The Hardcore Diaries (15 page)

Some days when I asked him what he wanted to do, he’d simply say, “Go to church,” without a moment’s hesitation. And believe me, it wasn’t as if we were pushing him into it—this was all of his own free will. When Mickey found out Dee Snider (the Twisted Sister guy) was recovering from throat surgery, he sent him a get-well card decked out with about a hundred crosses.

Colette and I started wondering if God was trying to send us some kind of sign. Maybe our son was meant to answer some kind of calling. Maybe he’d be a great leader or inspirational preacher—if only we would take him to church instead of Chuck E. Cheese.

Colette even suggested a family viewing of
The Passion of the Christ,
but I felt I had to draw the line somewhere. I didn’t think it was appropriate for a five-year-old, and said if Mickey really needed to see a bearded man bleeding profusely, being treated in an inhumane fashion, I could probably find a few of my old matches from Japan for him. But we really did feel like we needed to encourage his interest. So one Sunday, after a friend’s birthday party, I took him and Hughie on a little local church field trip.

We visited a Presbyterian church that pre-dated the Revolutionary War, and a Methodist church right next to it that was over a hundred years old. We were invited into the Methodist church, and Mickey took it all in like an art enthusiast taking in his first LeRoy Neiman—oh, what a terrible example. We drove a few miles more so he could see the Lutheran church where I had gone to preschool, and even the Catholic church where I had received communion, learned so much, and then been so bitterly disillusioned.

And through the eyes of my five-year-old son, I began to feel my faith being restored. For years I’d felt my conscience pulling at me, leading me into volunteer work, so as not to ignore the gifts that God had given me. As odd as it sounds, I do consider the exposure I’ve received from WWE, and the instant recognition it affords me, to be a gift from God. A gift that gives me the potential to help—a potential that really has to be used.

I sometimes wonder if God really puts people in our lives for a reason, or if circumstance merely creates the potential to either use or ignore the gifts God gave us to make the most of any given situation.

Since my estrangement from the Catholic Church, I had often thought about finding a church that was more consistent with my beliefs. But how? I’m sure there must be some method of finding a match, some kind of spiritual dating service to set you up with the right place. I remember stopping in on a church in rural Georgia when Dewey was just a baby. It was Sunday, we were new to the area, and we thought, “What the heck, we’ll just drop in.” At the time I wasn’t nearly as aware of the cultural differences that existed within different denominations of Christianity and within our social and moral framework. This was 1992. I didn’t know what red and blue states were. I just thought we were all God’s children. So we stepped inside.

It was like some kind of science fiction freak show, with the young Foley family playing the part of the aliens from outer space. The choir stopped singing in mid-note. They just stopped and stared. At us. Granted, we were probably an unusual sight. My hair was much longer then, hanging way down past my shoulders. I probably had a black eye and some prominent stitches in my head. Colette’s boobs were probably halfway hanging out of her blouse, like the buxom young lady in the “Datapalooza” scene in
The 40 Year Old Virgin.

We actually felt like we had to give an explanation for why we were there. “Hi, we’re new in this area and thought we’d stop by.” At which point the service commenced, but just barely. Something was definitely not right with that scene, and that something was us.

I’m not a fire-and-brimstone guy. I just don’t see
that
Jesus. I don’t
feel
him. I’m more of an “It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth” in the Nat King Cole version of “Oh Holy Night” type of believer. I’m a Luke 6:36 Christian believer—a “forgive and you shall be forgiven” type of guy.

So no, I don’t go for the heavy stuff, but nonetheless I feel that I’ll be dealt with rather harshly if I don’t make the most of the gifts I’ve been given. And by “dealt with kind of harshly,” I guess I mean eternal damnation, burning in hell, all that heavy stuff I just said I didn’t go for. I really believe God loves me. I just think he expects a lot out of me. “For whom much is given, much is expected.” And I’ve been given an awful lot.

I pass by an old Methodist church quite often (not the same one I just mentioned). And every time Mickey would see it, he’d say, “I want to go there.” Especially during the season of Lent, where a cross draped in purple cloth was placed out on the front lawn of the church. And every single day, I’d say, “We’ll go tomorrow.”

About a month ago, we saw a sign outside the church for an upcoming rummage sale. I had several carloads of things to give away, but was looking for the right place to donate to. We’d had a near emotional disaster on our hands several months earlier, when a charity failed to make the scheduled truck pickup, and as a result Hughie and Mickey saw all their beloved toys (actually it was stuff they’d either outgrown or never used) discarded on the curb like a collection of failed Al Snow character portrayals. So, to avoid scarring their tiny little psyches, Dad had to bring back each undersize garment and every unused toy, lovingly arranging them around the house, where they could be promptly ignored.

But this rummage sale was perfect. Close enough to my house so I could take care of it all in just a few trips. No need for a rental truck, no trusting a charitable group’s truck driver to find my house, which is located just a couple blocks off the beaten path.

So, I packed up the used minivan, making sure to fold down the third row of seating to maximize available packing space. My older kids, especially Noelle, are so embarrassed by my van. It’s not “cool” like her friends’ parents’ cars are. I’ve tried telling her that it’s not the car that makes the man, but the man who makes the car, but she doesn’t buy it. Then again, she’s embarrassed by my hair and clothes, too, but doesn’t let it get in the way of telling me she loves me several times every day.

I pulled into the parking lot to drop off the first load. I was met by two volunteers for the sale, church members who didn’t have a clue who I was, despite the fact that I was blasting the “Dude Love” theme song when I pulled into the lot.

Despite my rather unconventional appearance, I didn’t feel any attitude, didn’t have the sneaking suspicion that I was being sized up or prejudged. Just two nice, normal people, helping me unload, thanking me for my time.

Who knows, maybe God really does put things into our lives for a reason. Maybe each yellowjacket is carefully selected for a preordained role, including the one that scared Mickey, prompting him to run to me in overblown fear, just as I was about to make my second trip to the church. “Where are you going, Dad?” he said. So after a month of “tomorrows” I made the best of one today, taking little Mick along to the church he’d inquired about so many times.

Mickey and Hughie outside our church.

Courtesy of the Foley family.

He was so excited, like a child on Christmas morning, assuming of course the child in question actually likes Santa, instead of treating the guy like some unwanted intruder. I introduced little Mick to Diane, one of the women who had been so nice to me. I said, “My son Mickey loves churches. He asks every day if he can visit.”

Once inside, little Mick fell in love with the place. I guess I fell in love with it, too. Well maybe not love, exactly. If the church was a girl, I guess I was smitten. But I’d have to get to know her a little better before making a commitment.

But little Mick wasn’t so jaded—he really did love it. He jumped at the chance to join Ms. Diane’s children’s choir, and counted the days until he and Dad could return. “Today, Dad?” he’d ask, every bit as excited about our upcoming church date as he is on the eve of a Disney World visit. Finally it came. Sunday was church day, and little Mick made the most of it. Singing his heart out in choir practice, though he didn’t know a single word. Perusing the Bible in the main church service, looking for hidden meanings in the parables Jesus spoke. But mainly he just took it all in and loved it—just as I did.

The congregation was small, less than fifty, I’d say. The pastor was a little tough to understand at first. He comes from Korea, so he struggles just slightly with some of the words. But his message is peaceful. There’s no fire and brimstone. The choir just kept right on singing even though I was there. No explanation was necessary. Nothing seemed wrong with the scene. I wasn’t a stranger in a hostile environment. I was a welcome visitor in the house of God. Maybe I was…home.

Today was Mother’s Day. The whole Foley family, including Grandma and Grandpa, in a rare Methodist appearance, gathered in God’s house to hear Mickey sing—his first public appearance. He even had a choir robe just for the occasion, and looked adorable up at the front of the church with all the other children. Yep, it was a wonderful sight—fifteen children in robes…and me. You see, Mickey got a little scared, even though he had his colorful stuffed elephant with him, so he insisted that I hold his hand. Then, in a performance reminiscent of Cindy Brady pulling the big choke when the red light went on in the quiz show episode, little Mick closed his eyes, held his ears, and began to cry. Maybe it was a little overwhelming for him.

He finally got to put his choir practice skills to use on the way home. “Dad,” he said. “I want to hear ‘Stiff Upper Lip.’” My son, you see, is a rock-and-roller. He’s a religious zealot, too. But maybe he really does have a calling. Maybe he has already encouraged a lost lamb to return to its shepherd.

May 15, 2006
7:40
P
.
M
.—United Spirit Arena,
Lubbock, TX

Dear Hardcore Diary,

We go live in twenty minutes.
Raw
from Lubbock. I haven’t written this way before—in a locker room, so close to bell time. I guess I’ll actually head to backstage around 9:00 Central, giving me a little time to write and a little time to fire myself up, get my emotions where they need to be, and look a hell of a lot tougher and meaner than I actually am.

7:50
P
.
M
.
Just had a quick physical from the WWE doctor, and now I’m back. I’m just hanging out, trying to let the butterflies in my stomach settle down, and can’t help overhearing Terry Funk and Carlito talk about the benefits of being second-generation wrestlers. One of the unfortunate aspects of our business is that occasionally guys will attempt to make names for themselves at the expense of other wrestlers. “Liberty takers,” we call them. Apparently people didn’t like to take too many liberties with second-generation wrestlers, especially when their fathers ran wrestling companies.

I had a couple of run-ins with liberty takers over the years, but nothing that left me too broken or bitter. I guess I had a reputation as a guy who could make others look good, so the whole principle of taking liberties was kind of self-defeating. I know I take great pride in having a reputation as a guy who never takes liberties.

It’s kind of do-or-die for me and the Funker. Maybe that’s overstating the importance of our first in-ring confrontation just a little, but not by much. You really only get one chance to make a first impression in front of WWE fans. Especially when the big match takes place in less than a month. It’s imperative that we leave these fans with a lasting impression.

Look, I know this update was a little brief, but
Raw
has begun, Vince and Triple H are already in the ring, and I’ve got to take a little trip to Promoland. I’ll see you when I get back.

11:10
P
.
M
.—Holiday Inn, Lubbock, TX.
To write or not to write? That is the question. I have to leave for the airport at 4:30
A
.
M
. If I opt for sleep, I may get four hours of beauty rest, although I have a history of not being able to sleep when I am anticipating an early wake-up call. If I write until it’s time to leave, I will be miserable on the plane, grouchy all day, and unable to do any writing at home. Decisions, decisions.

I just called the front desk to have some coffee sent up, so I guess my decision has been made. I’ll just do my best to act happy when I get home. Hey, if I can pretend to be best friends with Al Snow for months for the sake of a lame wrestling angle, then certainly I can do my best Super Dad impression for a few hours upon returning home.

I arrived at the United Spirit Arena today somewhere around 1:00, just in time to find out that much of what I had proposed had been personally shelved by Vince. Brian Gerwitz was on vacation, so writer Ed Kosky had the distinction of being on the receiving end of a hardcore grilling on this certain night.

I looked at the rough outline of our television segment, which offered Terry Funk very little chance to speak.

I pointed out, “Ed, if we don’t give Terry a chance on the mike, it’s going to be awfully tough to convince people to spend money on him.”

“I know,” Ed said. “But Vince felt that if he came out of the crowd, he’d be bringing the beating [the one Edge and I would eventually give him] on himself.”

“Ed, I have no problem introducing him. That’s fine. But once he gets to the ring, he needs to be Terry Funk, or else there’s no reason for him to be here.”

Ed hemmed and hawed a little bit, before finally getting to the root of the problem. “Vince is a little concerned about giving Terry a live mike.”

“Why?” I asked, “because he thinks Terry’s out of his mind?”

“Well, kind of.”

“Well, of course he is, Ed,” I said. “That’s what’s going to make this whole thing work. But the idea of bringing in one of the greatest promo guys in history and not letting him talk is ridiculous.”

It was then that the conspiracy theorist inside me surfaced, causing me to ask a blunt question before I had given my mind a chance to decipher the wisdom of such a choice. “We do want this show to succeed, don’t we?”

It was posed as a question, but it was obviously an
accusation
, and not as ridiculous as it might seem. Over the years there have seemed to be Pay-Per-Views that were designed to fail, self-fulfilling prophecies of failure for good wrestlers who were finally given top spots on shows that didn’t have a chance. Sure, it seemed to be mostly an old WCW trend, but there have been times when WWE’s promotion of certain shows looked so lethargic as to make one wonder.

Kosky knew he was in a no-win situation. “Look,” he said. “As of Thursday, it was written your way. Vince changed it on the phone when he became a little worried about Terry. I think he’s expecting you to try to talk him out of it. I think he’s looking forward to it.”

So it was off to Mr. McMahon’s office. In a situation like this, I always find it best to prioritize my concerns. I may be “the persuader,” but I’m also a realist and understand the precarious nature of attempting to change too many of Vince’s decisions, especially on the day of a show. My priority was to get Terry Funk some mike time. I really don’t care as much about his entrance, as long as he makes a lasting impression once he’s there.

The meeting was a success. I conceded that giving Terry Funk a formal introduction, as opposed to an entrance through the crowd, was probably more effective. But I pressed my point about the importance of showing the world that Terry Funk was a star, a man they would feel good about spending money to see. The concern about the live mike surfaced. As condescending as it sounds toward Terry, I convinced Vince that I would nurture Terry through this thing, even cutting him off verbally if he got carried away on a tangent. In the end, I got my way, but as a concession I had to agree to an in-ring rehearsal, which probably was a career first for a forty-three-year veteran like Terry Funk. Let me just clarify—Terry Funk is not forty-three years old. That’s how long he’s been involved in the wrestling game.

Before leaving, I told Vince about how well I thought
The Hardcore Diaries
were progressing (although I guess you guys reading it will be the judge), and how the bumps in the creative road were actually good for the writing of the book.

Courtesy of the Foley family.

“That’s good,” Vince said. “I’ll be glad to add some more.”

Earlier in the afternoon, I wandered around the arena, reading little snippets of
The Hardcore Diaries
to interested parties. Okay, it was a little more than snippets. Big Show and Triple H got the whole AC/DC story—and loved it. I know I ragged on Triple H a couple times in a few diary entries, but he and I go way back, to around 1992, and over the years have been pretty good friends and even better in-ring opponents.

I don’t always agree with his creative direction, but I respect the hell out of what he has accomplished in the ring, and will always be thankful to him for helping me leave my full-time wrestling career on such a high note, by virtue of our two classic Pay-Per-View brawls in early 2000. And I still have a personal photo he inscribed for me during that time, and consider it one of my most valued wrestling keepsakes.

I let Candice hear her little airplane letter story too, and as I expected, she wasn’t offended in the least. In fact, she seemed quite touched by the part about the fairy floating around dispensing hugs and laughter. I thought at one point she was wiping away a tear, but she was actually just scratching her nose. She did however share with me her philosophy on hugs—how giving them is her own little way of making the world a better place, and how she instinctively knows whether someone will be receptive to a Candice hug. Shawn Michaels, for example, always struck her as solely a handshake guy. “How about me?” I asked. “What did I strike you as?”

“Oh, I knew I was going to hug you,” she said. “I just wanted to jump in your arms and wrap my legs around you…and…” She then laughed in such a way that I knew there was no way in hell that the last part would ever actually happen.