The Hardcore Diaries (26 page)

May 27, 2006
11:21
A
.
M
.—San Francisco, CA

Dear Hardcore Diary,

Maybe I won’t be proving Vince wrong after all. I barely slept, after finishing up last night’s entry around 2:00
A
.
M
., and making the decision to use the hotel health club’s elliptical trainer for half an hour before going to bed. It seems it’s hard to sleep when your leg is throbbing, and as a result, I woke up somewhere around seven, tired, aching, and barely able to walk.

I was in a situation like this two years ago, when, two days after my
Backlash
match with Randy Orton, I found myself unable to walk, after getting out of a chair in which I had been watching Mickey and Hughie play. Injuries seem to occur that way quite often for guys with a lot of previous wear and tear on their bodies. It’s not always a major mistake or tremendous collision that leads to injury, but a minor action at the tail end of a long line of abuse. It was as if my knee was pulling a Popeye, saying, “I stands all I can stands, and I can’t stands no more.” I know this is the second time that I’ve quoted the grammatically incorrect sailor man, but it’s such a profound, powerful statement that it deserves to be read twice. Besides, this is actually the first time my knee has quoted Popeye. By the way, Raven, the master of psycho-sexual warfare, does a tremendous Popeye imitation.

11:39
A
.
M
.
Sorry. I just ran to the hotel dryer to put my now clean clothes into the dryer. The move may take me out of my writing zone, but my “guys” will be deeply appreciative of the clean undies.

Terry Funk (right) and Tommy Dreamer.

Just yesterday, I was so sure I could pull this thing off. Now I’m not so sure. After all, other than being carried to a really good
’Mania
match by Edge, one of the top guys in the business, I really don’t have much in my plus column since the
Backlash
match with Orton.

11:59
A
.
M
.
Sorry, I just got off the phone with Brian Gewirtz, and it seems that Paul E. and I are going to go toe-to-toe verbally in two days at
Raw.
The key challenge for me on Monday is to resist the temptations to rip into ECW just for the sake of ripping into it. I’m sure Paul E. and I would both fare very well in a true battle of verbal one-upsmanship, but my feeling is that I should actually lose this battle in a very close contest in order to enhance the interest in the match. It would be easy for me to get a cheap laugh by pointing out that Funk and Dreamer, the two ECW loyalists who never sold out, did in fact wrestle in WWE, and were last seen wearing panty hose (Funk) and drinking water out of a urinal (Dreamer).

But why go there? I want to draw money, not laughs—at least, in this case. So on Monday, I will portray Funk as the greatest and toughest wrestler I ever saw (true), and Dreamer as a guy with as much heart, desire, and talent as any of the WWE legends I battled over the years (a little less true).

I’ll make my best points, but I’ll make sure Paul E. has better ones lined up.

12:10
P
.
M
.
Back to the knee. At least for thirty minutes, when I’ll leave for my personal appearance at Lee & Woo’s—an optometry office in downtown San Francisco. I know it seems like an odd place for an autograph signing, but they’ve had WWE appearances there for years, and seem to do just fine with them.

I had X-rays and an MRI done on my left knee in 2004, which revealed a torn meniscus and severe arthritis, but nothing that could explain the intense pain behind the knee or inability to walk.

A few days later, I received a call from Barry Bloom. “How’s the knee?” he asked.

“Not too good, Barry.”

“Can you walk?”

“Not very well.”

“Can you wrestle a match in five days in Japan?”

I thought it was the most ridiculous question I’d ever heard, until Barry gave me a dollar figure for the match. It seemed that Bill Goldberg, for whom Barry had negotiated an incredible per-match deal for the new Hustle promotion in Japan, had injured his hand in training and would be unable to wrestle. The promotion was desperate, and he was willing to give me Bill’s money for the match. I stood to make more for that match than for my fourteen previous Japan trips combined.

I said, “I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk, but for that type of money, I’ll be in the ring in five days.”

The match didn’t suck, although it won’t go down on anyone’s list of the all-time mat classics, unless seeing Japanese star Toshiaki Kawada kick the crap out of me for ten minutes is anyone’s idea of a good time. Sure, I spent the hours after the match puking in the toilet following a really hard kick to the back of the head, and needed a wheelchair to get through the airport, but I did these two things as a somewhat wealthier man.

I’ll admit, I took the match solely for the money, which may make me a whore, but at least for that one night, I was an extremely high-dollar one.

I finally had the operation on July 5, and was able to view the procedure on a television screen as it was happening. Once inside with the scope, the doctor quickly found the source of my suffering—the cadaver tendon that had been used to replace my torn PCL (posterior cruciate ligament) back in 1993 had completely given way. The doctor cleaned the mess up, but said another repair was inadvisable. So, I’m just going without one. This left knee is giving me exactly the same type of pain, which makes me think the left PCL is history, too.

I just wish I knew. My MRI result is in limbo, at least until Monday. Maybe I can get some type of special brace for just such an injury, and get by until after
SummerSlam.
I hate to think I might have to start taking pills, but the pain is so bad that I might not have a choice.

May 28, 2006
1:56
P
.
M
.—aboard United Airlines
Flight #556 from San Francisco to Seattle

Dear Hardcore Diary,

Tomorrow is
Raw
—the big showdown with Paul E.—and my adrenaline should be flying. But for some reason it’s not, as I have been conspicuously absent from Promoland, with the exception of several hours of the L.A. to San Francisco drive, where my attention was actually absorbed by my post-
SummerSlam
promo. Granted, the
SummerSlam
deal should be intense, and I even had tears in my eyes as I went through it in my mind, but I fear the prospect of peaking on it too early and wish my mind would allow me to cut these promos in correct chronological order.

Perhaps I’m hung up on the post-
SummerSlam
promo because my recent knee problems have caused me to question the likelihood of the match taking place. And while it was the incredible creative rush of the ECW show that brought me to the table in Stamford, I’m not blind to the idea that a big
SummerSlam
match with Cena as champion could mean far more to me financially. Besides, no match with Cena means no postmatch angle with Melina, which means I would be forced to live with the guilt of building up hopes and then letting them die.

Melina will be heading to
Raw
soon, along with Johnny Nitro—so no matter what happens, I’m not responsible for any kind of professional breakup, which is always a strain on a real-life couple. I can’t get a straight answer on whether the move is any of my doing, but have been told that my random Melina comments will not be so random anymore. I’m pretty sure I’m being left in the cold on this one, so I won’t share what I know with Melina, who is apparently on a need-to-know basis in regards to her future.

Though I’m no fortune-teller, I do see big things for her in the future, with or without my
SummerSlam
deal, but it would sure make me feel good to be part of her push.

History was not made last night at the Giants game, where Barry Bonds was looking to hit home run 715, which would have put him at second on the all-time list, ahead of the legendary Babe Ruth—although Bonds did hit a screaming line drive into McCovey Cove, just wide of the foul pole. It was a nice way to relax, though, as I always enjoy catching a game in a different major-league city. I hope to hit the road a few times this summer, just to catch a few games with my two older kids. Mickey has been to a couple of Mets games this year, but as far as he’s concerned the Long Island Ducks are the real deal in his life, and the little guy has set some kind of minor-league record for most games attended without actually paying attention to a single thing on the field.

Maybe I can bring Hughie along to a few Ducks games this year, provided his allergy to peanuts doesn’t keep him away. Obviously, he can’t eat the nuts, but as of a year ago, a stray shell fragment or husk could cause a real problem.

Okay, back to Bonds. I actually met Barry last year while on my
Scooter
book tour, when I stopped by the Giants clubhouse to say hello to second baseman Ray Durham, a big wrestling fan. As it turned out, when I showed up, there were more fans than just Ray, which is usually the case with any sports team. You can usually count on five or six guys who will admit to watching our show, and a couple of others who swear that they don’t but just happen to know the Cell match with Undertaker.

I had a good time hanging out with the guys, while being aware of Barry’s larger-than-life presence and his own personal space, which seemed to take up a good third of the clubhouse. It was as if he was Adam West, and the rest of the team was Burt Ward. Sure, when “Play ball” was called, they’d do battle together, as if the Mets, Phillies, and Braves were Penguin, Riddler, and Joker, but when that last out was over, there was not a whole lot of camaraderie between Barry as Batman and the entire roster as Robin.

On my way out, I was stopped for a moment by a man who I thought was a coach, but was actually Barry’s personal trainer. He liked my Negro League jersey, which I had purchased a couple years earlier at the Negro League Hall of Fame in Kansas City. He asked me a couple of questions, then said, “Hey, show that to Barry. I think that he’ll like it.”

Except that he didn’t tell Barry I was coming to see him. So as I reached the end of my lengthy journey from regular Giants clubhouse into Barry’s domain, feeling very much like a frightened young Dorothy about to encounter the great and powerful Wizard of Oz, I saw Barry’s right eyeball glaring at me. He hadn’t actually turned his head, indeed my lowly status as a hardcore legend didn’t merit a movement of Bond’s neck. So, I did the best that I could to address his eyeball’s concerns.

“Um, your coach said you might like to see my jersey.”

Then I turned my back to Barry, while maintaining eye contact, so he could see the embroidered patches of so many teams of Negro League history. Barry’s face broke out in a big smile. “I like that,” he said. “I’ve got one from my visit, almost like it, except my jersey’s white.”

It was time for me to drop a name. “Yeah, I’m doing a book signing at the Hall in a couple of weeks. I thought I invented the idea of doing a signing there, but it turns out Tony La Russa did one there for his book,
Three Nights in August.
” La Russa, as respected a name as there is in the game, seemed like a good name to drop. Plus, now Barry knew of my interest in the Negro Leagues, the long-forgotten contribution they made to our game’s national pastime.

“Good luck with the book,” Barry said, sending forth a subtle message that my allotted time had come to an end, no matter how good a friend of the black man I was. But as I left the clubhouse, I heard Barry’s voice. “Hey, Mick,” he yelled. I turned to face Bonds, who had his left thumb in the air. “Hell in a Cell!” he said. “Hell in a Cell.”

Okay, so I made that last part up.

May 29, 2006
1:46
P
.
M
.—Tacoma Dome, Tacoma, WA

Dear Hardcore Diary,

I’m sitting in the fourth row ringside, attempting to write a few preliminary thoughts, before a rehearsal for my big showdown with Paul E. I’m more nervous than usual for one of these things, as I don’t know whether to go full-tilt during the run-through, as I did with Terry Funk two weeks ago, or just go through the motions, as is usually the case on these things. If I had things my way, there would be no rehearsal at all, as Paul and I will probably be at our best when the situation seems most real. And, no doubt about it, when Paul gets going, speaking from the heart about the promotion he loves so much, it’s going to seem very real indeed.

I talked with Paul very briefly when I arrived at the Tacoma Dome. Both of us take Vince’s prediction/proclamation of the imminent shitty nature of the match as both a slap in the face and an incredible opportunity to make him eat his words. And man, do I look forward to seeing Vince McMahon with a big mouthful of shit.

I told Paul that I intend to be like a Hall of Fame–caliber pitcher out there, unloading my best fastballs on him. But they’ll all be fastballs, no curveballs or other junk, and I have every confidence that Paul E. will handle my best stuff and knock it clean out of the park.

It’s a little tough to write with guys working out in the ring, so close to me. The Predator/Sylvester Turkay has just finished making quick work of an aspiring young wrestler, under the watchful eyes of WWE producer Arn Anderson. Turkay is a former All-American collegiate wrestler, having finished second in the NCAA final in 1992, to WWE’s own Kurt Angle, before claiming the title a year later. He’s bounced around Ohio Valley Wrestling and Japan, and been involved with shoot fighting for the past few years, so it will be interesting to see what the future holds for him in WWE.

9:09
P
.
M
. Sea-Tac Airport.
I don’t know quite what to make of today. I’ll have to check the replay video to see if I was throwing my best heat, as it seemed to be just a step off. It felt as if I didn’t have my best stuff, and Paul simply didn’t seem as fired up as he’s been in the past. The chemistry may have been tampered with a bit, as instead of feeling like borderline adversaries, we felt like comrades of sorts, each of us tired of our grand visions being tampered with.

I just feel beaten down by the constant tweaking, manipulation, time-limit reminders, and doubts about the ability of my
One Night Stand
opponents, Tommy Dreamer and Terry Funk. Despite his home-run performance in Lubbock, Terry Funk has been put on the end of Vince’s bench, and it’s doubtful his number will be called until June 11, when he will be expected to fail. Tommy Dreamer might just as well be faceless, for all the attention he’s received.

Going back to the Anaheim heel turn, Edge and I had a foolproof method for alerting fans around the world that Tommy was a legitimate force to be reckoned with. Well, not quite foolproof, as our idea was overruled at every opportunity, and as a result, Tommy Dreamer came off as weak, inept, nondescript, and hopelessly naive. For all the confidence the WWE has shown in them, Edge and I might just as well be taking on a couple of first-year trainees. To the casual observer, it seems like we’re gearing up to do battle with an old guy with a bum knee and a dumb guy with love handles.

I keep coming back to wondering if, all things considered, I would have still proposed this ECW angle. And the answer I keep coming up with is no. It should have been simple, it should have been fun, but instead, it’s been neither. Nonetheless, I’m not writing us off yet; taking a page out of one of my characters in
Scooter,
I may strike out, but I am going to go down swinging.

Speaking of bum knees, I received my MRI results from Doc Rios, our WWE medical expert. I guess the good news is, there’s no PCL tear, which shows how knowledgeable my medical opinion is. The bad news is just about everything else is in rough shape. The anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) is partially torn, as is my meniscus. There are some bone spurs growing on some part of my knee, and a large cyst that seems to be the primary suspect involved in the distribution of the intense pain I feel when any type of past-ninety-degree flexion of the knee is involved.

As a result of the pain, I have just taken my first pain pill in many months, a step I had hoped would not be necessary. But the prospect of being jammed into coach on a midnight flight was too much for me to chance, especially in my psychologically sensitive state, so I shoved my pride to the side and had a Vicodin and a beer with dinner. So if the subject matter begins to veer from postpromo depressions to heartfelt desire to save the world, you’ll have some inclination that the medication was effective.

It has been said that alcohol or medication brings out a person’s real personality. To which comedian Bill Cosby had a succinct and unusually blunt retort: “What if you’re an asshole?” With that in mind, it gives me some small sense of pride to know that alcohol or medication rarely makes me dwell on questionable thoughts like sex, violence, or money. Instead, I think of all God’s children, and the rough hand so many of them have been dealt—and how I might do my part to make the score between the haves and the have-nots a little closer. Oddly enough, I’m also thinking of calling Christy Canyon, just to let her know how much I enjoyed talking to her on her radio show.

Something must be severely wrong with me. I meet Christy Canyon and think of world peace. I watch Melina’s entrance and think of Christmas mornings of my youth. To make matters worse, I’m even thinking of telling Colette to go out shopping, paying no heed to the balance on our credit card. Just how many times have I been hit with chairs over the years?

Melina and Johnny Nitro made their debut on
Raw
tonight. Obviously, I was glad to see her, and continue to be relieved that my idea didn’t cause her any pain. I have to question the idea of beating Nitro in such a quick, convincing fashion on his first night on
Raw.
Sure, a good angle can always jump-start a guy with talent, but why dig the guy a hole so quickly?

I hate to look at excelling in WWE as an art of psychological warfare, but I can’t help but think that somewhere in the McMahon house there’s an old copy of Sun Tzu’s
The Art of War
tucked into a bookshelf, along with the complete Mick Foley literary catalog.

As I get ready to board the flight that will carry me through the night to New York, where I’ll arrive jet-lagged, tired, frustrated, and quite probably in a great deal of pain, it is really crossing my mind to just throw in the towel on the whole thing. Realize that I did indeed throw away eight years of goodwill with our fans for a heel turn on a second-rate Pay-Per-View that seems to be dying on the vine, and just flat-out stop caring about the whole thing. Sure, I’ll show up at TV and do my part as well as I can, but as far as I’m concerned, they took an idea that was a no-brainer, a sure winner, and derailed it, possibly on purpose.

I really don’t give a crap right now about
One Night Stand,
about
Vengeance,
about
SummerSlam.
I’ll do them if I’m told to, provided I can walk after
One Night Stand,
a concern I voiced, but which I received absolutely no feedback on. I really tried to make a difference. From now on I’ll just sit back and deposit the checks, thinking of how great this whole thing should have been.

Ladies and gentlemen. Promoland is now closed for the season. Due to changes in the business beyond my control, there is no longer any need for it in wrestling. Please check your passion and imagination at the door.