Foley Is Good: And the Real World Is Faker Than Wrestling
Since that point, the "McMahon-Helmsley Era," as it came to be known, had taken to stacking the odds against the company's top babyfaces. Such was the case on December 27 in Greensboro, North Carolina, the site of "This Is Your Life," when they forced the members of The Rock 'n' Sock Connection to battle for their very careers in the first-ever "Pink Slip on a Pole" match. In this epic struggle, the first man to climb a pole in one of the ring's corners and grab the pink slip attached to the top of it would be the winner. The loser would be out of a job. Yeah, I know, usually the person who gets the pink slip is out of a job, but this is wrestling, where an "if Kane loses, Tori has to spend the holidays with X-Pac" stipulation was actually enforced. So please work with me on this.
The match was actually quite good. As part of my Rumble training, I was no longer required to work at nontelevised shows, and the extra healing time helped greatly. I had been working extremely hard at the gym in addition to my marathon cardio sessions on Christmas Eve and day, and the results were obvious. Not only was I getting slowly but surely a little lighter, but my ring work was looking better. I had my chance to win, via an Al Snow run-in, but being the sportsmanlike SOB I am, I refused to win that way. Instead, I blasted the cheating bastard and it cost me. The Rock won the match, and Foley was gone . . . kind of.
My actual absence lasted two weeks, but in truth I was all over every show. The SmackDown! that aired three nights later was my very own tribute show, with several "Foley moments" aired throughout the program in addition to a solemn at-home interview that was actually taped in World Wrestling Federation road agent Dave Hebner's house. Usually I'm a stickler for reality, but after realizing that I would have to go from Richmond to Pensacola via Atlanta, and then back to Washington, D.C., the following day, I came to the conclusion that two minutes of reality would cost me twenty hours of traveling. "Besides," I explained to Jim Ross, who was actually going to fly with me for the interview, "no one knows what my kitchen looks like anyway." So yes, I will admit that I pretended to be in my house! I lied! I faked it!
The January 3 Raw from Miami saw me ring in the New Year by ringing all four DX members' bells when I ran in on a three-on-one "Handicap You're Fired" match to save The Rock. I was firing chair-shots so quickly that I didn't have time to line up for X-Pac correctly and I knew when he went down that I'd caught him with the edge of the chair, which is a definite no-no. I waited for him to come through the curtain, and sure enough when he did, the skin on his forehead looked like a tin of sardines that's been opened a third of the way. He took it amazingly well, and it sure did look good on tape.
Throughout the course of the show, a series of "Have a Bad Day" vignettes featuring Triple H and a fake Mankind were shown. Mankind was played by my old buddy Dennis Knight, who is better known as Mideon, in what was surely one of the crowning moments of his career. I had been trying for years to incorporate Dennis's uncanny Cactus/Mankind imitation into several different shows, and "Tex" really got to show his talents off here. Special-effects wizard and all-around magician Richie Posner actually made his mask out of masking tape and spray paint, and the parade of parodies was off and running.
Each skit saw Hunter, dressed in ridiculous disguises and using such aliases as Harry Sacks and Oriental Dr. HungLo, destroy the pathetic Mankind as he went progressively from a job interview where he admitted he had no skills, to a children's hospital where no kids wanted to see him, to a book signing that no one showed up for.
From here we headed to Orlando for SmackDown! tapings, but, more important, for a trip to Universal Studios Islands of Adventure. Knowing that I would be leaving the company sometime in the near future, I had set up a park visit with Edge, Scotty 2 Hotty, and the Hardy brothers as kind of my going-away present to the younger wrestlers. On the eve of our departure, Al Snow got wind of it and more or less invited himself along. No one had the heart to tell "old fifth wheel" that it was a special day, so we endured his presence and his stories about how he used to "sell that son of a bitch out." Wait a second, that's Ricky's line (don't worry, only about ten people in the world will understand that reference, but those ten will love me for it). "Brother, you've never seen so many people."
We had a guide named Shawn who I had met years earlier when my kids took the Nickelodeon tour at Universal Studios. He admitted that upon our first meeting, he had not known who I was but thought I "must be someone famous in order to have a hot-looking wife like that." Actually, when I met Colette I was making $400 a week as an independent wrestler, so I sleep easy in the knowledge that she didn't marry me for my money. Come to think of it, I'm not sure why she did marry me.
We had a tremendous time on our nostalgic park trip, and in truth Al was not a "fifth wheel" but had been included from the start. Many of the rides were incredible, with Spider-Man standing out as perhaps the greatest ride anywhere. Up until this ride, Shawn had seemed proud to be hanging with us, but our singing of "Spider-Man, Spider-Man, does whatever a spider can. Spins a web any size, catches thieves just like flies" caused whatever respect he might have felt for us to visibly melt away.
"Look, there's Spidey," yelled Edge, at the real-life-costumed Spider-Man who was leaving an autograph session as we exited the ride. Edge is an especially big Spidey fan, and his enthusiasm must have startled the web-slinger slightly, for, in one of the more bizarre incidents in my life, the startled Spidey walked into a lamppost and required medical attention. "Is he strong, listen bud, he's got radioactive blood ...look out, there goes the Spider-Man!"
When I showed up at the arena, I received tremendous news. I was being dispatched to Universal Studios to supervise some Bogus Mankind vignettes being filmed in the park. As creative supervisor, I was asked what locations would be best for these vignettes. "Hell," I said, "we need to do one on the Jaws ride." And so it came to pass that while taking the boat ride five times for "scouting purposes," the Bogus Mankind (his actual credited name) was filmed on the famous ride detailing the magnitude of his courage in the midst of a boatload of park visitors who couldn't have cared less.
"Boy, let me tell you, before Triple H fired me, I was somebody. I wasn't afraid of anything. I jumped off the top of the Hell in a Cell. The Undertaker almost killed me, but I wasn't afraid. No, do you hear me, no, I was not afraid. Because I am Mankind, the craziest, most fearless wrestler in the history of the World Wrestling Federation. There isn't anything that scares me, not one thing in the entire world, do you hear me?"
At that point the mechanical shark jumped out of the water and the most fearless wrestler in the history of the World Wrestling Federation went into hysterics. "Oh God, oh God," he yelled as he alternately clutched his heart, his head, and disgusted riders. Finally, after about twenty seconds, Mankind regained his composure. "Boy, I'm sure not afraid of that anymore," he claimed ...as the clip faded to black.
The vignettes reached a humorous but physical climax when the Bogus Mankind exited the Back to the Future ride. The Bogus one's words upon entering had hit hard. "I know," he said, "I'll set the hands of time back to December 28, 1998, the day I won my first World Wrestling Federation title." (Yeah, I know, Back to the Future is a motion simulation ride that has nothing to do with setting back the hands of time, but continue working with me here.) His next comment was out of line, but not out of the story line. "Or better yet, March 15, 1982, the last time my wife found me attractive and let me have sex with her. Boy, that sure was a great day." Uh-oh, a remark about my family. Retaliation was definitely called for.
When he came out of the ride, that call was definitely answered, as the real Mankind was on the scene and was one angry man. He was even angrier when the impostor explained that the ride had made him sick to his big, giant belly. "Are you talking about my wife?" I asked with anger, which caused the fake guy to come out of character. "Hey, man, I was just—" I cut him off with a scream: Are you talking about my family?" Again, the fake Mankind tried to explain. "Listen, Triple H hired me—" I cut him off with a forearm and then
proceeded to destroy him in the first, and until someone does a better one, best wrestling fight ever staged at the exit of the Back to the future ride.
The January 10 Raw was a major turning point for me and the angle. It began with The Rock threatening a mutiny of every Superstar in the company unless changes were made, which included bringing me back. Moments later I was back on World Wrestling Federation television, even though I'd really never left, and was issuing a challenge to Triple H for the Royal Rumble in Madison Square Garden. We also booked a Raw main event pitting the four members of DX (Hunter, Road Dogg, Billy Gunn, and X-Pac) against the A.P.A. (Faarooq and Bradshaw) and The Rock 'n' Sock Connection. It would be my best showing by far since my knee surgery seven months earlier. But first, some good old American sports-entertainment BS, and I mean that in a good way.
The Bogus Mankind, you see, needed to be taught a lesson. And what better way to teach a lesson than by tying him up and torturing him? First the Chinese water torture. Then hot coffee to the face. After that, I untied the poor guy, but did so with the warning that he not leave the room. This led to one of my favorite and most uncharacteristic skits of my life.
Tori, the young woman who had been forced to spend the holidays with X-Pac, was (in our story line) the somewhat unstable girlfriend of the massive Kane. She had once been a competitive bodybuilder and still had a phenomenal build, which was augmented by a magnificent set of boobs. Hey, I know that sounds crude, but those boobs were the focus of the skit. I was going to talk about them and I was even going to spank her, and best of all, it was part of a story line, so I couldn't get in trouble at home. Yes!
I caught up to Tori in the hallway and flagged her down. "Tori! Tori! Hey, Tori, it's me, Mick!" I yelled as she cowered in fear. "Hey, I've been looking for you all night. Listen, we don't get a chance to talk like we used to, so I'd just like to tell you that I really admire your sweaty, heaving, voluptuous breasts." She was terrified, but I continued with an interesting fact. "I know that you've heard I'm a good kisser, but in addition to that talent, I've composed a list of about seventeen other things that I'd really like to do to those bad boys." Now she was mortified. I don't think she wanted me anywhere near those bad boys. Still, I decided to let her mull it over. "Hey, if you want to go over that list, I'll be in my dressing room." With that, I gave her a playful but firm whack on her muscular buttocks that provoked a roar of surprise from the crowd and sent Tori scampering for safety. Still, I wanted her to know that the offer still stood. "In case you didn't know, that's dressing room number three—number three, okay? Bring a friend, because there's plenty of Mankind to go around." As Tori stopped scampering and started running away, the camera panned back to me for a hokey thumbs-up that would later become my trademark, and an even hokier extended "yeahhh!"
When the show came back from break, the terrified Tori was pointing dressing room number three out to her stoic, masked boyfriend, and in an unfortunate miscarriage of justice the Bogus Mankind ended up paying for my inappropriate remarks. My match was next. The Tori skit yielded a humorous Foley family moment when a few days later Noelle asked me when her "bad boys" would grow.
I spent most of the contest standing on the ring apron, knowing full well that the entire angle's success or failure depended in great part on what I did with my tag. Fortunately, when the tag came with Triple H in the ring, "what I did" was better than I could have imagined. My first few punches were nothing special. Then I put Hunter in the corner, and as was my trademark, began throwing forearms to his head. Usually I throw five or six, sometimes a little more. Sometimes they come in slow and deliberate, sometimes a little faster. On this night in St. Louis, the forearms were somehow better. I started slow and picked up the pace. By the time I got to ten, the crowd was behind every one, and Hunter was sliding down, but was encouraging me with every one. "Come on, Mick, come on," he said as my wristbone connected with his skull at ever-shorter intervals. By the time I was done, I had thrown twenty-two forearms and had moved at a speed that belied my years of physical wear and tear. From that point on, I tried to relive that moment in the corner in all of my remaining matches, but could never quite recapture the magic.
I backed away and then sprinted in for a running knee in the corner. I knew I was running faster than I had in years, and my belief is backed up by a video of the match that I still find hard to believe. Wham, I nailed him, with what is more accurately a "running inner thigh" than a knee, but that somehow doesn't sound as brutal. Unfortunately, my increased speed led to a problem that I had not encountered in some 400 previous attempts at the move. My chest hit the top turnbuckle with tremendous force, and I knew immediately that I was hurt. The injury would later be diagnosed as a bruised sternum, and would not completely heal for several months.
The pain caused me to slow down, and the match temporarily lost its focus as I tried to take deep breaths to recapture the wind that had been knocked out of me. Hunter tried to make a tag, but in keeping with a subplot in the show, DX was falling apart and none of his buddies would tag in. Eventually, they walked off on Triple H and A.P.A., and The Rock battled them up the ramp. The stage (or ring) was all ours. I caught Triple H with a double-arm DDT, which was my standard setup move for the dreaded sock. The crowd went wild as I pulled out the cotton icon, and even wilder when I pulled an interfering Stephanie into the ring. Triple H cut me off.
He pursued me to the outside, where he sent me into the stairs and forward into the announcer's table. As I turned slowly toward him, he picked up the timekeeper's bell. Clang! He caught me with a mighty shot that sent me tumbling over the table. The crowd was eating it up and in the midst of the action, I called an audible "pedigree." With that one word, Triple H administered his finishing move on the announcer's table and the table shattered upon impact, and sent us down to rest with the ruined lumber and mangled monitors. Blood ran from a small cut on my head as he rolled me into the ring. One pedigree later and the match was over. "Dammit," Jim Ross yelled with great emphasis, "I can't believe this night has turned out like this." Actually, the night wasn't through turning.
Triple H continued pounding on me as the blood began to drip down my mask. He brought me to the corner and worked on me some more. He turned his back to me to yell at the referee, and when he faced me again I was waiting with the stiff forearm that sent him down hard. I pulled off my mask in a symbolic gesture and threw it on the ground. The blood was more visible now, and stuck in a coagulated mass to my forehead and nose. Throughout my career, I had been known as a heavy bleeder, but in truth, this was one of the few times in my four years in the World Wrestling Federation that I was, to quote the late, great Gordon Solie, "wearing the crimson mask." It was the most important blood that I had ever shed.
I threw Triple H to the outside and gave pursuit. I had nothing planned and let instinct and emotion take over. It's no secret that a great deal of what we do is planned ahead of time, but I am still a great believer in the spontaneity of the truly great moments of our sport. When I shouldered the ring stairs and met Triple H at full force with the steel, I felt as if I was living one of those great moments. More ad-libbed ass-kicking followed, and I then rolled the World Wrestling Federation Champion into the ring.
I cannot overstate the importance of selling or my frustration with those who either won't do it or don't know how to do it well. I am thankful that Triple H had both a willingness to do it and knowledge of how to do it well, because when I clothes-lined him over the top rope, his sell made the angle complete. He sold it as if he'd seen a ghost. And in a way, he had.
An interview is often only as good as the guy who is reacting to it. Too often I've seen great promos negated by an opponent who instantly belittles the great promo that has just been given or belittles the guy giving the promo, which is just as bad. For example, I've never believed in treating my opponent like a piece of garbage, because if I win, all I've done is beat a piece of garbage. If I lose, well, certainly I can't be that good, since I lost to a
man who I have built up to be nothing.
Just as bad are the guys who don't react at all. I worked with a famous announcer in WCW (not Jesse Ventura) who made a hell of a lot more money than me but continually undermined the wrestlers by not selling what was said. As a heel, it didn't matter how convincing you were on the mike because a sneaky little comment from that guy would kill any heat. As a babyface, it was tough to leave a lasting memory when the guy was always waiting with some stupid comment designed to get himself over.
I try to remember that guy when performing my current duties as Commissioner of the World Wrestling Federation. I know that I'm supposed to be entertaining and that the job description calls for me to occasionally get the verbal best of our heel performers. But at the end of the day, I try to remember that my primary job is to get the angles and, to some extent, the wrestlers involved in them over.
Our next night's SmackDown! interview was vital because it contained the metamorphosis of Mankind into Cactus Jack. My main concern in doing this entire angle was whether or not the fans would buy into Cactus Jack as some kind of mythical superhero instead of the same broken-down guy wearing a different shirt. If Hunter had sold the transformation as the latter, the Rumble angle would have joined Kelsey's nuts on the "dead" list. Instead, the interview "made" the angle by "making" Cactus Jack, and as a result we both went on to "make" some pretty good money.
The interview angle began with Triple H calling Mankind out to the ring. Instead of the real deal they got the bogus guy, who immediately got down and groveled at Hunter's feet. This mockery brought out the genuine article, who definitely did not appear to be having a nice day. The words themselves were not all that memorable, but the actions, reactions, and crowd response certainly were. "Triple H, that is enough," I began with intensity fueling my thoughts. "Is this what you get off on, making fun of me?" Triple H just smiled smugly. "You take my job," I continued, "then you bring this idiot out here"—pointing to the bogus guy— "and you take away my dignity." Hunter smiled, smugger still. "Then Monday night in what should have been the greatest night of my life when I was reinstated on Raw, you take me and you ruin my shirt"—which was splattered with blood—"and you ruin my face." Hunter smiled at the memory. "I'll be honest, when I stepped into that shower and I let the cold water run down my head, and when I looked down at the blood as it swirled around the drain, I started thinking a little bit about what Mankind was.