The Hardcore Diaries (17 page)

December 10, 2005

Afghanistan and our “Tribute to the Troops” tour is behind us, though I think it’s safe to say that all of us will bring home memories to last a lifetime. We’ll be back in the United States in about twenty hours or so, giving me plenty of time to write, which is nice to know since I feel like I have a lot to write about.

As I look around the plane, I wonder what specific memories will be brought home. I’m sure all of us felt privileged to have been there. Yet I wonder what specific memory each individual wrestler, Diva, or crew member will take with them. I wonder whether there was a moment in a Black Hawk, a conversation with a soldier, or even a real deep look at the bleak landscape of Afghanistan that really registered in the memory banks.

As for me, I’m haunted. And no, it’s not just the memory of my Santa vs. Santa match with JBL that’s causing this. Sure, the match was really stupid…really bad, too! It was also really fun, though, and I hope the ridiculous memory of two Santa Clauses slugging it out with such devastating objects as toy sacks, down pillows, and salad tongs will put a smile on some soldier’s face at a time when he can most use one. No, it’s far more than Santa vs. Santa doing the haunting. It’s the memory of a little boy in a tiny cot in a small hospital on Bagram Air Force Base, and lessons I hope that I learned from having the privilege of being in his company.

I was in Group 3—the laughingstock of this trip. Our wrestling roster was divided into three groups of six or seven people, and over the course of our time in Afghanistan, each group set off for different locations. During last December’s trip to Iraq, I was in the “cool” group…the “macho” group. We got hit with rocket fire. We wore helmets and bulletproof vests. We crisscrossed the country via Black Hawk. I even went to the perimeter in Sumarrah. So what if video evidence showed my reaction to enemy gunfire to be slightly less than hardcore? I was there…brother.

Not this time. While Shawn Michaels and John Cena camped out with the Special Forces in the mountains, I was watching Chris Masters lose to an airman half his size in an air mattress jousting contest. Yes, an air mattress jousting contest. So, while Vince McMahon, Triple H, and even Candice Michelle visited weary, thankful soldiers at forward operating bases, I was visiting the camp’s post office. Yes, if the previous night’s autograph session note-passing incident brought back memories of ninth-grade gym class, this special post office visit brought back memories of a fifth-grade field trip. Oh, wait, I did get to do an impromptu meet-and-greet when our bus made an unscheduled stop so that Gene Snitsky could take a dump…the results of which he actually took photos of. Which I guess if I posted on this site could give a whole new meaning to the term
Web log.

We also visited the base hospital, and I’ve been haunted ever since. I knew I wouldn’t be seeing any severely injured servicemen. The badly wounded are usually sent to Lundstuhl Hospital in Germany, where they spend a short transition period before being flown back to the United States. Over the past few years, I’ve been a pretty regular visitor to the Walter Reid Army Medical Center and the Bethesda Naval Hospital, both in the Washington, D.C., area. I pride myself on being pretty good with the wounded service members. More, I think, because they just feel comfortable with me than because of any special talent I have or any special wisdom I can offer to them.

I cannot claim, however, to being very good with burned children, especially one who has never seen me on his living room television set and who doesn’t speak my language.

Our group was understandably weary following our day of jousting, post office visits, and spontaneous Snitsky stops when we arrived at the small hospital. I stopped to sign an autograph and found myself quickly separated from my colleagues. Had it been a larger facility, I would have attempted to catch up, but it was just two hallways intersecting in the middle. Getting lost did not seem like a possible option. So when a chaplain asked if I would like to say hello to wounded Afghan civilians, I allowed my fellow Group 3 members to wonder where I might be and accompanied the chaplain. “There is one child, in particular, who wants to say hello,” she said. She then pointed to the rear of the room, which housed about ten or twelve injured Afghans, mostly male, who lay on small green cots that lined both walls in groups of five or six.

I asked the chaplain if the boy was familiar with WWE. “No,” she said, “he just knows that you are famous and he’s very excited to meet you.” I immediately looked at the young boy, who flashed an excited smile. I was then informed that the man in the cot across the aisle from him was a detainee, a status that required the presence of an armed guard at all times. I gave the detainee half a smile, which he chose not to return. At that time, I did not know the nature of his physical condition or the reason for his detention. Had I been aware of the reason, I would not have offered him the smile.

The detainee had apparently been making an improvised explosive device (generally referred to as “IED”), which exploded and blew off both of his hands. The wounded man then showed up at the gates of Bagram asking for help from the same Americans whose lives he would have gladly ended.

I then walked over to a boy who wore a cast on his foot. I never did learn the nature of his injury because I became distracted by another boy, much younger, whose injuries were literally breathtaking. I know the word
breathtaking
usually carries a positive connotation as it is most often applied to incredible views or beauty—human, natural, or other. Yet the extent of this poor child’s injuries literally took my breath away. His face thankfully had been spared from the worst of the burns on his body. Most of his body seemed to be one large mass of scar tissue, as if he’d been wrapped up in a bodysuit of angry scars. His hands were the first thing that I noticed, as they lay outside his blanket. One hand contained the vague outline of his former fingers. The other hand, the right one, seemed to be nothing more than a deformed pink and purple circle connected to a wrist. It was this hand that he extended to me when I stepped over to his bedside.

The child, the chaplain told me, was the victim of a kerosene heater explosion, an occurrence far more common to the impoverished in Afghanistan than I could ever comprehend. These explosions, the result of poorly built heaters and cheap kerosene/gasoline mixtures, are an everyday occurrence. I even saw photos of a two-day-old child whose entire tiny body had been engulfed in hideous flames.

I dedicated my 2000 children’s book
Christmas Chaos
to a little boy named Antonio Freitas, a burn victim from Massachusetts, who touched my heart in a profound way. A line in the book reads, “What pain this little boy had known, such suffering for a child, but the thing that touched dear Santa most was the magic of his smile.”

Antonio had a magic smile. This poor child, Midikula, did not. Like Antonio, he knew pain and suffering, and his little face reflected it. As I mentioned, his face was almost scar-free, but sadness and despair were etched all over it.

Within seconds of our meeting, the little boy began to weep and shout out anguished words. An interpreter laid out the sad translation. “He says when he leaves the hospital, no one will care for him, He is only happy here.” Happy is not a word I would ever associate with that room of ten or twelve patients, including one terrorist. I have been allowed into the hospital rooms of suffering children many times and have been a patient myself on a few occasions. Despite the best intentions of caring staff and the tremendous assortment of board games, video games, DVDs, and televisions, I have never thought of hospitals as places where children are happy. There were no board games, video games, DVDs, and televisions in Midikula’s room. There was just a tiny green cot and the love and caring of a few dedicated professionals.

The interpreter spoke again. His words did more than take my breath away. They put tears in my eyes, a lump in my throat, a knot in my gut, and a chill down my spine. “He wants you to take him back to America,” he said. I’m not sure if I have ever, in my forty years, felt so helpless or like such a pathetic liar when I simply said, “I can’t.” “I won’t” would have been more truthful.
Can’t
is a strong word. In fact, it’s not a word that I used or accepted very often during my career.

My wife and I have a half-joking tradition when I am set to leave for developing countries. “Don’t be afraid to bring a child home,” she always says. She said it when I went to China in 2002 and Iraq in 2004. We used to talk about adopting an Afghan child after the initial U.S. invasion of the country. I shared that thought with a few friends and actually received disapproving feedback, as if the existence of Al Qaeda camps in Afghanistan was the handiwork of orphaned children. Now here was a child begging for a home, and I simply said, “I can’t.”

The boy was scratching at his scars, lowering his blanket as he did, revealing to me just some of the terrible damage that the explosion had done to his torso and abdomen. The chaplain later told me that one leg needed amputation because the damage was too extensive. His other leg, despite the efforts of physical therapy, had lost all range of motion, becoming permanently fixed in a locked angle. A prosthetic device, I was told, was almost an impossibility. The money just isn’t there, and even if it was, the country’s rugged rural landscape would render the device almost useless. A wheelchair would fall victim to the environment as well. Ramps and elevators aren’t exactly accessible in the Afghan countryside.

I searched my pockets for some kind of gift that I could give to this poor child. I also searched for some soothing words, but even with a translator’s help, those were tough to find. I handed him a coin that had been given to me by a base commander. The coins are given out in the military for excellence, and I guess my Santa vs. Santa match qualified as such. The translator asked for one, but I told him I was out—the second lie I had told while standing at this child’s bedside.

As I prepared to leave, I told Midikula that I would send him a box of toys when I got back home. Through the translator he told me that he would like two large white stuffed animals, a dog and a cat. I then touched the boy’s head and, with the best smile that I could manage, I exited the room.

I returned minutes later, bearing gifts. When I told the chaplain that my good-intentions-to-good-deeds ratio was low and that I’d be much more likely to follow through on these intentions if I purchased toys on base, she took me instead to a small trailer outside of the hospital that contained a few boxes of donated toys. While there were no large white stuffed animals, I was able to secure a small white Beanie Baby cat, a gray Beanie Baby dog, a redbreasted robin, and a Wyle E. Coyote that looked like a consolation prize at a second-rate carnival.

I’ll be honest; the kid didn’t care much for Wyle E. Coyote. I guess if one is not aware of his
Roadrunner
shenanigans, he could look a little creepy. Through the translator, he worked out a trade—Wyle E. Coyote for the redbreasted robin.

Before I left the hospital, I gave the boy a wallet-sized photo of my younger children. I’m not quite sure why I did this. I think so that he might have something directly from me instead of through a colonel or chaplain.

Last night, as I lay down, hoping sleep would find me, I again thought of that poor child. I thought about the terrorist as well. I thought about our service members and the sacrifices they have made. I thought of the dangers they face every day and the holidays that would pass without their loved ones near. I still don’t know what to think of our attempts at democracy in both Afghanistan and Iraq, but if democracy brings with it food, shelter, and kerosene heaters that don’t set little kids on fire, then by all means, these attempts will be worth the price we’ve paid. But I don’t know if that will happen. I do know that brave Americans like the ones I’ve met at Bagram Air Force Base have sacrificed their lives in pursuit of this bold goal. I also know that mere feet from where our service members breathe lie two Afghan citizens, separated only by a six-foot white tile aisle and an armed guard. I know that their feelings toward our country cannot be more opposed. One sees the United States as pure evil, while the other sees the United States as an answer to his dreams.

Can the United States truly be the answer to one’s dreams? For millions, it has been, although I don’t think this is true for Midikula. Maybe I was the answer to his dreams, and instead I gave him a carnival doll.

I’ve been thinking about an old Irish prayer that reads, “God grant me the strength to change the things I can, the serenity to accept the things I cannot, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

It’s doubting that I have that wisdom that will haunt me most of all.

May 17, 2006
9:00
A
.
M
.—Long Island, NY

Dear Hardcore Diaries,

I really wanted to write this yesterday, when the events in Lubbock, Texas, were at their freshest in my mind. Unfortunately, I was just too tired to do any writing on the plane, opting instead to watch
Glory Road
on the second leg of the trip, from Dallas to New York.

I’m glad in a way that I waited a day, because it gives me a little time to reflect on what went down in Lubbock, and it will also give me a chance to write down my feelings while I actually watch our promo on videotape.

I was nervous as hell, as well I should have been, before such an important moment, because this promo would determine whether there was indeed magic in our midst or if the ECW show would simply be a good build, with some decent interest based on whatever aura the company name still gave off in the minds and memories of fans.

Still, I was confident. Nervous, but confident. I had faith in myself, and despite Vince’s misgivings, I had faith in the Funker. In my entire career, I have only seen two performers who seemed to exude a love for the business in their every in-ring step. Two guys who really felt “it,” who seemed to be “on” every time they stepped into the ring. Ric Flair was one. Terry Funk the other. I felt like I had history on my side.

Terry Funk.

But maybe Terry Funk didn’t have Father Time on his side. The guy had been through amazing wars, but unlike other saner men, never showed the common sense to slow down once the years and injuries had taken their toll. One of the greatest matches of my career took place in front of 150 people in a near-freezing gym on January 10, 1995, in Guma, Japan. Despite the scattered few in the building, it was a big match for me because of the attention it would garner in the Japanese magazines—a must for small promotions like our IWA that didn’t have the benefit of their own television shows. The things Terry and I did to each other in that match would have gotten us arrested in many places in the world. It was brutal. I was twenty-nine at the time, with two small kids and a mortgage. I needed that job with IWA. Terry was almost fifty. He managed to stay with me punch for punch, move for move, and chair for chair (including one that was on fire). Terry Funk simply cared too much to give anything but his best in front of any crowd, anywhere.

Eleven years had passed since the Guma “No rope, barbed wire” match. Terry’s sixty now, and showing his age from time to time. I remember watching Terry do a promo in WCW about five years ago. I looked at Terry on that television and felt a little sad for him for the first time, because for the first time he looked old, confused, at a loss for words.

But a year ago, I refereed a Terry Funk versus Dusty Rhodes match, a blast of nostalgia from one of wrestling’s greatest feuds, and witnessed Terry put the fear of the Funker into even the smartest of fans. He was out of his mind and on that one night, hands down, still the best heel in the business.

A big question loomed in my mind as I climbed the stairs and awaited my music cue behind the curtains at the top of the stage: Which Terry Funk would step forward tonight?

I watched with great interest as a Mick Foley teaser aired. It was just a pretaped walk backstage, filmed a few hours earlier, but not without considerable importance. How would fans react to seeing me for the first time since Anaheim? There I am. Boos. Yes! Sure, boos mixed in with cheers, but I detect genuine interest as J.R. says, “What is going on in the mind of Mick Foley? We’re going to find out…next.”

Many people felt disappointed in the reaction Edge and I had received in Anaheim. Actually, I think it would have been shocking if it had garnered a huge reaction. After all, it had been a blatant case of bait and switch. We used the premise of a
WrestleMania
rematch of Edge and Foley as bait and then switched them with a turn on a largely unknown Tommy Dreamer instead.

It was confusing. It didn’t have any heat in the way a turn on a beloved WWE personally like, say, Shawn Michaels, would have. But that would be easy. I hadn’t walked into Vince’s office in Stamford to propose “easy.” I wanted to create main-event interest from the ground up in less than five weeks. And in some ways, I felt like I’d had my best tools taken from me. The chunk out of Vince’s ass was a huge tool that was no longer ours to work with. This was Lubbock. A few weeks ago I thought this city would play host to one of the all-time great
Raw
episodes. Now I wasn’t so sure. Still, I felt like Edge and I had built a sturdy foundation the week before. But no one shows up at a homesite to marvel at a foundation. It was time to get to work. Time to start the real construction on the house.

Three minutes of commercials can seem to take a lifetime when anticipation is so high. You want to be relaxed, but at the same time, don’t want to lose focus. My challenge is a simple one: take the promo that seemed so real inside my head, and bring the thing to life in front of all the fans.

A video of Terry airs, solely “for the house.” We are fortunate to be in Lubbock, where Terry is a legend. But this video will reinforce his lofty status to those who know him, and give a crash course on the Funker, to those who aren’t quite as steeped in professional wrestling lore.

Crash! The sound of breaking glass, followed by a distinctive three-chord guitar riff, sends me through the curtains. As was the case with my backstage walk, there are some boos, some cheers, but fans are mostly all standing. At least it’s an enthusiastic mixed response. But I will act like all is well. I have made up my mind that I am still WWE’s lovable muppet—a good guy, a babyface. As long as I believe my actions are justified, I’ll be fine. I just have to make the fans believe that I believe. Fortunately, I’ve spent a lot of time in Promoland this past week. I really believe in everything I’ll say.

“He’s got to have a viable reason,” J.R. tells the fans. I do, and I’m about to share it with you. But first, a little fun. And a small seed to plant for later on down the road—a day after
SummerSlam
, to be exact.

“Hold on, you’re being a little judgmental. Let me explain myself,” I say in response to the boos. It’s been a good eight years since I’ve been booed by WWE fans, and it feels a little strange.

“I want to answer the question that’s been on everybody’s mind…what was I doing hanging out with Melina at Kane’s movie premiere? Did you see the way she was looking at me?”

Yes, the planting of the seed. I didn’t see fit to pass this comment by anyone. Someone may have overthought the moment and overruled it, and I didn’t want to take a chance. It’s just a simple comment and doesn’t screw with the heart of the promo, but it does loosely place Melina and me together in the fans’ minds. All in all, an important throwaway line. Plus, it makes the fans laugh a little, which is good. I want this promo to be an emotional roller-coaster ride. Nothing wrong with a little fun first.

“Now as far as that other thing, that unfortunate incident involving Tommy Dreamer, well, I guess that’s a little unbelievable—unbelievable in the literal sense, because I can’t believe I took a barbed-wire bat and bludgeoned somebody who’d been a friend of mine for ten years. A guy with the heart of a lion, the innovator of violence, ECW’s own Tommy Dreamer.”

I want to build Tommy whenever I can. Hopefully, even a little mention of his heart will help in the long run. Or at less than four weeks to go at this point, the not-so-long run.

“Even more unbelievable, it seemed that I was in cahoots with Edge; arms up in the air with my sworn enemy, even going so far as to kiss Lita on the hand.”

Lita’s awesome and has worked hard to become WWE’s sleaziest character. I fully intend to treat her like a lady, a princess, during the course of this run to
One Night Stand.

“Now I could offer a lot of excuses, I could say it was the shots to the head that made me act a little goofy, but I’ll tell you what, you people deserve better than excuses; you deserve an apology. So I’d like to say two big words to the big state of Texas…I’m sorry.”

All right, quite a few cheers. This is going well. I think they’ll really buy a ticket to this emotional place we hope to send them.

“Now, I wanted to say sorry personally to Tommy Dreamer, but unfortunately he couldn’t be here. It seems as if he had an adverse reaction to a barbed-wire bat making contact with his genitals.”

The crowd laughs as I hoped they would. “Who knew?” I say jokingly. “So I’m going to bring out another guy you might be familiar with, a guy who berated me on my telephone answering machine, saying I was a better man than I had shown on Monday night. Hell, he was hardcore before the word existed. He is a legend. He is my mentor. Ladies and gentlemen, Terry Funk.”

The crowd greets the Funker in a way befitting his legendary status. Geography is on our side here. WWE only hits West Texas every couple of years. We are fortunate indeed to be in Lubbock for Terry’s big return. Sometimes perception really is reality, and the perception to all those watching
Raw
is that Terry Funk is a very big star.

Terry greets the crowd with arms wide open, embracing the fans as J.R. and color commentator Jerry “The King” Lawler sing the Funker’s praises. The TitanTron plays an image from
WrestleMania XIV
’s Dumpster match, where Terry and I won the World Tag Team titles. J.R. is great as always, summarizing my long, complex history with Terry in a few short sound bites. “Terry Funk has been a profound influence on Mick Foley’s career,” J.R. says. “Mentor may be putting it mildly.”

Terry’s now in the ring, and we’re hopefully ready to make history. “Terry, it’s great to see you out here,” I say, extending my hand as if everything is just fine.

But Terry’s not fine. “Not so fast, Cactus,” he says, using the name he’d known me as for years. Terry refuses my hand, and circles the ring as a loud “Terry” chant begins. This is a good sign, a really good sign.

Terry holds up his hand, silencing the crowd. Many a man wouldn’t have been able to resist the urge to bask in the adulation, which would have hurt the promo. By choosing dialogue over the “Terry” chants, he is showing the importance of the moment.

Terry looks me in the eye and says, “I know the reason why you humiliated Tommy Dreamer. I know the reason. You humiliated him, and I want to know…why, Mick, why did you humiliate him, why? Tell me.”

Was I mistaken, or did Terry just say he knew the reason before asking me to tell him the reason? This is a bad sign, a very bad sign. Was it possible the wrong Terry Funk showed up on this night?

I figured I better take over the reins. “Well, I’m going to tell you why, Terry,” I say. “Because at
WrestleMania,
Edge and I made history. We had the greatest hardcore match the world had ever seen.”

“The greatest?” Terry asks skeptically.

“We tore the house down,” I yell. “We stole the show!”

Terry starts to offer a little more resistance than I was expecting, continually questioning the validity of my statement. I want people to question it. Just not now. So I try to silence the Funker. “You listen to me,” I say with emphasis. “Because I will be damned if a few short weeks after making history, I’m going to stand by as a bunch of second-rate ECW scumbags come into
our
house, play in
our
ring, and portray themselves as if they’re what hardcore is all about. It’s not going to happen.” Some definite boos are building. “So maybe Edge and I made a little pact to defend what we created. Because Terry, I’ll tell you this, there are three things in this life I will defend, with my
life
if necessary.” I’ve got a finger in the air. “The honor of my wife.” A second finger. “The honor of my children.” A third finger. “And the honor of my legacy as the hardcore wrestling professional legend.”

Damn, I screwed that last one up. Should have just been “legacy as the hardcore legend.”

It’s Terry’s turn to talk. “You just don’t get it, do you, Mick?” Terry says. “You just don’t get it.” His confidence is back, a good sign. “You
are
ECW! ECW is family! Your family is ECW. And I’m family. And I want to tell you something, Mick. I’ve been with you through the years. And I’ve fought you, and I’ve battled you. And I’ll tell you that you’ve broken my nose, and I’ve broken your nose, and you’ve beat the hell out of me, and I’ve beat the hell out of you. And we’ve been in barbed wire, and we’ve been in fires, and everything else, but I always put my arm around you and said, ‘Mick, dammit, you’re a hell of a tough guy.’ And I wanna go one step further. Mick, you’re like a son to me.” Terry’s got one hand on my head, tousling my hair as if I were a rambunctious, misguided child. The audience is starting to stir, thinking they might be on the receiving end of a genuine feel-good moment. Boy, are they in for a surprise.

I put my hand on Terry’s shoulder and close my eyes as Terry continues with the heartfelt pleas. “You’re like a son to me, Mick,” he repeats. “Like a son to me.” I lean my forehead on the Funker’s shoulder and take in a mild dose of warm applause. I really like where we are going.