Countdown To Lockdown (21 page)

So I took a couple of minutes to study his filmography, and that next morning, by gosh, I was ready.

“Willem, do you mind if I ask about the training you went through for
Triumph of the Spirit
?” I said, in reference to his impressive turn as a concentration camp boxer in Auschwitz.

“Willem, did you need time before takes to really get into character for
Shadow of the Vampire
?” (the eerie drama based on the filming of the classic 1922 film
Nosferatu
, where Dafoe’s character may or may not have been a real-life vampire on a set where people mysteriously met unkind fates).

And when the WWE film crew showed up to get a behind-the-scenes look at one of their guys “starring” in a new movie, I was ready.

“Mick, what was your favorite Willem Dafoe role?” I was asked.

“You know, I would have to say that I was very moved by the rivalry between Willem’s Sgt. Elias and Tom Berenger’s Sgt. Barnes in
Platoon.
I will never forget when Elias dies at Barnes’s hand — the death is so tragic, so sad, and almost Christlike in the way Willem’s arms are held out during the shooting.”

I looked quickly over at Defoe, and could have sworn I saw his lips say
wow.

The lesson to be learned — if you want an actor, an athlete, a wrestler, et cetera, to enjoy talking to you, don’t ask the same questions everyone else does. Don’t ask Dafoe about Spidey. Consider, perhaps, asking me about a match other than Hell in a Cell. I mean, I’m proud of the match and I’ll talk about it if I have to, but it will kind of be done on autopilot, as there’s not a lot more I can add to those conversations I’ve had hundreds of times. Over the course of the last twelve years, or roughly 4,500 days since that match, I sometimes feel like poor Bill Murray in
Groundhog Day
, reliving the same moments over and over again.

I decided to walk back to the party, figuring my mom would excuse my tardiness long before Vince McMahon would excuse my disrespecting his family. Vince was the first person I ran into when I stepped into the club. I made small talk with the boss for a couple minutes, mentioning that my heel turn in 2006 may have been fun and fairly effective, but ultimately it wasn’t what fans wanted to see from me.

Vince looked at me intently, kind of telling me in a nonverbal way that the small-talk session was over; he had something of importance to say.

“Mick, how would you feel about giving announcing a try?”

“I don’t know,” I said with a laugh. “I’ve heard about you on those headsets.” It was true — I had heard that Vince produced all the announcers from behind the curtains, offering suggestions that weren’t really suggestions — more or less demands — and occasionally
letting the announcer know in no uncertain terms that he was not pleased with their choice of words. I had done guest commentary for an occasional match a few times over the years, and while I’d never been yelled at, I found the constant stream of suggestions that weren’t really suggestions to be disconcerting, and really the antithesis of helpful.

But Vince laughed off my concern. “You know, Mick, I’m getting better at that.” Hey, that was good enough for me. I’d been asked about announcing several years before and had dismissed it fairly quickly, thinking that working that closely with Vince could drive me crazy, and knowing I had several options outside wrestling to explore.

By April 2008, I’d been exploring those options for years and had yet to find a legitimate second career. There had been some good, high-paying breaks.
Robot Wars
was a blast, but it was temporary, and despite getting the front page of
USA Today
’s Life section, a piece in
Entertainment Weekly
, an interview with Matt Lauer on the
Today
show, and a weeklong cohosting stint with Jimmy Kimmel, the world had not exactly beaten a path to their local bookstore to track down my first novel,
Tietam Brown.

I’d long since stopped auditioning for movie roles as a redneck bouncer, or the redneck bodyguard, or the redneck killer, and was beginning to lose count of projects brought to me by legitimate writers and producers who saw me as a potential star of sitcom, drama, sketch comedy, or reality show.
Wrestling My Family
might have opened some doors, but I guess I didn’t yell at my wife or kids enough for the reality world’s liking.

I now realized that all these projects, failed or otherwise, were like Mick Jagger solo albums — they just weren’t what people wanted to see from me. People wanted to see Mick Jagger jam with the Stones. And they wanted to see me involved with a wrestling show.

I’d signed an incredible contract in September 2005, one that allowed me unprecedented freedom outside WWE while calling for only six Pay-Per-View matches over a three-year period. It was known
as “the Foley Contract” in wrestling circles, and something tells me we’ll never see its like again. I’d completed all the required matches and had five months left on my contract. At that point, I knew it would be highly unlikely that I’d be offered another contract of similar value, but nonetheless I’d made a few inquiries into staying on with WWE in some fashion — maybe in developing new talent in Florida, or in helping with international promotion. I’d even asked former wrestler/current Sirius Outlaw Country station host Hillbilly Jim if there were jobs within WWE that required as little personal contact with Vince McMahon as possible. For although I respected and genuinely liked Vince (at least most of the time), I had the sneaking suspicion that I wouldn’t enjoy such regular exposure to his larger-than-life persona.

After discussing the possibilities with Vince for a few minutes, I agreed to give the announcing thing a try, shook hands with the boss, and headed out into the New York night, hoping my mother wouldn’t be too upset with the late arrival of her little boy.

To this day, I’m not sure if the idea of putting me on the
SmackDown
announce team was one that had been on Vince’s mind for months or if it had come to him the moment he saw me. Vince can be a little … spontaneous sometimes.

I went into the WWE studio two days later for a tryout, which really seemed like a mere formality, as my travel itinerary had already been arranged, and two days after that I was calling the matches live on Pay-Per-View … and loving it. I really did love it. I had been concerned about my tendency to become too much of a straight man during commentary, choosing analysis and insight over humor and personality. But Kevin Dunn, Vince’s second in command, had assured me that I’d be given time to grow into the role, and they had no doubt that my personality, charm, humor, likability, rugged sexiness, and humility would eventually shine through.

There was a list of mandatory WWE announcing rules that I tried to learn, much of which seemed conducive to good commentary. For example, I saw the logic in doing more than simply telling the viewers
exactly what they just saw. Anyone could see that an arm drag was followed by a body slam and a drop-kick. Now explain why the moves were effective, why they hurt. I could also see why the viewer didn’t need to hear a constant dialogue during a match; sometimes it was best to lay out and let the action speak for itself.

Some of the other rules seemed slightly less conducive to effective storytelling. For example, Vince hates pronouns. Yeah, pronouns. You know, those pesky little words like
he
,
she
,
they
,
we
,
it.
Hates them. For example, if play-by-play man Michael Cole were to say, “Wow, Mick, did you see that incredible Swanton by Jeff Hardy?” I could not simply say, “He really nailed that one, Michael,” even though it would make perfect sense and was more or less grammatically correct. Although I guess that some could say that using the word
nailed
is morally improper because of its implied sexuality.

So, even though a pronoun is usually the structurally correct way to go once the subject has been identified, in the world of WWE announcers it is all but forbidden.

So although “Wow, Mark Henry is really working on the leg of Batista. Look at him go to work on it,” might seem clear and correct, it would be likely to yield a reprimand from the big guy. But “Wow, Mark Henry is really working on the leg of Batista. Look at Mark Henry go to work on Batista’s leg” would be just fine. No pronouns! Got it!

A belt is never a belt. It is the “WWE Championship” or the “World Heavyweight Championship.” During one episode, a championship was up for grabs, and that championship belt was placed in a display case so that everyone competing for it (the World Heavyweight Championship — don’t want to use a pronoun there) could get a good look at what was on the line.

“Finlay is really taking a good look at that belt,” I said, before quickly trying to correct the serious mistake I’d made. “Yes, that belt, which is representative of being the World Heavyweight Champion.”

“Dammit, it’s not a belt!” Vince helpfully reminded me.

So after coming to TNA, I have made it a point to call a belt a belt whenever I can. I’ve even called it a strap a time or two, which might be a fineable, even fireable offense at the WWE announcer’s table.

Don’t even
think
about calling Taker “Taker.” He’s the Undertaker. Period.

Nonetheless, despite some pronoun problems and an occasional belt-related belittling, I really enjoyed my first few days on the job, and I also enjoyed the feedback from the guys in the dressing room, who seemed to appreciate that I took my job seriously, tried to do research to tell the stories as best I could, and never tried to put myself over at the expense of the guys in the ring. I knew I didn’t appreciate that type of announcing when I was a wrestler; trying to make things happen in the ring, working hard, enduring punishment, only to watch the match and hear an announcer whose priority was clearly himself.

The
SmackDown
main event on that first night’s Pay-Per-View was Edge versus Taker — sorry, Undertaker. The Undertaker, a true legend in the business, and a guy who was invaluable in the direction of my career, has been able to stay vital and valuable for twenty years by constantly tweaking (one of my favorite words) his image and his repertoire. As an avid mixed martial arts (MMA) enthusiast, he had worked a Brazilian jujitsu choke into his game. But the hold, known as a gogoplata, was having trouble gaining a real foothold in the minds of WWE fans, who had never seen this type of move in the Undertaker’s arsenal.

Part of the problem, I thought, was that fans could simply not appreciate how painful such a hold could be. I’m not talking about “punch in the face” pain, “broken ankle” pain, or even good old-fashioned “Gitmo implementation of torture” type of pain. I’m talking about that hideous, nauseating, hurts-too-much-to-move, hoping-just-to-die type of pain that most human beings will thankfully never know.

For better or worse, however, I did know that type of pain, courtesy of “Exotic” Adrian Street, who, back in 1989, at my own request, had put me in a couple of holds that made me hope and pray that death
would come to my little apartment in Montgomery, Alabama, and take me quickly, away from the unimaginable agony that I was being subjected to.

That
was the type of pain I tried to explain to WWE fans. So I told the story of that night in Montgomery when the five-foot-six, 180-pound Street, a flamboyant Welsh painter, sculptor, singer, writer, and expert in the ways of pain, opened up my mind to the possibility of fates worse than death. And I think it was effective.

A few days later, I read that I’d gotten my own story wrong; that the incident with Adrian Street had taken place in Philadelphia and involved a simple wrist crank at one of Joel Goodhart’s old TNA shows. So how do I address this charge? Well, I guess I would have to ask the guy who witnessed the wrist crank in Philadelphia if he ever examined the possibility that Adrian Street had stretched (caused intense pain with wrestling holds) me on more than one occasion. That maybe Adrian was capable of stretching me just about every time he saw me, whether it was at my own request or not.

Actually, one of my career regrets is that I didn’t try to learn more of that stuff from Adrian, especially when I moved to the Florida panhandle and saw Adrian and his wife, Miss Linda, regularly, like a few times a week. They’d work out at our gym, and I’d stop by and help him train some wrestling students now and then, but I never did inquire about hooking and shooting (other synonyms for stretching) again.

Anyway, for those first several weeks, I was ecstatic, thinking I’d found a viable new career — something I could do for the next ten years, maybe more. I had tentatively signed on for a lucrative independent tour of Ireland, but had canceled at WWE’s insistence (giving the promoter about four months’ notice to find a replacement) as they didn’t want me to miss even one episode of
SmackDown.

Michael Cole was a huge help, and he and I developed a good
on-air chemistry. After a month or so, I felt like we were really on a roll. Michael was a legitimate journalist, having served as a radio correspondent for several years, covering the horrible 1994 genocide in Rwanda and the war in Serbia, as well as the 1993 siege in Waco, Texas, and the 1995 Oklahoma City bombing. Sometimes his abilities are disregarded by fans who tend to use Jim Ross as a yardstick by which to judge all other wrestling announcers. Which is kind of like using Babe Ruth or Lou Gehrig as the yardstick for judging all Yankee outfielders.

I even gave Cole a gift, a way of showing thanks for teaching me the
SmackDown
ropes. “Watch this,” I told Triple H, who I’d been talking to around ringside several hours before the doors opened — a good time to hang out and relax before the stress of taping
SmackDown
, where guys and girls mill around, work on a new move, talk to a road agent about an upcoming match, or just complain in general, since it’s the time-honored thing to do.