Without a doubt, Hulk Hogan has carved out a place for himself in the annals of pro wrestling history. He was the biggest drawing card in the business in the eighties, and was able to reinvent himself and become a vital part of the nineties. With each passing appearance, in the past two years, however, his value has steadily decreased. Sure, he makes a lot of money. But at some point he needs to step back and realize that he is the captain of a ship that is sinking, and the only way to fix the damn thing is for him to jump off, swim away, and let some newer, hungrier guys take control.
I pulled into Springfield, Massachusetts, on October 26 with tremendous news. Have a Nice Day! had made its debut on the New York Times bestseller list at number three! Two weeks later it would go to number one! This was unbelievable, for no one had predicted it or seen it coming—least of all the book world. Unfortunately, this brought on a several-week period of frustration, as the booksellers needed to play catch-up in a big hurry. I actually went a period of five weeks without ever seeing the book in a store because they were all gone.
As Dickens said, "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times." The best because Have a Nice Day! was known within the book industry as the greatest sales surprise since Stern's Private Parts ten years earlier. It was the worst of times because no books obviously meant no sales, which obviously was not good. A few days after my book's peak at number one, the Oprah Winfrey-produced movie Tuesdays with Morrie was broadcast to twenty million on network television, and the book version of Morrie replaced Mankind on top of the list. So, yeah, I guess you can say when it comes to Morrie, I'm still a little bitter. Especially when I essentially went down without a fight because of lack of available books. I lay awake for a few nights with the same thought running through my "former #1 bestseller" mind: If only it wasn't for that damn Oprah! Then I looked at the cloud's silver lining. Hey, I thought, how many guys in the world can stay up at night thinking, "If only it wasn't for that damn Oprah," and really mean it? Besides Phil Donahue, I can't think of any.
Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Oprah. Of course, that was it. I would be a guest on the Oprah Winfrey show. How ingenious. Sure, that indeed was the ticket. It was a natural. After all, Oprah loved to make young writers' careers, and she and I would hit it off fabulously. Certainly, an avid reader like Ms. Winfrey would be able to look past the blood, vulgarity, sophomoric humor, and multiple penis references and see the tender heart within my book. Certainly she and I would share an ironic laugh over her movie causing my tumble from the top of the charts. I suggested it to Jennifer, my publicist. She nearly spit out her sandwich.
"What do you mean, Oprah wouldn't want me?" soon turned into "Why wouldn't Rosie O'Donnell like me?" to "Why doesn't Letterman like wrestlers?" to "What do you mean Leno won't book World Wrestling Federation guys?"
At least I had an ace up my sleeve: with my book a former number one, the book critics would have to review it, and would obviously be pleasantly surprised by it, which in turn would lead to rave reviews and translate into increased sales. As the author, I knew the book was actually more about sacrifice, hard work, and chasing after dreams than about professional wrestling, and now the book critics of the world were going to spread the word. "After all," I said to Jen, "that's the way it works, right?" I thought she was going to choke.
Sadly, she told me the rules of the game. I felt like a kid being told about the birds and bees, but instead of asking, "They put what, where}" it was "You mean they only review what they want toV Professor Bob Thompson, a former teacher of mine at Cortland College in central New York, who has gone on to much bigger and better things at Syracuse University, volunteered to review it for the New York Times. As one of the country's foremost experts on the medium of television in modern culture, he has been quoted dozens of times in USA Today and TV Guide as well as many top newspapers across the country. In addition, he has been featured on television shows ranging from 48 Hours to MacNeil-Lehrer to the CBS Evening News with Dan Rather. Professor Thompson had also reviewed several books for the prestigious New York Times. So when the esteemed professor offered to review the book for them, you would figure they would jump at the chance, right? Come on, as the Quaker State oil commercial says, "you know better." "Sorry," they told Professor Thompson, "we're not going to look at that one."
So what exactly do book critics do? I haven't quite figured that out yet. I know that movie critics review movies—including popular ones. I know that television critics review television shows, including popular ones. I know that wrestling critics review wrestling matches, including popular matches. So what do book critics do? Well, after further thought, I guess they make a living not just by judging books but by prejudging them as well.
At least some of them do. Quite a few gave the book a try, and their words were almost unanimously kind: for them I'm thankful. Even some backhanded compliments were appreciated. The Village Voice, an artsy publication if ever there was one, said, "If one can get past the sophomoric humor and penis references, there emerges the touching (if somewhat drawn out) tale of a creative young man chasing his dreams." Hey, I'll take it, because on the flip-side of that assessment, I can proudly state, "Once you get around all that sappy stuff about a young man chasing his dreams, there's some pretty good sophomoric humor in there."
23: "Foliability”
MY BOOK HAD HIT number one, but sadly, I was wrestling like number two. You know, as in one for pee pee and two for . . . well, you know.
I was lucky in the sense that I was in an angle that I enjoyed—the completely fictional story line of being Al Snow's best friend. Al, you see, had been there to console me when The Rock 'n' Sock had split up, and I was likewise there to console Al when he became the focus of a national news story that resulted in the Al Snow action figure being pulled from various stores across the nation.
The whole thing was preposterous beyond belief. A couple of teachers from Kennesaw State College in Marietta, Georgia, had made a stink about how Al's doll was a "textbook for spousal abuse," due to the severed head that Al carried to the ring. So, of course, Al's action figure came with a little tiny severed head. Immediately Al's figures were banned in many major department stores across the nation, causing them for the first time to actually be worth something.
I only saw one problem with the whole situation: Al didn't carry a severed head. He carried a mannequin's head that he looked to for guidance and companionship. Yeah, I know it sounds stupid, but at the very worst, it elicited a "we want HEAD" chant. Sure, it was a cheap pop, but it beat the pop that Al had been getting, which was close to unchartable. The truth is that Al's "head" had never been portrayed as, nor was ever even hinted as being, a severed human head.
It was a sad day indeed when I proudly showed off a little tiny article about me in Time to Al and he was able to humble me by opening up to a two-page spread on his predicament in the very same issue. Didn't anyone even do any research before banning the figures, or did they figure that with Halloween on the horizon, a tribute to the Salem Witch Trials would be appropriate? What about the two teachers raising the ridiculous stink? I swear, I lived one mile from Kennesaw State for five years, and I never even considered it as being a real college.
Speaking of Halloween, Dewey dressed up as Al Snow. He looked great, but looked just a little too handsome to really do Al justice.
Fortunately, Al and I were able to have a lot of fun with this rather bizarre hand that paranoia and hysteria had dealt him. We were able to do some great promos about the subject, including one where Al acted so forlorn that he threatened to buy a shotgun and live ammunition at one of the stores that wouldn't sell his figure and do himself in. In one show, I was able to serenade Al with a 15,000-strong sing-along of "He's a Jolly Good Fellow" after yet another Snow loss. The teaming helped Al to the point that if the wind was still, and the alignment of the stars was just right, you could almost hear him get a crowd reaction.
A short while later a movie called Sleepy Hollow was released.
I had always been a big fan of Washington Irving's "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," upon which the movie was based, and so attended the cinema with high expectations. I wasn't let down, as Tim Burton's dark imagery, tremendous special effects, and a fine cast made for a memorable viewing experience. Plus, that Christina Ricci has grown some rack on her since her days as Wednesday Addams. Particularly memorable were the gruesome beheadings that seemed so lifelike as blood dripped and tendons hung while the demonic horseman clutched these gruesome heads in his hands.
The film was expected to be a huge success, and so it was no surprise that a line of merchandise, including action figures, had been manufactured prior to its release. I was surprised, however, to see an action figure gripping severed heads, complete with dripping blood and hanging tendons, in the same stores that had banned the evil Snow dolls.
With Al by my side, I shamelessly carried my book wherever I went. I took Al on a "vacation" in Las Vegas to cheer him up, and the book went, too. UPN enjoyed our chemistry so much that they requested us to host a World Wrestling Federation's Greatest Hits show that had even my normally cranky brother John raving over our ridiculous performances. I even brought the damn thing to the premiere of Arnold Schwarzenegger's End of Days, which saw Rob Reiner dis (as in disrespect) me when I tried to talk Spinal Tap with him. In all fairness to Reiner, he probably gets asked about Tap more than I get asked about the "Hell in a Cell," but that doesn't stop Chris Jericho from frequently asking about the time Marty DiBergi (Reiner's name in the film) dissed me.
For the most part, Al and I stood around the party and felt like jerks. A group of women who worked for Universal Studios, which produced End of Days, approached me with reverent looks in their eyes. They were not wrestling fans but had been touched by Beyond the Mat (which Universal had financed) and actually treated me as something even a little better than a World Wrestling Federation Superstar, as a good dad who happens to make some big mistakes.
When the women left, Al and I went back to not fitting in, and after witnessing the expert schmoozing and ass-kissing for a while, Al made a stunning observation, "And they call our business fake?"
I even got to tour the White House for the World Wrestling Federation cameras, along with Jerry "The King" Lawler and Miss Kitty, and of course brought the book with me. I even managed to slip it into the Presidential Library, after getting the okay from the Secret Service. Upon leaving, I even signed it for President Clinton and was assured that it would get into his hands. Whether he read it or not is anybody's guess, although my good buddy Evan Metropolis offered to give Chelsea a call to find out. Out of respect for the First Family, I didn't check to see if Chelsea was on Evan's list.
Now for the bad news. After almost fifteen years of blood, sweat, and tears, I came to the sad realization that I now sucked as a wrestler. Sure, I had Mr. Socko, and I had dozens and dozens of fans. At my core, however, I had always considered myself a good in-ring performer, and I no longer felt that was true. Even on days when my work was not up to par, I had always worked hard, but my body could no longer tolerate the grind. While playing soccer with my kids, I had realized that if the ball wasn't kicked directly to me, I really couldn't get to it.
While I stood there on the grass, I assessed my physical skills. I couldn't run. I couldn't jump. I couldn't move side to side. I couldn't squat down. I had trouble bending over. Sometimes I could barely walk. To make matters worse, I felt like my mind was starting to slip.
I seemed to lose my train of thought more regularly. My sense of direction seemed even worse than usual. For three months running, I had made huge mathematical mistakes in my checkbook ledger. Colette had to take over my duties as Foley record keeper. For a long time I feared that I was going to pay a serious price for the risks I had taken, but the writing of my book seemed to reaffirm the adequacy of my brain. But now I wasn't so sure.
I had been working a series of matches with Val Venis since The Rock 'n' Sock breakup that actually stemmed from the "This Is Your Life" segment. Later in that same Raw episode, a hidden camera had caught Val pulling Mr. Rocko out of a garbage can. As a former adult film star (at least in story line), Val knew just what to do with Mr. Rocko. He rolled him up and stuffed him in his trunks.
So I set about trying to get Mr. Rocko back, which led to a memorable moment in Trenton, New Jersey. As the bell rang, I immediately jumped on Val and attempted to pull Rocko out from his hiding place. I have always been very verbal in the ring and am often imitated by the other boys for the nonsensical grunts and yells I give out during the course of a match. On this night in Trenton, the grunts and yells went something like this; "Hasa, heh, hah, ass-aba, ah, hasa, oops, sorry, Val." Yes, in the process of digging for Mr. Rocko, I had mistakenly unearthed Val's Mr. Cocko.
I couldn't help but feel upset after the match, and it wasn't just because I'd touched another man's penis. No, deep down, I was sad because I knew I had become the thing I dreaded most—a liability. For most of my career, I had the reputation of being a guy who could make other wrestlers look good. I always felt that I was a guy that others liked to work with—especially the younger guys—and now I could sense that feeling slipping away. The World Wrestling Federation roster was filled with young guys willing to work hard and I could almost imagine them talking about me:
"Hey, who are you working with tonight?"
"Mankind."
"Oh no, not Mankind."
"Yeah, I know. My mom and dad are here. I really wanted to have a good match."
"Sorry, man, what are you going to do?"
"What can I do? I'll let him talk for a while and then I'll wait for him to pull that stupid sock out."
"Heard one of the guys say he used to be a legend. Is that true?"
"Mankind? Legend? Oh, that's a good one. Oh, ho, ho, ho."
All right, so maybe I'm being a little harsh, but "used to be" doesn't count a whole lot in the fast-paced world of sports-entertainment. The Road Warriors are a perfect example. I'm not trying to be mean, because I respect them for all the money they drew, and I like both the guys, but jeez, they went from main-event stars to locker-room punch lines in a year's time.
When I look back on my career I will always consider the Val Venis program to be my biggest failure. I met Val (or Sean in real life) in Arkansas in 1994 when he was working for twenty bucks a night. I saw him again when he came to the World Wrestling Federation in 1997, and for months was convinced that he didn't know my name. Every time I saw him I got a "hey, buddy" or a "what's up, pal?" and even an occasional "how ya doing, chief?" In other words, all the things I say when I don't know someone's name.
Val was a strong worker with a great look and a good gimmick, but for some reason he had remained mired firmly in the middle of the card. The Mankind angle was his highest-profile series of matches, and I hoped to boost him up a notch because of it. I had always prided myself on my track record of moving guys up the card, or at least solidifying their top spots. When my program with Val was over, I unfortunately could make no such claim. For Val Venis and for the World Wrestling Federation, Mick Foley was not a stepping-stone to better things. He was instead a liability.
24: November 2, 1999
My career fell to an all-time low on November 2, 1999, in Philadelphia. Actually, a lot of the day was quite fun as we taped several humorous vignettes documenting my "search" for Val through a gentlemen's club and a seedy adult complex. I had actually been somewhat concerned about my image inside the questionable establishment, which was like a one-stop shopping trip for all "adult" needs, including a store with a variety of sex toys that rivaled my Montana experience for sheer number of fake penises, a dance club, a private shower viewing area, an impressive array of peepshows, and a babysitting service. All right, I'm just kidding about the baby-sitting service.
Al and I had included a stop at the Cheetah of Showgirls fame as part of our Vegas vacation, and I didn't want to get typecast as a strip-club fanatic. On that Vegas visit, Al had hit the
jackpot on a slot machine, and we had shown up at the club, ready to tip with his mountain of quarters. This had resulted in a classic moment where, after rewarding a buxom babe with a quarter for her efforts and reminding her that "there's plenty more where that came from," the offending coin came flying back and caught me square in the eye. "Oh, my eye," I screamed in a manner reminiscent of Marcia Brady's "oh, my nose" moment in that memorable episode of The Brady Bunch.
An even better moment had occurred when the exotic dancer in question caught me by surprise with four quick slaps to each side of my face with her massive, man-made mammaries. Not only did the blows from her rock-hard hooters jar me like a series of Austin comeback punches, but I was almost busted open by her multiple nipple piercings. "That was really great," I said to the proud performer, "but you need to wait for the camera to be set up, and you have to put your top on to be on the show." The disappointment on her face was eerily similar to my children's when I make them clean up their room.
After throwing the quarter and being thanked for her time, the girl informed us that she now had to make a living and headed for the Lapdance Lounge. Having never seen an actual lapdance in a live setting, I couldn't help but give an extended glance at the prestigious lounge on my way out. It was like a traffic accident; I didn't want to look, but I had to. My goodness, there had to be twenty of these unusual gyrating, grinding lap extravaganzas going on simultaneously. In the right far corner I spotted our "quarter" girl riding some customer like Ron Turcotte at the Belmont Stakes.
Because this had been taped for the World Wrestling Federation, I had been able to slide by Colette's "no strip bar" stipulation on a technicality. Quite a few of the wrestlers frequent these types of places, because, as Dallas Page put it in his book, Positively Page, "It's a place where guys like the boys and I can go and not be the center of attention." I've got to admit that theory does sound solid. It was that exact rationale that I'd explained to Colette back in '91. She didn't buy it then. She still doesn't.