him in 1999, which has gone down in lore as an
all-time great wrestling moment. That segment was slotted for twelve minutes—it went twenty-six. The 2004 version was set to end the show. It had to go home exactly on time. Plus the segment included a cast of thousands (actually eight), with specific time cues for each, so in this case, I grudgingly accepted the need for rehearsal.

  The Rock’s first guest for me was Mrs. Snyder (no relation to Dee), the kindly old neighbor who used to willingly serve her pie to all the neighborhood kids. Cue The Rock’s abject look of horror and the requisite double entendres that made Jack Tripper’s old Three’s Company look almost Shakespearean by comparison. Take this gem from Mrs. Snyder, in regard to The Rock inquiring as to whether she still served pie to the neighborhood kids. “Well, I don’t leave my front window open for pie, but I do leave my back door open for strudel.”

  Jimmy Snuka was next to emerge. “The Superfly” was one of my idols when I was growing up, and it’s doubtful I would have dared enter the wild world of pro wrestling had I not journeyed to Madison Square Garden in the fall of ’83 to see Snuka sail majestically off a steel cage onto the prone body of Don Muraco, seventy-five feet below. Or was it fifteen? Or was it eight? Who can tell when nostalgia and myth mix with facts and videotape so many years down the road?

  The Superfly was supposed to acknowledge the fact that he occasionally enjoyed a piece of pie, yielding yet another horrific Rock reaction shot, pondering the image of “The Superfly” and Mrs. Snyder entwined in the timeless embrace of carnal desire.

  The Superfly, however, must have gotten his bakery preferences confused, a result, I guess, of too many chair shots, too many high-altitude landings, or the rumors of a prolific past of partying—legendary even by wrestling standards. For when Snuka entered the ring, grabbed the mike, and began his declaration of culinary affection, this is what came out. I understand that many of you out there in literary wonderland (to borrow a phrase from Snuka, who used to refer to the viewing audience as “TV wonderland”) are familiar with Jimmy’s unique vocal stylings. For those of you who are not, the best I can do is combine a young Marlon Brando with Brenda Vaccaro on a particularly bad voice day.

  “Let me tell you something, Brother Rock, Brother Mick. The Superfly LOVES…cake.”

  I actually had my own request for “This Is Your Life.” I pitched this to Vince and thought it was a sure winner, only to see it rejected like one of my feeble high school/college/mid-twenties romantic overtures.

  Here’s the pitch. Ready yourself for tenses that shift from past to present for no apparent reason. The Rock says, “Our next guest, Mick, is a former Tag Team partner of yours. A man you went on to have legendary matches with.”

  “I think he’s talking about the great Terry Funk,” J.R. interjects.

  But before any further announcement can be made, piano music of the mid-fifties Jerry Lee Lewis type drifts forth from the sound system, heralding the arrival of “Cowboy” Bob Orton Jr., Randy’s father. Throughout his career, Bob was known as a consummate technician, a great heel, and the source of a subtle in-ring sense of humor that was often lost on the masses. There he is, a good six months before his actual return; same greasy leather hat, same greasy leather vest, same cast from an injury that never seemed to heal. Sometimes I think “Cowboy” Bob and Iron Mike Sharpe are in a contest to see who can work their injury the longest. No one, however, can compare to Mike Sharpe when it comes to length of showers taken (several hours), number of plastic Baggies within a plastic Baggie protecting a bottle of baby oil (up to twenty), or any other number of curious phenomena that have made Mike Sharpe stories a locker-room staple for over two decades.

  Anyway, Bob’s arrival would amuse me, but confuse me as well, prompting me to ask just what he was doing in the ring on my big night.

  Once again, I’m sure many of you reading this are keenly aware of the unique (far different from those of Snuka, but unique in their own way) vocal stylings of “Cowboy” Bob Orton Jr. For the uninitiated, think Bob Dylan dueting with Tom Waits on a Kris Kristofferson song, while hung over and gargling with razor blades. Bob’s voice, you see, is a little gravelly.

  “Hold on a second there, Cactus,” Bob would say, paying tribute to my old Cactus Jack days. “Is that any way to greet your greatest tag team partner?”

  “Greatest partner?” I would say, laughing. “Sure, Bob, we tagged up a bunch of times, but as a team, we really weren’t all that good.”

  “But, Cactus,” Bob would plead. “What about Aruba? Don’t you remember Aruba? You conceived your first child on the deck of the Holiday Inn in the room right next to mine. Did you know that I brought Randy on that trip, back when he was thirteen years old? That’s right. As a matter of fact, Randy’s first sexual experience was pleasuring himself at the Holiday Inn to the sounds of your old lady.”

  Obviously, I would take great offense to that, and would confront Bob immediately, intent on defending my wife’s honor. Even if we really did conceive our first child on the deck of that Holiday Inn in Aruba.

  “Hold on. Hold on,” Bob would say. “Before you get all upset, let me take you on a little stroll down memory lane.”

  The WWE fans in Bridgeport would then have been treated to the worst video production values in the history of sports entertainment. Tacky, wimpy music. And one old snapshot of me and Bob, doing a variety of early eighties home video moves: the swirl, the twist, the starburst. Just when you thought it couldn’t have gotten any worse—you got it—it would. Because gravelly-voiced Bob Orton would start singing “Memories”—the Barbra Streisand song. It wouldn’t even matter if he knew the words. Let him butcher them. The worse, the better. As in, “Memories, of a misty moonlight run. Memories of all our groovy teaming fun.”

  It would have been hideous. It would have been great. It would have caused both me and Rock to laugh, letting our defenses down, allowing Evolution to sneak in and do the damage they were supposed to do anyway. Better yet, it would have given a perfect reason for Snuka to be in our corner, and for “Cowboy” Bob to be in theirs, bookending the original WrestleMania , when Snuka was in the corner of Hulk Hogan and Mr. T and Orton was in the corner of Roddy Piper and Paul Orndorff.

  Alas, it was not to be, for reasons that were never made quite clear to me.

  Back to WrestleMania, and my match that had held so much promise. Promise that, unfortunately didn’t quite materialize. We didn’t exactly stink out the place, but we didn’t tear it down, either. We had a good match. But a good match was not what I was hoping for. Not after four years away. Not after so much buildup, so much thought, so many hours spent visualizing the great things to come.

  What was most disappointing to me was realizing that I’d settled for “good enough.” I heard the Evolution music and specifically remembered hoping I didn’t suck when I got out there. That was it. Not exactly reaching for the stars, huh? It would be like Michael Jordan taking the last shot in game seven, hoping just to hit the rim. Like Albert Pujols stepping to the plate, bases full of Cardinals, his team down by three, hoping just to foul a couple off. Like doing a scene with Christy Canyon, in her spirited late eighties heyday, hoping for a peck on the cheek. I’d been guilty of setting my sights too low. I’d pitched this idea with adrenaline in my veins and stars in my eyes, then fell victim to my own nerves and the blinding glow of the Garden’s bright lights.

  I had five weeks to atone for this sin of complacency. Backlash. One-on-one with Randy Orton. Hardcore rules. A second chance to make a lasting impression.

  It was a conference call with Vince and Gewirtz, while sitting in a car at Dewey’s Little League practice, that got my mind working for Houston. My gut was churning, the result of one of those protein drinks I’d been subsisting on since Mania. I’d weighed in at just under 290 for Mania , the lightest I’d been since 1996, and a good 40 pounds lighter than I’d been for the past few years. But I wanted more. I trained harder. I dieted stricter. I’d been 280 for most of 1995 and 1996, a time when I had done much of my best work, in ECW,
Japan, and WWE. I’d been 280 when I worked with Shawn Michaels in Philadelphia in September of ’96, which still stands out as my best personal performance, if not match, largely because I was in shape and could keep pace with a lighter, better athlete for close to thirty minutes.

  Vince wanted to talk about the April 5 Raw in Houston. I had requested promo time in front of the live crowd, but Vince had other ideas.

  “I want to have you in a rocking chair, Mick,” he said. “Rocking back and forth. In a room by yourself. No fans. Holding a box that we think will be flowers, but which will turn out to be your barbed-wire bat. I don’t want to know what you’re going to say. I want you to surprise us. Just say it from your heart.”

  So I did. I sat there alone (except for the camera, lighting, and sound crews) in that room, rocking back and forth, holding a box, speaking from my heart, letting loose on one of my favorite personal interviews.

  WrestleManiaXX—teaming up with The Rock for my first match in four years.

  Foley is backstage, sitting in a rocking chair, holding a tulip and a flower box with a ribbon on it.

  MICK FOLEY:It’s been said many times that you never…never forget your first. Call me sentimental, but I…but I think that’s true. Because, in my life there have been many…dozens. Maybe hundreds. But I’ve never quite forgotten my very first one. There were times on the road where I’d pick up a couple a week. Use them for a couple of days and then…hand them off to a lucky fan. But I’ve never forgotten my first. My first flannel shirt. Given to me the Christmas of 1977. Three sizes too large. And not worn, in the last ten years, until just a few days ago I went to a box of my favorite things and gleefully withdrew it, intending to wear it in my match at Backlash, in Edmonton. It may sound funny, for a guy whose name is synonymous with hardcore wrestling to become so fond of, even in love with, an inanimate object. But I’ve always found the word hardcore really had nothing to do with chairs. It had nothing, to do really, with tables, garbage cans, cookie sheets. The term hardcore signified that I had an attitude that meant I was going to go above and beyond what it took to give the fans the greatest show possible. It was a word that said I loved the business, and I loved the fans enough to put my body through unimaginable pain. And even when I had the chance to go to Japan and take part in some barbaric matches, I did it with love on my mind. After all, in 1994, I had a one-year-old baby girl. I had a three-year-old boy. I had a mortgage to pay, and I did what I had to do to pay the bills. So even though some of the matches I took part in may have been described as inhumane, deep down in my heart I rested with the comfort and knowledge that I was doing it for love. And I swore I’d never go back. I swore I’d never watch those matches again. Never watch what I put those poor Japanese people through. But, in trying to recapture the fire and the passion that I thought I lacked at WrestleMania, I went back and I looked at the tapes. And I did barbaric things. I did inhumane things, but it wasn’t the moves. It wasn’t the barbed wire. It wasn’t the tacks that caught my eye. It was my eyes! Over and over I’d watch the tapes. Rewind, play, rewind, play. And it was there. It was a look in my eyes that said deep down, maybe there was a little part of me that didn’t mind inflicting that type of damage. Deep down, maybe there was a little part of me that even liked it. Deep down, I heard the screams. The suffering! The agony! Maybe, maybe deep down…I even loved it. Randy Orton, these were honorable men. Nice men. They never spit in my face. They never conducted a calculated campaign calling me a coward. They never took cheap-shot, triple-team efforts to send me to the hospital. But the fact is, when I had the chance, I wrapped my arm in barbed wire and I tore them apart! So, if I were you, I’d be asking myself a simple question, and that question would be, “What the hell is this man going to do to me at Backlash, knowing full well he hates my guts?” The answer, Randy Orton, is simple. I AM GOING TO KICK YOUR ASS ALL OVER ED…No. No, I’m not going to kick your ass all over Edmonton. Because I hear that all the time, it’s become a cliché. [Sarcastically.] “I’m going to kick your ass, man! I’m going to kick your ass!” I’m not going to kick your ass in Edmonton, Randy. I’m going to be a little more descriptive than that. In order to be descriptive, well, I’m going to have to introduce you to another old friend of mine. Another friend that I saw in my box of favorite things, Randy Orton. [Pulls barbed-wire bat out of box.] Say hello to my friend…Barbie. And Barbie’s not going to kick your ass. Barbie is going to get sunk into your skull, AND I AM GOING TO CARVE CAVERNS OF GORE INTO YOUR VIRGIN FLESH! I am going to…I’m going to bring on the type of bleeding usually reserved for special effects teams in Mel Gibson biblical efforts. Randy Orton, I am going to tear you apart. I am going to take Barbie, and I’m going to…TEE OFF! [Hits table on floor.] I am going to take Barbie and… [Hits lighting fixture.]I am going to take Barbie and I’m going to teach you what it means to be hardcore! [Hits rocking chair.] I am going to rip! I am going to tear…I am going to gorge! I am going to possibly disembowel! And I am going to…love it.