The Hardcore Diaries (2 page)

April 27, 2006

Dear Hardcore Diary,

Vince liked it! He really liked it! Everybody did. In the past, when I’d pitched ideas, it was usually to an audience of two—Vince and someone else. Over the years, that someone else had been a variety of people: from former heads of talent relations J. J. Dillon and Jim Ross, to former head of the creative team, Bruce Prichard, to current head of talent relations, John Laurinaitis, to
Raw
head writer Brian Gewirtz. For this occasion, however, Vince had asked if I would mind pitching the idea to the entire creative team.

Why not? The more the merrier, right? Besides, for an idea like this, that I wholeheartedly believed in, it would be in my best interest for as many people as possible to hear it directly from me, limiting the possibility of a loss somewhere in the translation process.

WWE is always good about offering me transportation, usually a town car, from my home on Long Island, New York, to their office in Stamford, Connecticut. And I’m always good about declining it. Unless, of course, I’m doing work for them in New York City, in which case I gladly accept the ride, so as not to get frustrated with the one-way streets, massive traffic, thirty-dollar parking lots, and general insanity of the city that never sleeps.

But for the most part, I’m much happier in my used Chevy minivan, playing my own tunes as loud as I want, throwing fast-food wrappers onto ever-growing piles of their brethren, and focusing my mind on whatever task is at hand. And this task should be easy. I simply have to sell the creative team an idea that, in all honesty, should sell itself. But in the unlikely event that this idea doesn’t sell itself, I’ll be ready. Because as I mentioned earlier, sometimes it’s all in the pitch. I’ve even taken great care
not
to look like the casual slob I usually am. No more flannels and sweats for the hardcore legend. At least not for a few hours. No, for this meeting, I’ve got my pitcher’s uniform on: ill-fitting blue sports coat, wrinkled dress shirt, a tie I bummed off Regis Philbin at
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire,
black jeans, and Red Wing work boots.

I was summoned into the booking meeting and immediately seated next to Vince, who, I surmised, wanted to be the first to sample the nuggets of wisdom that were sure to spew from my mouth. Seated around the table were Dusty Rhodes, a certifiable wrestling legend and former booker in WCW; Greg Gagne, a longtime fixture in his father’s former AWA promotion, who was fairly new to the creative team; Michael Hayes, one of the great attractions in the business in the 1980s and a mainstay on the creative team for the last decade or so; Ed Koskey, the assistant writer on
Raw
; Stephanie McMahon, the boss’s daughter and senior VP of creative writing; Dave Lagana, the head writer on
SmackDown!
; and Brian Gewirtz,
Raw
head writer.

Gewirtz is about 6-4, 220, with a ripped bodybuilder’s physique. He’s well versed in several of the martial arts and could very well have been a force inside WWE rings if not for a predisposition toward…wait, I’m sorry, I must be thinking of a different guy. Actually Gewirtz is a classic nerd, albeit a very creative one. Over the years, he has somehow been hit with the unfair rap of being nothing but a pop-culture couch potato, with no background as a wrestling fan. In actuality, Gewirtz has been obsessed with this sports entertainment stuff for almost twenty years, even dressing as yours truly at a college Halloween party. Gewirtz is no simple nerd—he’s a wrestling nerd, dammit!

Vince gives me a quick introduction, and then offers me the floor, or the table in this case.

“I’d like to start out,” I say, “by letting you know that if you like this idea, you can give partial credit to Michael Hayes for doing a pretty good job of convincing me to stick around after
’Mania
.”

Michael is all smiles. In some ways, it’s tough to go from being one of the business’s most flamboyant men in
front
of the camera, to being a driving force
behind
it. I can see that Michael appreciated the acknowledgment.

“And if you don’t like this idea, you can probably blame Michael Hayes, for doing a pretty good job of convincing me to stick around after
’Mania.

“Look,” I continued. “Last year you did a really good job of building up the ECW Pay-Per-View around the aura of the name and reputation of ECW.” Everyone nodded in agreement. “I don’t think we can get by on just aura and reputation this year. I think we need to create compelling rivalries that the fans will feel strongly enough about to spend money on.” More nods. “I think I’ve got an idea that will create a compelling rivalry,” I said. “But it’s an idea that really hinges on three important things.”

I’m well into the windup, about to release the pitch.

“Number one, we need to firmly believe that Terry Funk can get over as a main-event attraction in a very short time.” I turn to Dusty, who knows Terry as well as anyone in the business. “I think the Dream [Dusty’s nickname is “The American Dream”] can vouch for me when I say that even at age sixty, Terry does a real convincing job of making fans think he’s out of his mind.”

“That’s because he
is
out of his mind,” the Dream says with a laugh, eliciting further laughs from around the table. Vince isn’t laughing, but he is smiling, which is a good sign. His relationship with Terry has been a contentious one over the years, dating back to 1993, when Terry walked out on a major Pay-Per-View, leaving only a note that read, “My horse is sick. I think she’s going to die. I think I better go.”

“Number two, we need to firmly believe that Edge and I can form one of the most unique short-term tag teams in recent history.” There is a general feeling that item number two had distinct possibilities.

“And number three, for this angle to work, Vince, you really need to get physically involved.”

Uh-oh, I said something wrong. I sense a general uneasiness around the table. Vince breaks the tension, saying, “Actually, I was going to get physically involved with DX.”

DX is D-Generation X, Shawn Michaels and Triple H. They were a harbinger to the attitude era of the late 1990s—a boom period for WWE—and their imminent reformation had been one of WWE’s best-told stories. I can see Vince’s point, but firmly believe that he is a character large enough to place his footprints in the foundation of two simultaneous angles. Especially if I can convince him that our idea can feed into the DX angle—that an incensed Vince McMahon can be more dangerous than ever. Besides, I’ve got a secret weapon.

“Vince, I want to become the first ever voluntary member of the Vince McMahon ‘Kiss My Ass Club.’”

My favorite billionaire, Vincent K. McMahon.

For those of you who don’t know, or simply need a brief refresher course, the “Kiss My Ass Club” is Vince McMahon’s long-running, incredibly degrading, incredibly entertaining spectacle in which a WWE Superstar or employee will be made, usually through force, to actually plant a smacker on the boss’s billionaire buttocks. And no, when I say “boss,” I’m not talking about Steinbrenner or Springsteen, I’m talking about Vince.

The secret weapon seemed to work. Vince’s attention was all mine.

I quickly laid out a four-week plan that would see the formation of the Edge/Foley team, leading to our two-week mockery/bludgeoning of ECW “legends” who were not exactly legends, leading to a Foley/Vince verbal confrontation. You see, once Vince caught on to the idea that Edge and I were deliberately trying to sink the ECW Pay-Per-View, he would become irate. Such a deliberate sinking, after all, would cost Vince a fortune—he’d be down to seven or eight hundred million in no time.

“A week after that confrontation with you, Vince,” I said, “probably at the
Raw
in Las Vegas [May 22], I would summon you into the ring, with the promise of an apology.

“So you’d say, ‘I guess you want to apologize for calling me a no-good son of a bitch last week, huh, Mick?’

“But I’d say, ‘No, actually, I meant that one.’

“Then you’d say, ‘So, I guess you’re going to apologize for saying I was a heartless bastard.’

“But I’d say, ‘No, actually I meant that, too.’”

I can see that Vince is intrigued. He likes walking this fine line between fact and fiction. For him, it’s every bit as comforting as a brisk autumn leaf-peeping, bird-watching stroll would be to nature lovers.

“So, Vince, you’d be kind of losing your patience with me, as I try to explain myself. I’d say, ‘No, Vince, I want to apologize for what I said about you in my book. Do you remember when I wrote that no man I’d ever met had your drive and intellect?’

“Vince, you’d kind of nod, okay, then I’d say, ‘Well, I didn’t really mean that.’

“Then I’d say, ‘You know how I told you on the phone once that I considered you to be on the level of U.S. presidents? Well, I didn’t really mean that either.’

“Vince, at this point you’d kind of snap, you’d say, ‘Dammit, what’s your point?’

“And I’d say, ‘Vince, don’t you get it? I was saying things I didn’t really mean just because you were my boss, just because you signed the checks.’

“‘So?’ you’d say. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

“I’d say, ‘Vince, don’t you get it, I was kissing your ass.’

“‘Yeah,’ you’d say, ‘but everyone does that, that’s part of doing business.’

“‘But,’ I’d say, ‘it’s not part of being Mick Foley. Being Mick Foley means saying what I mean, and meaning what I say. It’s about being a man I can be proud of. And what kind of a man would I be, Vince, if I’m willing to kiss your ass figuratively, but not literally?’

“Vince, you’d get this big smile on your face, because you’d kind of see where I was going with this. You’d say, ‘You mean?’

“And I’d say, ‘I want to join the club.’

“‘The club?’

“‘The club. Vince, I want to join the Vince McMahon ‘Kiss My Ass Club,’ right here in Las Vegas, Nevada.’”

The creative team seemed to love it. As I thought, it was an idea that was pretty much selling itself, but it didn’t hurt that I was pitching the thing pretty damn well. I continued to pitch, describing how the inaugural voluntary membership ceremony could be pushed back to the final segment. In the interim, Vince could be making phone calls, procuring a live symphony, hiring showgirls. After all, it would be Vegas.

Then on to the glorious ceremony, where after being regaled with live music and a Vegas production number, I would attempt to plant that kiss…but would see my valiant attempt interrupted by that no-good Terry Funk, who would attempt to take me out of this fateful decision by appealing to my pride, my manhood, my legacy—whatever it might take to get my lips out of the general proximity of Vince’s ass.

Then, just as Terry is really reaching me, just as he’s about to talk me out of this tasteless moment of oral anguish—BAM!—there’s Edge, laying out the Funker, snapping me back into reality, making me realize the treacherous act that Funk was about to perpetuate. Then we’d lay the boots into Terry, much to Vince’s delight.

“Then, Vince, you’d get on the mike, you’d say, “Dammit, someone’s going to kiss my ass tonight. Get Funk over here.’

“And Vince, you’d get this huge smile of satisfaction on your face as human lips meet human ass.”

Vince looks like he’s in heaven. This is going even better than I expected.

“But in a split second, that smile would turn into a look of abject horror as you realize that…Terry Funk is tearing a chunk out of your ass!”

The table erupts. A couple of the writers nearly fall out of their chairs. My summation is just a formality as everyone agrees that this idea is foolproof.

Vince can come back madder then ever. He can take out his frustration on DX. He can join forces with me and Edge in our attempt to derail the ECW Pay-Per-View. Sure, it might hurt his pocketbook, but something far more valuable has already been hurt—his ass. His pride, too. His ass
and
his pride. And his pride in his ass. That’s been hurt as well.

From there it’s a short step to Funk and Tommy Dreamer facing me and Edge at ECW’s
One Night Stand.

Brian Gewirtz has one small concern. “Las Vegas is the night that DX is supposed to get to Vince.”

My heart momentarily sinks. But thankfully, Gewirtz isn’t done.

“I think if we moved it up a week to the fifteenth, it would be even better. We’re in Lubbock, Texas, right outside of Terry’s hometown.”

A rush of enthusiasm goes around the table. I think everyone sees the potential of Terry Funk taking a bite out of Vince McMahon’s ass in his West Texas stronghold, where the Funk name is almost synonymous with wrestling.

I say good-bye to the creative team. Stephanie publicly thanks me for dressing up for the meeting, then asks me privately if her comment hurt my feelings. Of course not. My wardrobe, or lack thereof, is a personal choice I made a long time ago. It’s more than fair game for innocent teasing.

Vince wraps me up in a big hug. It seems that we’ve got ourselves a deal. A deal I can’t wait to commence. He likes me! He really likes me! And the truth is, I really like him. Again. But it hasn’t always been that way.