The Hardcore Diaries

by Mick Foley

  Ladies and gentlemen. Promoland is now closed for the season. Due to changes in the business beyond my control, there is no longer any need for it in wrestling. Please check your passion and imagination at the door.

  June 3, 2006

  11:33P .M.—Comfort Inn, Lithicum, MD

  Dear Hardcore Diary,

  I can’t believe six days have gone by without a diary entry. But I’m aware that my last entry was a downer, and it’s not as if I’ve had an incredible breakthrough to write about. I have come to wonder if this book will even be published, and if so, in what form? I’m not sure if WWE really wants a book on their label that constantly questions their judgment and criticizes their ideas. I’m guessing that quite a few people will voice their concern to Vince, and offer their opinions on where, how, and why certain parts should be cut. Then, ultimately, it will be up to Vince. Hopefully, he’ll be in a “freedom of speech” mood that day.

  In retrospect, I may have bitten off more than I could chew. Suffice to say, the next time I make a wrestling comeback, I won’t simultaneously be writing a book about it and have a major overhaul on my house done. Sure, the floors looked old and dull, but refinishing the floor required removing all our furniture and actually moving the family into a hotel forty minutes away. Which meant an incredible amount of driving—kids to school, feeding pets, checking on house, working out, little kids to preschool, big kids to softball and baseball—and the aggravation that accompanied it.

  Maybe it was a blessing, in that it took my mind off my One Night Stand troubles. I did receive a phone call from Brian Gewirtz, telling me of the basic plan for Monday, which seemed fine, although I expressed my concern that not nearly enough was being done to make Funk and Dreamer look like stars, threats, or even credible opponents. Without a late buildup, Edge and I face the very real prospect of headlining the lowest-grossing Pay-Per-View in recent WWE history, not to mention the possibility that, in accordance with Vince’s prediction, the match will suck.

  Even when pitching this idea in Stamford back in April, I left the last two weeks of buildup in WWE’s hands, telling the creative team that the promotion for the match should be a snap, considering the very real, very dramatic past I share with both Funk and Dreamer. A past that is right at Vince’s fingertips, given the treasure trove of goodies hidden in the ECW video library, which WWE owns. Granted, someone has to dig for that treasure, but incredible video production has always been a WWE hallmark, and I really doubt that the slight inconvenience of time should be allowed to sink an idea that once held so much promise. Hey, maybe I’ll volunteer to go up there and help out on the search. I won’t go down without a fight, but unless someone steps up to the plate and decides to put the WWE machine behind Funk and Dreamer, this whole thing will sink to the bottom of the WWE crapper faster then Buff vs. Booker in Tacoma, back in 2001.

  I told Brian to take a look at the Rise and Fall of ECW DVD that shocked the video world by selling an astounding number of copies, almost single-handedly putting ECW back on the map as both a Pay-Per-View entity and possibly a returning full-time promotion.

  “Maybe some people question Tommy’s ability,” I said. “But look at the DVD again. It’s basically Paul E., Tazz, and Tommy. Hey, they interviewed me, but I’m barely in it. Tommy’s in it because someone made the determination that he was interesting enough to feature in the story. Put a video package together with him. He’s got the heart and pride, and our fans will see how much this match means to him. Plus, over the years, in ECW, he was a part of some incredible video moments. Please don’t write him off just because a few people decided he doesn’t have it.”

  So it’s basically out of my hands. I’ll make a last-minute plea to Vince, but it’s possible he has his mind made up on this one. After all, he is “the decider.” And the sad truth is, “the persuader” just doesn’t care as much anymore.

  I have actually started questioning my judgment for even suggesting this idea. What was I thinking? That by sheer force of will, I could sculpt a masterpiece in five weeks? While a bunch of other sculptors simultaneously chip away at it, rendering it almost unrecognizable?

  I keep thinking that I should have gone with a dream match. A money match. A sure thing. Maybe I’m not quite on the level of a Rock, Austin, or Hogan, and perhaps there is no singular “dream” match for me, but I’m pretty sure a properly done heel turn could have drawn big money with any number of guys. After all, I hadn’t been a bad guy since 1998, an eternity by WWE standards, where the number of turns by top guys gets into double digits on many occasions.

  I remember sitting next to Chris Jericho on an airplane a few years ago and passing the time by trying to list all the McMahon and Big Show turns. Kurt Angle must have turned four times in the past year alone. Good guy, bad guy, All-American patriot, troop-hating heel, etc.

  Speaking of Kurt, I’m extremely bothered and confused by what exactly he may have been told to do to me last Monday night. I was told he was going to take me down, and let me up, leading to an Angle Slam, which would cause me to roll outside the ring in disgrace, leaving Kurt to stand as the triumphant new face of ECW, which I’m pretty sure constitutes yet another turn.

  Except that’s not quite what happened. Yes, Kurt took me down. But once I was down, he hammered me with some pretty damn real punches to the head, with a couple of legitimate headbutts thrown in for good measure. Hey, I’m a believer in realism, but come on; as one of the few remaining guys with long hair in the business, it’s pretty easy to deliver a decent-looking headbutt without leaving lumps all over my head,

  But the stiff stuff didn’t bother me too much. After all, I’ve worked with some of the stiffest, most believable guys in the business, including Vader at his monster heel best, and Austin, when absorbing his comeback punches was no day at the beach. What bothered me more was learning of the possibility that Kurt may have told to take me down continually, without my knowledge—to embarrass me and to show off his wrestling expertise.

  I had some serious words with Vince over this matter, which, if true, would have been unprofessional and dangerous, not to mention another nail in the One Night Stand coffin.

  I said, “Vince, why would you tell Kurt to take me down without telling me, knowing that my knee is hanging on by a thread?”

  Vince, however, didn’t know my knee was hanging on by a thread. He also didn’t know anything about telling Kurt to take me down continually. Signals, it seemed, had been crossed. Vince had apparently, after the fact, told Kurt that he should have taken me down continually, to show his wrestling superiority. According to Vince, Kurt was never told ahead of time to do so without my knowledge.

  Is anyone out there skeptical besides me? I’m taking Vince at his word, but nonetheless, I’m going to be a little bit more cautious from this point forward, with Kurt, with Flair, with Vince. It’s bad enough that my ideas have been screwed with.

  From a business standpoint, One Night Stand could be the worst decision I have ever made. By throwing away my most valuable commodity—the trust of the fans—I have probably cost myself the huge payoff that a well-promoted dream match could mean. My One Night Stand payoff will probably be less than a tenth of that possible payoff, making me quite possibly the world’s most naive whore.

  I rented a car at LaGuardia and drove on to Baltimore, about 220 miles, in preparation for tomorrow’s Walter Reid Army Medical Center visit in Washington, D.C.—the twenty-fifth time I’ve made such a visit in the last two and a half years. As I noted earlier, Promoland has closed its doors for the season—possibly until my post-ECW angle with Flair—so I went promo-free during the road trip. I did devote some quality time to thinking about the ECW match itself.

  While my earlier visions of attaining “wrestling immortality” with this angle have turned out to be preposterous, I am hoping we can put on a hell of a match to prove Vince wrong, to heal my wounded pride, and to give a happy ending to this very frustrating story.

  The more I think
about a Lita/Beulah finish, the cheaper it seems. I’m all for having the girls mix it up during the course of the match, but making it a mixed tag reeks of desperation and may ultimately leave the fans unsatisfied. Hey, I understand the need for an ECW victory. Beat me! Please. That’s what I’m good at. I’ve won exactly one match this decade, and I don’t see any reason to change that.

  I just hope that we’ll be given the opportunity to improvise in this match. Sure, not knowing what Terry Funk will do is a little dangerous. So what? It also has the potential to be magical. And that potential is really all we have left.

  I spent most of my time thinking about little Mick. Earlier in the day, the little guy and I had eaten breakfast together. It was actually my first time in that hotel restaurant since my August 2005 meeting with Jeff Jarrett, concerning the possibility of jumping the massive WWE ship and boarding the relatively tiny TNA boat—a jump I came very close to making.

  The waitress looked at little Mick, who was making quick work of his French toast. A day earlier, at Adventureland, a misleadingly nice amusement park tucked into a shopping district on a busy thoroughfare on Long Island, I had told Mickey that he was eating his pizza way too quick.

  “Mickey, please take only one bite at a time,” I had told him. Instead, he was taking four quick bites, which he chewed and swallowed with great speed, eager to dig in for more.

  The waitress was kind of marveling at him, as many people do. I know he’s my son, but man, he’s a handsome little guy. “Where did you get those big blue eyes?” she said. “Did Daddy give them to you?”

  “No,” I said. “My eyes are hazel.”

  “How about Mommy?” the waitress asked. “Did she give them to you?”

  “No, his mommy has green eyes,” I said.

  The waitress said something about the miracle of recessive genes, but Mickey wasn’t buying that theory. Why? Because he already knew the answer.

  “I think God gave me blue eyes,” he said. “That’s what God does.”

  On our way out, Mickey grabbed a red apple—a “poison apple,” as he called it—and we headed back to the room, where Colette and the kids were finishing off room service. Six people in a room can get a little claustrophobic, so we try to break the group up now and then. I gave the “poison apple” a good washing, then handed it to Mickey, before leaving the bathroom to forage for uneaten pancake scraps.

  It was Colette who sensed the trouble. “Where’s Mickey?” she said. Without waiting for an answer, she rushed to the bathroom. “Oh, my God,” she yelled, her voice stricken with panic. “He’s choking.”

  Mickey’s face was red, bordering on purple, when I got to him. Colette was reaching into his mouth with her finger, trying unsuccessfully to fish for the blockage. “Mick, please help me,” she said.

  I grabbed my son from behind, interlocking my fingers, pushing in firmly and quickly underneath his rib cage. Once, twice, nothing. His eyes were bulging; his beautiful little face was a mask of fear and confusion. I tried to think. What more could I do? I remembered a story, thirty years ago, about my cousin Terry picking a boy upside down and whacking him on the back to dislodge a gum ball. That was to be my next move.

  I pushed in one more time—the same Heimlich maneuver we’d practiced in high school health class and in advanced lifesaving at the Ward Melville pool. A piece of apple flew from his mouth and landed atop the blue hotel rug—one of the most beautiful sights I’d ever witnessed.

  He coughed, a beautiful sound. He turned to me, his face still red, still scared, still confused. He whaled at me with both tiny fists and, crying, said, “You hurt me. You hurt me!” I dread thinking of his tiny mind, in his most vulnerable moment, wondering why the person he most trusted was trying to do such a thing to him.

  A little while later, an hour or so, I guess, he put his little arms around me and kissed me. The little guy is big on hugs and kisses. While Hughie slips into preschool with a simple “Bye, bye,” it’s not unusual for little Mick to dish out multiple hugs and kisses before letting me depart.

  “Daddy?” he said.

  “Yes, buddy?”

  “I know you were helping me.”

  “So you’re not mad at me for hurting you?”

  “No,” he said, “I love you.”

  “I love you too, Mickey.”

  “But I love Mommy more than you. I love you a little, but I love Mommy a lot.”

  I kept thinking about those two morning faces—the big blue eyes from God, and the panicked face of fear. I have known so many parents who have lost children, and have always thought I couldn’t imagine the pain those lost lives must cause. During those 220 miles, I tried many times to imagine that pain, and my brain would simply stop me from fully exercising my imagination.

  Life is just so delicate. And at this moment, I am ashamed to think about how much of it I’ve wasted recently worrying about something as insignificant as WWE, ECW, and attempts at wrestling immortality.

  Good-bye, Vince

  “Hello, this is Mick Foley calling. Can I speak to Vince, please?”

  This was a phone call I had dreaded making, but one I knew I’d have to make. I simply couldn’t leave without saying good-bye.

  Vince, I was told, was in a meeting. He would be busy most of the day.

  I said, “Could you please tell him that I’m going to TNA?”

  TNA stood for Total Nonstop Action, a promotion that had existed solely on Pay-Per-View since 2002, until a national television deal and an influx of new money gave it a considerably higher profile, and a legitimate shot at success. I had been contacted by them sporadically over the years, but had not really been interested, until some recent conversations with company cofounder Jeff Jarett about the new direction of the group sparked an interest.

  I went outside to play for a while, an hour or so, with Mickey and Hugh—my two tiny safety valves, guarding me against the pressures of life. When I returned to the house, I was greeted by the flashing red light of the answering machine. Four messages. Two from Vince, two from John Lauranitas, head of talent relations. There were two more messages on my cell phone, both from Vince. He wasn’t mad, just concerned, and made it very clear that he considered me a valuable part of WWE. What could be done, he wanted to know, to make things right?

  But as far as I was concerned, there was nothing that could be done to make it right. I had made up my mind.

  It wasn’t about the money. If it had been, my decision would have been simple. I would have never even thought about leaving. I had met with Vince in June of 2005 and proposed a three-year deal that called for only two matches a year. Obviously, it would have been a good deal for me; a guaranteed weekly check for three full years in return for a very minimal investment in time. But I thought it was a good deal for Vince too, as it would allow him the luxury of either building to a big match with a guy who was a proven commodity, or calling me off his bench as a stopgap measure in the event of some kind of wrestling emergency, such as an injury to a major star at an inopportune time. From the standpoint of a publicly traded company, the deal would also allow WWE to freely promote me as one of their guys for three full years, a situation I was sure they would be more than happy to capitalize on.

  The whole meeting lasted less than twenty minutes. It seemed like a no-brainer. But the WWE legal gears can grind awfully slow, and while they did, I did some serious thinking about who I was in the wrestling business, and what my ultimate legacy in it would be.

  I had worked on some independent shows, over the past few years, serving in the capacity of the world’s most dangerous referee. Sure, it was the same gig over and over—bad guy gets out of line, bad guy gets his just desserts, courtesy of Mr. Socko—but it was fun, paid well, and gave me a chance to meet some of the top new wrestlers in the game. I had also done a number of shows for ROH (Ring of Honor), working under the creative direction of Gabe Sapolsky, who I had known since he was a teenager, when he was helping out in any capacity he could for ECW i
n the mid-1990s.

  I really liked the group, and thought highly of many of its stars, some of whom figured to be a major part of the new TNA. I recommended a few of them, such as Samoa Joe and C. M. Punk, to Vince personally, with varying degrees of success. Punk was picked up on a WWE developmental contract, and may eventually become a big star, if he’s able to successfully dodge the minefield of political b.s. that dots the WWE landscape. Joe, despite being the most convincing badass I’d seen in years, wasn’t thought to have a WWE look—a knock I’m somewhat familiar with, and one that continues to reek of backward thinking. After all, six-six and ripped only goes so far.

  My old buddy Raven had affected my thinking as well, getting inside my head, convincing me that a jump to TNA would be in wrestling’s best interest.

  “Bro, I’m telling you,” he said. “If you made the move and helped this thing work, it would literally dwarf anything else you’ve accomplished in the business.”

  So I talked a few times with Jeff Jarrett, and agreed to meet for a double-secret breakfast at the Long Island Hilton in August 2005. I’d known Jeff since 1988, when I got my first full-time break, in his father’s company, and despite the fact that I didn’t really enjoy my time in the Memphis territory, I had always liked Jeff and considered him to be a quality guy.

  It was amazing to see how closely Jeff’s vision of my future role in TNA compared to mine: an initial match with Abyss, a talented big man who has taken a page or two out of the old Mick Foley playbook. A couple big matches with Joe, including an angle that would have served as a new textbook example of how to get a guy over. And then a title shot with Jarrett.

  I received an offer a few days later. Twice the work and far more pressure for half of the WWE offer—guaranteed for only one year. So essentially I was set to leave Vince McMahon, the man who’d played such a big role in so many of the positive things in my life, for one-sixth of the WWE’s guaranteed offer. Wow. How many concussions have I had anyway? What was I thinking? Well, actually, I know what I was thinking. I was going to save TNA, and give aspiring wrestlers who don’t happen to be six-six and ripped a viable shot at a career. Which begs the repeat of my previous question. Just how many concussions have I had?