by Mick Foley
I gave Terry the thumbs-up and, one at a time, told all three handheld cameramen, Marty, Rico, and Stu, to get real tight shots of Terry’s postmatch punches. The production of WWE shows is so top-notch that we often take the work of so many people for granted. Still, when something is really needed, I try to consult with the guys on the ground, and when something is done really well, I do my best to let them know how much it’s appreciated.
The crowd was hot, enthusiastic in their support of ECW. They seemed to enjoy being live witnesses to this historical head-to-head adventure, and thrive on getting behind the underdog promotion. A company-versus-company battle royal was well received, and then it was my turn. Normally, a role as Edge’s second, kind of a Kenickie to his Zuko, wouldn’t be much cause for personal anxiety. Few jobs in life are as easy and fun as getting paid to watch WWE from the best seat (or standing area) in the house. But this was somehow different. I was nervous. Nervous because I knew I had to deliver on this promo. Or, maybe more accurately, because I knew I had to deliver on it right after getting my eyebrow split open by Terry Funk.
Edge is a pro. He understands that our biggest problem is the credibility issue our opponents have with Vince (and with some of our fans), so he used the match to try to “make” Tommy Dreamer. It was a hardcore match; no rules, very physical, and, with the exception of Edge missing a table on a backdrop and landing in a precarious manner on his surgically repaired neck, it was a success.
There I go again, mixing up my past and present tenses whenever I describe a match or interview. I hope you’ll just try to live with it.
Lita interferes, causing Terry to get involved, which causes me to wrap a piece of barbed wire around Terry’s neck. Terry and I roll outside, and I watch as Edge spears Tommy for the win. Good match. Now it’s my turn…to get punched in the eye. Hardway time.
I see two handheld cameramen in position, and I know the “hard camera” in the stands is on us, too. There’s no way to miss this. Terry rears back with that big left hand, and “bam,” fist meets flesh. Yes, we’ve done it! Except I’m not sure we have. I don’t feel the telltale trail of hot blood charting its course down my cheek. Terry rears back again. Damn, this means we didn’t get it the first time. Oh, man, this is going to hurt. I had prepared myself for one shot. “Bam!” Fist meets flesh, part II. Still no trail. No warmth. Terry rears back again. There’s no blood on his knuckles. This is not going well. Take three…and rolling. The third punch is different. It lands below my left eye. So does punch four. Number five may or may not have broken my nose. The crowd is actually chanting my name. They feel bad for me. Hell, they should. I feel bad for me. This idea sucked.
Finally, left hand number six, or nine, or sixteen, sends me down to the ground, where my legs promptly get tangled up with a barbed-wire bat—an everyday discarded item in these types of matches.
Wait a second. I feel something. Something warm. I touch my fingers to my head, pull them back, look at them. Yes! Genuine hardway blood. It may look the same as other blood, but it’s not. There’s something special about hardway blood. It’s earned blood. There’s just a little of it, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s enough. My hardway joy is short-lived, however, as the Funker slaps me hard, cutting off my moment like a nosy mother walking in on a teenage pickle-tickling session.
Finally, mercifully, Edge intercedes, and I head up the ramp, trying to clear the cobwebs in time to cut the promo of a lifetime. I’ve got a three-minute commercial break, and then I’m on. Magic time. Time to reap the harvest of all those late-night seed-planting rides. I’ve got all the ideas I need in my head. It’s just a matter of allowing them to come out.
I head out to the ring with a chair. Per my request, I am not accompanied by music. It feels more real this way. Besides, my music is just so damn peppy. I sit in the chair, and I get my cue—I’m on the air, live.
But the moment I open my mouth, I know I’m off my game. I wanted a slow build, a gradual escalation of emotion and volume. Instead I’m yelling. I’m also trying to make a comparison between ECW and an old girlfriend, but this crowd doesn’t seem to be in a metaphor-buying mood. Besides, it’s a crappy metaphor. Not only that, I’ve lost my storyteller’s touch. Maybe this isn’t the right crowd for stories. After all, it’s Ohio, a battleground state. A red state, a Bush state. A sound bite state. No wonder I’m dying out there. I’m trying to pitch Updike to a “Suck it!” readership.
I really had imagined that ball clanging off the lighting tower in centerfield of Detroit’s old Tiger Stadium. I still remember where I was: in a tent at Lake George, New York, listening to that game on the radio—that home run as fresh in my mind now as it was at the moment of impact, thirty-five years ago.
It’s strange how my two most vivid baseball memories, Jackson’s All-Star heroics and Chris Chambliss’s game-winning home run in the ’76 American League Championship series, were both radio experiences. Maybe the spoken word simply has the power to fire the imagination that a visual moment does not.
But what about the famed 1960 Kennedy/Nixon debate, the first to be aired live on television? JFK kicked Tricky Dick’s ass all the way back to California in that one. Or did he? Depends on who you ask. To those who saw the debate, the handsome, confident senator from Massachusetts had an easy time with the pasty-faced, sweating Nixon. But those who only heard the debate thought Nixon had won.
That debate is often looked at as a pivotal moment in television history, because it helped prove the power of the visual image. Perhaps a video of my Dayton interview can be put into some type of time capsule as well, as further proof of that power. Because last night, after catching a 6:00A .M. flight home and taking my younger children to the zoo, I settled down into my cracked white leather recliner and fired up the TiVo, fully prepared to wallow in the mire of depression that my lackluster promo promised to bring.
The Dayton hardway promo.
Here’s the promo. Read it for yourself.
MICK FOLEY:Where the hell do any of you get off telling me I sold out? Where do you get off, where do you find the nerve, to call me a whore? You think I hate ECW? I loved that place. I loved that place. But ECW simply didn’t love me back. She was like the girl I can’t let go of, but the one who makes me sick upon seeing her. She wanted too much blood, too much of my heart, too much of my life! So I left. And I found fame and fortune in WWE. And Paul Heyman was right. There’s only one real difference between me and Tommy Dreamer; I’m a whore, and he’s not. You see, about seven years ago, I pulled a sock out of my pants and made Vince McMahon laugh, and the doors of opportunity opened wide for Mick Foley…but not for Tommy Dreamer. All he’s got is his heart, his pride, and the initials ECW. And I want to tell Edge that I went back and I watched our WrestleMania match, “the greatest Hardcore match of all time,” I said. Well, the truth is, maybe it wasn’t quite as good as I thought. Maybe, Edge, you and I are going to have to be tougher than ever, hungrier than ever, sicker than ever to walk into that steaming cesspool that is the Hammerstein Ballroom. Twenty-five hundred sickening, twisted fans screaming for our blood. Because Tommy Dreamer can do everything I can, and maybe with more passion. He’s going to beat us up all over New York City! He’s going to bludgeon us. Terry Funk, the greatest wrestler I ever saw. If you look at Terry Funk and see an old man, you’re not seeing the real Terry Funk. His slaps hurt worse than most men’s punches. His punches dole out concussions. And when he picks up a weapon, he can use it like no man ever has. He is in excruciating pain waking up every single day, looking for one more chance to have one great last match. I blew the son of a bitch up in Japan, and he came back and hugged me. I set him on fire in Philadelphia, and he put his arm around me. He doesn’t put his arm around me anymore. I don’t want your arm around me, Terry Funk. Tommy Dreamer, the only differ-ence between me and you is, I had the guts to go to WWE! Because when I go to the Hammerstein Ballroom, Edge and I are prepared to take the beatings of our lives. And I will do that to exorcise the sic
k, twisted whore that is ECW. I want her out of my life. You’ve seen me thrown off cells. You’ve seen me slammed on tacks. You’ve seen me go through a burning table at WrestleMania. It is nothing compared to the horrors I will unleash on Dreamer and Funk! Because, ECW, I’m going to take the hearts of your heroes, and I’m going to shove them down your throats for making me fall in love with you to begin with! You stepped on my heart! You stepped on my soul! You took everything I believed in, and you threw it away! And now, when I walk into that ring at the Hammerstein Ballroom, as a WWE legend, you, Terry Funk, and you, Tommy Dreamer, will learn about loss. Have a nice day.
There you go. Not so great, right? Grammatically incorrect, indecisive, vague, not especially thought-provoking.
But the image saved it. It didn’t just save it. It made it work. Thank goodness for Terry Funk and his plethora of punches. There wasn’t much blood, but it was enough; in its own subtle way, it was far more memorable and powerful than the gushers guys hit so regularly on Pay-Per-View.
My eye was swollen too, courtesy of punches three, four, and five. They had sure hurt at the time, but watching on TiVo, seeing how the eye literally swelled and changed color during the course of the promo, made the pain I’d endured seem like a small price to pay.
I watched that promo five or six times, each time marveling at the lighting, the blood, the swollen eye, the haunting message. It was the first time since ’98 I’d watched any of my stuff more than once. That was Hell in a Cell. Hopefully this promo will raise one-thousandth the number of goose bumps as that infamous match did. Hopefully it will serve as a bridge between the true believers and the intrigued but hesitant.
Come on over, everybody. Come on over and watch One Night Stand. It may not turn out to be as lonely a viewing experience as I had previously thought.
June 10, 2006
4:06P .M.—Long Island, NY
Dear Hardcore Diary,
Everything I am doing to prepare for this match is wrong. I knew exactly what the correct path of preparation was. Following last night’s personal appearance at a video store in Brooklyn, I should have headed into New York City, checked into a hotel for two nights, and committed myself to preparing mentally and getting enough rest for such a big match.
As I have mentioned earlier, writing a book about my adventures was probably not a bright idea. Stopping by the Linda Ronstadt show at the Westbury Music Fair (it has a new corporate name, but I refuse to acknowledge it) and writing until 3:30A .M., sleeping in a child’s bunk bed and being woken up by a three-year-old at 6:00A .M., will probably be looked at as a mistake when my tongue is dragging on the floor tomorrow night.
My knees were begging for a rest today, but instead of listening to them, I took Hughie and little Mick to a nature fair for a couple of hours, walking around, looking at animals, buying a variety of foods of negligible nutritional value. Snow cones, cotton candy, popcorn—by the time we made it to McDonald’s, Chicken McNuggets seemed like health food. Then it was on to Noelle’s softball game, where I was nice enough to help the kids polish off their McFlurries. My weight was at 304 yesterday—down eleven pounds, but obviously not quite what I’d hoped for going into One Night Stand. I can’t help but feel that I’d have been far more successful with my weight issue if I hadn’t had the rug pulled out on me so many times over the last six weeks. The knee injury didn’t help either, as it caused me to alter work-outs and seek solace in ice cream and candy. Maybe I should have sought solace in Christy Canyon instead. Sure I would have been wracked with guilt, causing me to confess my transgression, leading to the loss of wife, children, and half of everything I own. But at least Christy would have constituted a noncaloric consumption. Unless, of course, there was some type of whipping cream or chocolate sauce involved.
Even this hardcore diary entry is suffering for my decision. Instead of completing my last offering in solitude and silence, there is a constant cacophony of confusion calling out to me, permeating even the inner sanctum of the Foley Christmas room. The dog is barking. The Belmont Stakes is on. Dewey was thoughtful enough to let a fart make its way into my world before he left the room.
We’ve got a leak in our pipes as well, the source of which, at this juncture, has yet to be detected by the plumber. Mickey wanted a flashlight so he could join the plumber. “I want to look like a plumber,” he said. “I want to look like a plumber.”
“Mickey, come here,” I said. Once the little guy was close enough, I pulled his sweatpants halfway down his butt. “There you go,” I said. “Go upstairs and tell Mommy that you look like a plumber now.” Which is exactly what he did, eliciting a big laugh from Mommy, and giving me temporary sanctuary from my concerns.
Little Mick’s personality is something of a sanctuary for me. I get the biggest kick out of the little guy, even if his recent (as in last five minutes) inaction during the Los Lonely Boys song “Heaven” has made me rethink my whole plans for tomorrow. Mickey, you see, is supposed to sing “Heaven” in the church choir tomorrow. As you already know from reading my May 14 diary entry, his performance in the choir has been a little less than clutch. Indeed, the chances of him choking under pressure again are almost guaranteed. Yeah, it will be fifteen kids and me up there again, except this time I’ve got a huge black eye, just in case the missing teeth and hair down to my shoulders didn’t make me conspicuous enough.
He’s laying on the floor now, listening to “Heaven” for the sixth time without the slightest hint of singing along, and has just asked me about Jesus’ exact positioning on the cross at the time of his crucifixion. “Were his arms like this [palms down] or like this [palms up] when he died?”
“I’m pretty sure they were up,” I told him.
“How come my teeth are so sharp?” he said.
The day before One Night Stand with little Hughie.
Courtesy of the Foley family.
I really don’t know if I’ll stick with plan A: church choir, Noelle’s softball game; or go with plan B: get a good night’s sleep in a hotel and prepare for the match without a single thought of my kids. Except I know that’s not an option, for if I miss out on church and softball, I’ll do nothing but think about my kids during my prematch preparation. Why am I forced to walk the earth with this conscience? Maybe, if there’s such a thing as reincarnation, I can come back down to earth and just trample all over people without giving a damn about anyone but myself. That would be awesome. That’s it—in my next life, I’m coming back as a conservative.
Hopefully, the poor quality of this final prematch entry will not be indicative of the match itself. I really would have liked to have sent all of you into One Night Stand with a provocative, heartfelt written account of my ambitions and fears surrounding this vital match in my career. But as this entire six-week experience has shown me, very little of what I counted on has turned out to be true.
I’ll check back in with you in a couple of days, following my match, and a trip to Six Flags Great Adventures, where my battles to fit into roller-coasters never intended for asses the likes of mine will make my struggles with Vince, the creative team, and the hardcore duo of Funk and Dreamer look woefully wimpy by comparison.
June 15, 2006
10:20P .M.—Long Island, NY
Dear Hardcore Diary,
I would have loved to have written this final entry in the luxury of some fine hotel room immediately following the climactic One Night Stand conclusion. Unfortunately the reality of WWE sometimes gets in the way of fairy-tale endings, and with Raw airing from Penn State University the next night, I was looking at a very anticlimactic five-hour postmatch drive.
I had made an allowance for a nice hotel in the Foley budget for this particular night, but as 3:00A .M. rolled around, the Budget Rest motel on Interstate 80 started looking really good. Sure, the mattress was a little lumpy and had probably been witness to sexual encounters by hundreds of travelers over the years, but nonetheless, this place was still way ahead of some of the dives I’d stayed
in over the years. Besides, I was fairly sure there would be no parade of crack-heads streaming in to say hello.
I set a pillow up underneath my knees, to alleviate the stress that these types of motel beds tend to cause my back. I lay down, making sure to rest my upper back on the towel I’d placed on the bed. I had five large ugly gashes on that back, like a paw swipe from some angry bear, and I feared having a bedsheet of questionable cleanliness sticking to my wounds come morning.
No, this was not the way I’d pictured my postmatch routine. Usually, after a big match, I order room service and a Pay-Per-View movie, then lie in bed thinking about how great my performance was. Come to think of it, I think I skipped that part of the routine after my September 2005 Carlito match, as there was not a whole lot of greatness to digest.
But this routine was vastly different, not just because of my one-star accommodations, but because of the unique hardships my variety of hardcore injuries caused. Uh-oh, I was in trouble. I turned on the light and examined my hands. Underneath a swath of gauze, reminiscent of Boris Karloff in The Mummy, I had a litany of lacerations on both hands. I wished I could have put the problem off, but it was an increasingly urgent one, a problem that simply would not go away. A problem that was presenting itself at the most inappropriate time. Slowly, I made my way into the bathroom and looked into the mirror at the kaleidoscope of blues, purples, and yellows that Terry Funk had painted on my face with the painful, hardway brushstrokes of his left hand. I saw that face turn into a mask of confusion. How exactly, I wondered, was I going to wipe my ass?
Though I had long since abandoned the foolish notion that I was going to achieve some kind of wrestling immortality with this whole ECW thing, I still felt as if the ultimate chapter (this diary entry) could be either happy or sad, depending on the quality of our match. In the words of the poem “Invictus,” “I am the captain of my fate, and the master of my soul.” Despite the fact that my idea had been greatly altered, minimized, and, in terms of confidence in both Tommy Dreamer and Terry Funk, had suffered from an embarrassing case of premature evacuation, I still held out some hope that we could all have a hell of a match, and a great deal less hope that I could wrestle some type of admission of misjudgment out of Vince.
