The Hardcore Diaries (28 page)

Yeah, I think I made the right decision. And with TNA’s help, I was able to secure concessions from Vince that would have previously been unthinkable. I have my home and security, and get to live like a sailor at sea. But it hasn’t come without a price. For I believe it has cost me the friendship of Vince McMahon. I think he still respects me. He probably still likes me. But for all intents and purposes, I’m pretty sure all vestiges of genuine friendship disappeared the day I told Vince I was leaving.

June 6, 2006
9:05
A
.
M
.—Zanesville, OH

Dear Hardcore Diary,

Sometimes I wonder whatever happened to the old Mick Foley. The thrifty guy. The guy who slept on the cot at the Red Roof when he was WWE Champion. The guy who, in 1990, achieved legendary status by managing a record-low dinner bill of $7.49 at Sabbatino’s, one of the finer restaurants in Baltimore. Does that old Mick Foley bear even a passing resemblance to the guy writing this book—the guy who just plunked down $112 for a Hampton Inn?

The old Mick Foley would have made a point to stop by every front desk in town, trying to secure the best deal possible, trying to perform a financial limbo dance under the $80 top figure he’d set up in 1990. Well, maybe adjusted for inflation, $112 isn’t all that high, especially considering the relative luxury of a Hampton, as compared to some of the rat holes I have laid me down to sleep in.

I think a turning point of sorts came in 1999, back when I was WWE Champion, in the middle of a week-long title reign. By that point, I was being compensated very handsomely by Uncle Vince, even if Uncle Sam seemed to show up with his hand out every three months, looking to take a major portion of my hard-earned cash.

Despite my handsome compensation package (did I just use “handsome” and “package” in the same sentence?), I just couldn’t break my frugal ways, at least until a telling episode outside Indianapolis.

During the course of my travels, I had run into a couple of the area’s independent wrestlers on a couple of occasions. So when one of them offered to put me up for the night, I accepted, partially to spare the wrestlers’ feelings, and partially to save a little extra money. Actually, I think it was mostly a money thing, I doubt I really gave a crap about his feelings.

Nevertheless, I liked the guy, and his girlfriend was cool, so their rented house in a not-so-great part of town became a biannual stop for me. About the fourth time I stayed over, I couldn’t help but notice that visitors were pouring into the house at a fairly rapid pace. Sure, their visits didn’t last too long, but man, it seemed like the open invite to meet the hardcore legend was kind of a breach of trust. I mean, inviting a few people was cool, but on this one day, I thought the guy was overdoing it. Beside, these guys were sleazy, even by my standards.

I had to force myself to settle down, get a grip on things, stop being so judgmental. Things were different now. WWE was a ratings phenomenon. I was the WWE champion. These were my fans, the people who made me, and I had to be respectful and appreciative of them, no matter how gross they were. Still, I couldn’t help but feel slightly used by the sheer number of visitors, perhaps two dozen throughout the morning.

A few days later, I received a call from my friend. “Look, I’m sorry about all those people coming by the house,” he said.

“Look, I understand. I’m the champ now. It’s only natural for people to want to meet me.”

“Mick, they weren’t there to meet you,” he said.

“They weren’t?” I said, trying to maintain my sense of dignity despite the hurt involved in finding out the sleazy guys weren’t fans of mine. “What were they there for then?”

“Um, my girlfriend is a crack dealer.”

No, I haven’t been back to that house in Indianapolis. I haven’t stopped by many people’s houses after that particular eye-opening episode. Not unless I know the people really, really well, for a really, really long time.

From time to time, throughout the book, I may have hinted at my disapproval of President Bush, his administration, his policies, and his use of wrestling interviews to shape foreign policy. In 2004 I did go on record, as part of WWE in their “
SmackDown
Your Vote” campaign, as an outspoken critic of the president. I realized my views might alienate some of my fans, but I just don’t think I could have lived with myself, if a state like Ohio had been lost by ten votes, knowing that my voice could have made a difference. I dreaded feeling like Oscar Schindler at the end of
Schindler’s List,
convinced he could have done more to help.

I even talked Vince into setting up a political debate at the University of Miami, one night before the first real presidential debate at the same institution. Actually, I had suggested a series of debates at a variety of campuses, but Vince, being Vince, decided to do it right, complete with
ABC World News Now
live coverage of the event.

So I debated John Layfield—or JBL, as our fans know him—before the cameras and several hundred enthusiastic students. John is an unabashed Bush supporter, and a powerful public speaker, and came across very well in his comments. Fortunately, my years of near-obsessive political research served me well, as I was able to fend off many of John’s conservative contentions, and score with a potpourri of progressive counterpunches and some sensible centrist slams. I even came close to knocking out the former NFL player turned wrestler, turned financial analyst, turned radio talk show host, with a historic LBJ quote, “The richest nation in the world can afford to win the war on poverty.” Even a crowd that had been told not to applaud our statements couldn’t help but shower the hardcore legend with cheers after that one. Which, come to think of it, may have been my only showering experience of that entire week.

As in life, just about anything in politics can be more easily dissected by using an example from WWE. Hence, my decision to tell the world (or at least
World News Now
) of George W. Bush’s “Suck it” presidency. Years ago, during the heyday of WWE’s attitude era, it seemed to me that thought-provoking promos had gone the way of the eight-track, record albums, or quality Al Snow matches, replaced instead by the slick catchphrase. Sure, Promoland may have closed its doors for good on May 29, 2006, but the whole place seemed to be on the brink of creative bankruptcy back in ’97 and ’98. I mean, why try to get people to think when you could get them to yell “Suck it!” instead?

Sports entertainment, it seemed, had passed me by. But I couldn’t help but think that a day might come when our fans would need more than “Suck it!” from their sports entertainers; that eventually they would require more from our guys than just a simple sodomatic slogan. Fortunately, that day did indeed arrive, issuing a second chance for guys like me who had been swept to the curb during the catchphrase craze.

Sharing a laugh with JBL at our political debate.

President Bush, having learned a thing or two from WWE, knew all about the power of the catchphrase. Hey, why make valid points that might require the patience and attention of our country when you can continually score with the same old stale catchphrases such as, “Freedom is on the march. We’re fighting them over there so we don’t have to fight them over here. As they stand up, we’ll stand down,” and “Bring ’em on”?

These catchphrases, I told the Miami audience, were indicative of a “Suck it presidency.” In time, our country would require more of its elected leaders than just a series of catchphrases, but by that time, I feared, it would be too late. He’d already be reelected.

JBL, during his rebuttal, issued the line of the night: “You just said, ‘Suck it,’ during a presidential debate.”

I hadn’t hung out with John for a long time, maybe years, before that night. But I will always fondly remember hanging out with him after the debate, both of us feeling like proud Americans who had stood up for our own personal beliefs in respect to the future of our country. And I will always have the utmost respect for Vince for allowing me a forum in which to speak my mind.

I was thirty-four years old when I retired from full-time wrestling. Which is fairly young to have time to stand back, get a good look at the world, and realize it doesn’t all revolve around me. Before that, I was simply too busy to pay much attention to the fate of those less fortunate around the world. I mean, who had time for genocide in Rwanda when there was a big show coming up at the ECW arena? How could I be expected to worry about the uninsured in America when my right ear was being thrown into a garbage can in Germany?

So, at an age when most people are dedicating most of their time and energy to work, I was able to travel around the country, do appearances, meet people, ask questions, and truly see how rough much of America has it. Sure, we live in a great country, but it is also a place where millions of working people simply cannot afford to raise a family with the sweat of their brows. The United States used to be a place where hard work was the key to success. Now, it’s the key to a door leading down the path to nowhere.

Which is probably the reason Senator John Edwards’s campaign involving the story of the “two Americas” resonated so strongly with me. As a fairly well known entertainer, I straddle these two Americas almost every single day. And I realize that the only reason I am able to live in the one America is because so many people in the other America think enough of me to spend their hard-earned money on the books, action figures, wrestling events, and Pay-Per-Views that make it possible. To walk away from them and their problems would simply seem like an act of betrayal. At least, I thought so in 2004. I’m not sure I’ll get as involved in 2008.

I have read articles ranging from speculative to scientific on the physical, genetic, or psychological differences between conservatives and liberals, which basically deal with whether political sensibilities are a learned or instilled behavior, or a combination of both. For me, it all comes down to my traumatic raccoon experience. A couple years ago, I was heading out onto the highway, about half an hour into a four-hundred-mile trip. I’ve always loved the peace and solitude of the open road, especially when accompanied by some good tunes or a few promos to cut in my head during the course of a late-night sojourn. As a matter of fact, it’s probably the thing I miss most about life on the road.

I was really looking forward to this particular drive when a raccoon suddenly darted out into the middle of the highway. I swerved to avoid the little masked bandit, but in doing so, hit a second raccoon whose presence had, until that last split second, been unknown to me. It was a direct hit, a sickening thud that left no doubt as to its victim’s fate—roadkill for sure. I turned to my right to see the first raccoon scamper off into the safety of the roadside brush. And in that one moment, my entire trip was ruined. No number of quality tunes could assuage the sadness I felt. Not so much for the dead raccoon, for his demise had been quick, relatively painless, and honorable—after all, it had been the hardcore legend who got him. No, my sorrow was reserved for the surviving raccoon, who would be left to wander aimlessly, ransacking suburban garbage cans without the special friend my Chevy Impala had made such an impression on.

Look, there’s no way to rationalize this type of reaction. You’re either going to care about the sadness of a surviving raccoon or you’re not. You’re either going to hit that thing, pop in a CD, and continue your drive unaffected, or you’re going to do four hundred miles behind the wheel with a heavy heart.

So if that makes me a bleeding heart, I guess I’ll wear that badge with pride. In an odd way, it’s probably helped me. Because subconsciously I think our WWE fans know I care about that raccoon. And I think it makes them like me.

That political debate must have gone very well. For later that night, I heard a knock on my Miami hotel room door. I checked the clock. One-thirty in the morning. At first I thought of drunk college students and put a pillow over my head, hoping that if I ignored the noise, it would somehow go away. No such luck. Instead, the knocking grew louder, more persistent, until I leapt up from my bed, fully intent on giving the inconsiderate door knockers a little taste of the 1995 Cactus Jack. Man, did I have a promo in store for them.

But when I flung the door open, I was greeted by the ominous sight of two Secret Service agents flanking the tall, lean frame of Democratic presidential candidate Senator John Kerry. “May I come in?” he asked politely, yet with a sense of utmost urgency, as if the country’s very future was at stake.

“Of course,” I said, ushering in the senator and his security team. “How can I help you?”

The senator scanned the room, looking for security bugs, or a possible hooker whose services I’d solicited. Finding nothing, he said, “This is a matter of utmost urgency—the country’s very future may be at stake.”

Yes! I’d been right! But how could I be of any help to Senator John Kerry?

“I need your advice,” the senator said.

“Well, for starters, when you go to Wendy’s for a photo op, don’t order the soup. It’s insulting to the public. I don’t care if you have to put a well-manicured finger down your throat when you get back on that bus. You order a double with cheese, fries, and a Frostee, and you smile when you’re eating it. Got it?”

“No, no, no,” the senator said, backpedaling as if he was a young Michael Jackson, trying to avoid father Joe’s stinging right-left combination. “I’m talking about…advice on my debate tomorrow.”