by Mick Foley
Same thing with Bush. The troops love the guy. And he does seem to care. I’ve seen family photos of the president on visits, hugging the parents, sitting on patients’ beds, pinning Purple Hearts on chests. They all glow about Mrs. Bush, too. Especially about Mrs. Bush. Hey, who am I to argue? They’ve met the guy and his wife; I haven’t.
I managed to escape the groundbreaking ceremony without incident or Wolfowitz greeting but wondered if I’d be so lucky at Fran O’Brien’s later that evening. I imagined the scene at Fran’s—a long table in a back room, fairly intimate, maybe fifteen people, twenty tops. But as I made the rounds through the hospital, especially in physical therapy and occupational therapy, it seemed that everyone I spoke to was going to the dinner.
Fran O’Brien’s was packed. As I should have guessed, there were far too many injured troops to sit around one long wood table. There were troops everywhere, a hundred or so, in various stages of the healing process. Some sported new prosthetics, learning to walk on fiberglass legs instead of muscle and bone. Some were in wheelchairs, awaiting procedures that would help them to walk.
I had talked to a buddy of mine, Chris Walker, who I’d known since middle school, and I apologized for hitting D.C. so often without stopping by to see him in Baltimore. Like a lot of people, Chris felt detached from the war and wished he could somehow feel better connected to something other than CNN or Fox News. So he had jumped at the chance to go with me to Fran’s, to meet some of the men and women who had given so much, and, last but not least, to pilfer free food.
Chris and I were both surprised to find Doonesbury creator Garry Trudeau at our table. Trudeau’s political satire can be razor-sharp at times, but the troops love the guy because he listens to them, values their feedback, and tells their side of the story in his Pulitzer Prize–winning work.
I got up to use the restroom and was introduced to Mark Bowden, a fine political journalist and author of Black Hawk Down , which was turned into a successful movie of the same name. “I can’t stand that guy,” I told Bowden, upon seeing Wolfowitz about ten feet away.
Bowden laughed. “I’m here with him,” he said. “I’m writing an article on him.”
“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Maybe you shouldn’t include that in the article.”
I did read the article a few months later in the Atlantic Monthly . As Bowden had told me, it wasn’t meant to be either pro-or anti-Wolfowitz; just a way for people to better understand a very polarizing figure. I really do understand him a little better now. I still don’t like him. But I don’t hate him either. He just happens to view the world in a way that I don’t. Not to mention the fact that he was way off the mark with his prewar assertions.
After my short bathroom break, I was introduced to Fran’s proprietor, who told me he wanted to introduce me to a good friend of his. I turned to see Wolfowitz. Holy crap! What should I do? Luckily, I was on autopilot. I’d played out this scene in my mind and knew just what I’d do. “Hello, Mr. Wolfowitz, how are you? I know the troops appreciate your support.”
The deputy secretary of defense opened his mouth and let loose a blast of bad breath that would have killed a lesser man. He mentioned meeting one of our guys (Batista) at the Pentagon and then tried to make some kind of joke about the Divas, but humor, I surmised, was not the guy’s strong suit. Neither is foreign policy, for that matter.
I got back to the table and was immediately questioned by Trudeau, who had seen the Wolfowitz incident in all its halitosic glory. I ran him through the dialogue, taking great care to note that no actual lying had taken place during the course of our short conversation. Someone from Fran’s came over to ask Trudeau if he too would like a meeting with Wolfie.
“You know, I think that I’ll pass,” said Trudeau. “And if he’s read my work, I think he’ll pass, too.”
I wandered off for a while, visiting tables, dispensing Cactus Jack T-shirts and Wrescal Lane copies to the troops. Suddenly, I felt a wave of excitement crash across the room. I turned to see Gary Trudeau and Paul Wolfowitz shaking hands, as if at some kind of peace summit, both of their bodies bathed in the bright lights of cameras. Then it was over. Just like that. Photographers retreated, and both combatants went back to their respective corners: Trudeau at my table, Wolfie raising hell at the bar, margarita in hand, licking salt off a barmaid’s bare boobs. Yeah, I made that part up.
I hit up Trudeau for some details. What had been said? What had gone down?
“Well,” Gary started. “I took your advice. I tried to be polite without lying.”
On the way back to Baltimore, my friend Chris started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I said.
“It just seemed so surreal, so bizarre,” he said.
“What did?”
“The conversation.”
“Which one?” I asked.
“The one with you and Gary Trudeau,” Chris said. “I can’t believe Gary Trudeau told a friend I’ve known for twenty-five years that he took his advice on how to talk with the deputy secretary of defense.”
A week later I received a call from Ellen Brody of the USO. “You’ve been invited to have dinner at the Pentagon,” she said.
“Wow, that’s exciting.”
“Yeah, but there’s something you should know,” Ellen said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s hosted by Paul Wolfowitz.”
“Oh,” I moaned, “I can’t stand that guy.”
“I know,” she said. “But it’s a very big deal. All of the joint chiefs will be there. And…”
“And what?”
“And Mr. Wolfowitz asked for you by name.”
Update—On February 5, 2007, I had my third dinner with Wolfie. I’d like to report that Dr. Wolfowitz’s breath was minty fresh, and that our conversation was enjoyable and extensive. Honest. I am even looking forward to my fourth dinner with Wolfie.
June 7, 2006
11:01A .M.—Zanesville, OH
Dear Hardcore Diary,
It’s a huge day for our show. A make-or-break show. As I headed into Monday night’s Raw, I admitted to myself that I’d basically given up on the angle. Admitted that I was a defeated man. I accepted that this ECW show was going to be a disaster, both creatively and financially, and that I’d have to chalk it up as a giant and very expensive learning experience.
At one point, Kurt Angle, Edge, and I sat down to talk over our promo. Kurt was supposed to say a line that read, “If I were a true Mick Foley rip-off, I’d be selling out to whoever flashed the biggest wad of cash in front of my face.”
Kurt looked at me and jokingly asked, “Is that true, Mick?”
I laughed. “No, actually, I’m taking quite a financial hit on this one.”
Kurt and Edge both exploded in laughter. Man, on this day, laughter really was the best medicine, and I needed its anesthetizing quality. Whether it was one wrestler comparing the creative team to a bunch of art lovers, each one intent on putting their own little touch on the Mona Lisa—a pair of glasses, a bigger smile—or Terry Funk telling a ridiculous story about a doctor sticking hard-boiled eggs and a doughnut up his ass in order to lure a tapeworm out of its anal lair, I laughed an awful lot on Monday.
I had accepted my fate as a headliner on the worst show in recent history. Still, I attempted to make a last-minute appeal to Vince, more to ease my conscience than to actually get anything done, because I sincerely doubted that it would succeed.
But I hit Vince with as much truth as I could, going on record with saying the angle sucked, having been watered down to the point of being unrecognizable. I pushed for Terry Funk. I pushed for Tommy Dreamer. I pushed for a video package that could feature both guys at their best and could convey in a few short sound bites just how important this match was to both of them.
I reminded Vince that my pitch in Stamford specifically called for the use of the ECW video library, which would definitively showcase the passion of my past feuds with Dreamer and Funk. I astutely p
ointed out that none of that had actually been done, and even went so far as to say, “Vince, this has been screwed up so badly that it made me think of WCW, where people speculated that it was being done badly on purpose, to derail angles and Pay-Per-Views, just to maintain the status quo.”
Okay, maybe I went too far with that last one, as Vince seemed to take offense at the insinuation.
“Mick, why don’t you write all that down, so we can try to get some of it done for Wednesday.” Then he stood up and, leaning in toward me, said, “I may not be a good person, but I am always a good businessman.”
“I disagree, Vince,” I said, shaking his hand. “I think you are a good person.” Vince seemed stunned as my nose grew five inches in an instant, turning to wood and sprouting small branches that a trio of tufted titmice twittered on triumphantly.
Actually, I do think Vince is a good person. I’ve known him for a long time, and I know he is, deep down, a caring, warm human being. I once asked him for a day off in 1999, due to a death in the family. Vince’s eyes teared up immediately, so quickly that he couldn’t possibly have faked it. Sure, some of the things he does make me shake my head in disbelief, or even disgust, but the fruit of his labor, WWE, has entertained so many millions around the world, and has put smiles on countless faces that don’t often have a reason to do so.
A few minutes later, I was approached by Paul E., my saving grace. “Vince said you have some ideas,” he said. “Talk to me, I’m writing the show for Wednesday.”
Earlier in the day, I had spoken to Paul about the “whore” accusation. Actually, I didn’t do it in a confrontational manner, or even use the w word. But I did say, “I know you think I do a lot of things in this business just for the money. That’s true. But this wasn’t about the money. This was all about the vision.”
“I know,” he said.
Having Paul at the helm gives me hope. He knows the audience. He knows emotion. He will do whatever is possible to make Wednesday’s show as good as it possibly could be. We need those two hours on Wednesday as a last-chance endorsement for One Night Stand. We have two hours to do the hardest sell job in sports entertainment history. Like a traveling salesman of old, we’ll be going door-to-door, via the miracle of cable and satellite, telling millions of people all about our product and why they can’t afford to live without it.
We had a very good Raw. From a wrestling perspective, I’m not sure what happened, but from an ECW perspective, it was just what we needed. I finally felt the buzz. The ECW buzz that had been so prominent before last year’s show had finally returned, along with a host of ECW alumni.
The show itself seemed to gain new meaning. I no longer felt that I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, that my one match would either make or break the show. Of course, if the buy rate is good, I will try to claim that I did indeed make the show, but that’s another fight for another day.
John Cena did a hell of a job, even better than usual, with his contract-signing segment. Cena has become incredibly good at shifting emotional gears, interchanging humor and serious dialogue effortlessly, hopefully impressing on his legion of fans just why this match is so important.
I’m really looking forward to my potential SummerSlam match with John, provided my knee holds out, or we don’t have a last-minute creative shake-up. Maybe someone will decide that Mona Lisa needs a coonskin cap or a tattoo.
My knee actually feels a little better. Doc Rios said it was possible that my Baker’s cyst had ruptured, allowing me some relief from pain, and better movement, too. Earlier in the week, I’d had trouble just walking. I’d even taken a pain pill one afternoon, which I took as a sign of personal weakness and failure. It is one thing to take medication to get through a six-hour red-eye in coach; another to pop a pill just to get through the day. It was a failure I do not intend to repeat.
Somewhere around 10:30P .M., after Beth Phoenix broke her jaw, but before a great Vince–Shane–Triple H segment, I was summoned to the writers’ room for a talk with Paul.
“I’ve got a promo for you on Wednesday,” he said. “I’m not sure we’re going to get the package you wanted, but I’m going to make sure that you get a chance to talk. We’re going to show the ‘Cane Dewey’ promo, and then we’ll go to you, in a room, horror lighting, no fans booing, no cheap pops. Just you and your promo.”
Then Paul gave me my promo. Sure, I take great pride in coming up with my own stuff, but when something is real good, I’m more than happy to steal it. And this was real good. So good that I can’t wait to steal it. So good that I’ll put my own little touch on it and practically dare people not to buy this show. So good that I may just do the unthinkable—push the doors to Promoland open just enough so I can squeeze in and go on one last heart-pumping ride.
12:18P .M.—time to go to Dayton
June 9, 2006
11:40P .M.—Long Island, NY
Dear Hardcore Diary,
Okay, here’s the fact sheet from the June 7 WWE vs. ECW show from Dayton. There was no video package. No Funk promo. No Dreamer promo. Tommy Dreamer officially heads into One Night Stand as a main eventer of sorts, despite the fact that the vast majority of our fans don’t even know what his voice sounds like. Actually, Terry did get to cut a promo (and a very good one), but it was for the Internet only; not exactly the casual fans Terry needs to convince his worthiness to. The “Cane Dewey” promo did show, but only for about thirty seconds—not long enough to make fans feel they knew my mindset back in ’95. I did get to do that promo. I did get the horror lighting. But it wasn’t just me in a room—it was me in the middle of the ring.
Unfortunately, the gap between what I wanted to do with that promo and what I actually did do with it was a wide one. It was like the verbal equivalent of Evel Knievel’s infamous Snake River Canyon jump. Man, did I ever want to make history with this promo, but in much the same way that Evel’s courage (or rocket ship) failed him back in ’74, my confidence, testicular fortitude, or talent took a hike almost immediately, causing me to fall back on a few worn-out clichés and a whole lot of yelling. As I was doing it, I was aware it wasn’t sucking, but I was also well aware that it was far, far from what I wanted it to be. I was looking for a 1971 Reggie Jackson All-Star game type of blast. Instead, in my moment of truth in Dayton, I unveiled a whole lot of warning track power. At least, I thought so at the time.
Despite the cryptic nature of the previously mentioned facts, I thought we had a tremendous show. There was a definite ECW buzz, although the buy rate will ultimately tell if the show was too little, too late, or just enough, just in the nick of time.
I was given some verbiage for my promo but decided not to look at it, opting instead for the potent cocktail of my memory of Paul’s previous night’s promo, my emotional ride to Dayton, and the heartfelt hope and belief that the right words would hit me when the spotlight was on. And on this one night, the spotlight would literally be on. As per Paul E.’s request, I would be sitting in a chair in center ring, house lights off, only a single spotlight illuminating me.
I wasn’t required to rehearse my promo—just the lighting. Damn, it looked good. Not “good” as in “handsome” good. But “good” as in “different” good. Eerie good. Moody good.
Seeing my face in such lighting, in such an extreme close-up, gave me two immediate thoughts. One, I would need to tweeze my nose hairs before I went out there. Which I eventually did. The second one was a little trickier. To do it, I would need two separate approvals: one from Terry Funk, and one from Vince.
I spotted Terry at ringside right after my lighting test. “Hey, Terry,” I said, walking up into whispering range. “Did you see how good that lighting looked?”
“Yes, I did,” Terry said.
“Might be a good time for a hardway.”
Terry raised an eyebrow and looked quickly around. “It might be,” he said. “But you know it’s dangerous.”
“Yeah, I know. But it might really make this angle.”
“Okay, let’s do it,” he whispered, “but its going to hurt like a mother blanker.” Actually, he had an alternate word for “blanker.”
Now I needed to sell Vince on the idea. There are some things that are best done in secret. I judged that this particular hardway idea was not one of these things. Sure, I’d tried to do a top-secret hardway with Randy Orton—but this was different. Vince loved me back then. I could afford to call an audible that would piss him off. That was April 2004. In June of 2006, I believed that Vince McMahon had taken about as much of Mick Foley’s grief as he was willing to. A move that he interpreted as “devious” could well lead to either the removal of my promo or the removal of the close-up that would make the hardway seem memorable.
Besides, that 2004 hardway idea hadn’t worked out so well.
“Hey, Vince,” I said, trying to figure out a way to cozy up to my favorite billionaire without seeming smarmy or too deferential.
“Hello, Mick,” my favorite billionaire said.
Keeping in mind that Vince was up to his Mick Foley limit, I decided to forgo a deep psychological preamble about why the time was right for such a unique step. So I just dove right in. “I think tonight’s a good time for a hardway.”
“Why do you say that?” Vince said. Great, he wasn’t instantly disgusted. He was going to allow me the opportunity to sell it to him.
“Well, the lighting’s just incredible. No one’s seen a hardway in years, and Terry’s about the only guy left in the business who still knows how to do them. I think it will really make a difference in the angle.”
“If it’s too bloody, we won’t be able to use our close-up.”
“I don’t think it will be, Vince—an eyebrow doesn’t usually bleed too much.”
“Okay, if you’re okay with it, let’s do it.”
Technically speaking, I’d done a hardway in January of 2004. But that was self-inflicted. I really can’t remember the last legitimate, intentional hardway in WWE.
