The Hardcore Diaries (3 page)

Falling into a Falling-out

It was May 7, 2001, the day the
New York Times
article came out. It should have been a great day. My publicist at Regan Books, Jennifer Suitor, had told me what a big deal making the
Times
was, but I really hadn’t a clue to what extent the world revolved around a single newspaper.

People
magazine called that same day, after previously declining the idea of a story. The
Today
show called too, even booking me for the very next day in a minor life-changing interview with Katie Couric.
Today
had also been previously uninterested. Judith Regan called, too. Judith was my publisher, a very important person in her industry—hence the name Regan Books—and had been very supportive of my writing. It seems that the
Times
article had mentioned my interest in writing a novel. Not that I was actually writing one—just that I had an interest.

That interest was apparently enough for Judith, who offered me a two-book contract, with or without the participation of WWE. Hey, I thought, even Mick Jagger makes a solo album every now and then before returning to the Stones. Since retiring from wrestling (or so I thought) in February of 2000, I had been looking for something I could do on my own. It wasn’t that I didn’t love WWE, or appreciate everything we had achieved together. But I just felt like I needed to do something outside my safe little environment. I was like Herbie the dentist—I wanted to be independent. But just like Herbie had Rudolf, I had Judith Regan. We were going to be independent…together.

Out of courtesy, I called up Stu Snyder, then WWE president, to let him know I was planning on accepting Judith’s very kind offer. In my opinion, WWE could have been a little more understanding.

As I mentioned, it was May 7, 2001. It should have been a great day. But instead, May 7, 2001, became a day of great division concerning my relationship with WWE. Everything before May 7, 2001, was pretty good. Everything after it? Not so good.

Maybe it was the damn XFL’s fault. Or maybe it was the fault of little Mick, about four months old at the time. Yeah, I’ll blame it on him. Or maybe it was a combination of the two. You see, prior to the formation of the XFL and the birth of Mickey, I had enjoyed a fairly close working relationship with Vince. I was in the loop. I had been fired (a classic on-air Vince McMahon version) in December 2000, simply as a way to give me some time at home for the impending birth of my child. The on-air firing was the one concept the
Times
writer couldn’t quite grasp. I guess in the real world (until Donald Trump blatantly stole Vince’s gimmick) such things didn’t take place.

But I always assumed I’d be back. After all, I’d moved back to Long Island, in part to be closer to the WWE site-based entertainment complex (restaurant) in New York City, which was vital to my on-air role as WWE commissioner.

Had I known that my days as commish were really over, with the exception of a short-lived return later in 2001, I’m not sure I would have moved. It’s expensive on Long Island. Cold, too. But at least the cold eventually subsides.

Had I stayed in the loop with Vince, things probably would have been much different. I had been fired with the general understanding that I would come back to battle Vince at
WrestleMania,
probably with my commissioner’s job hanging in the balance. Simple premise, right? Had I been in touch, I simply could have heard their idea, told them it didn’t make sense, proposed a better one, had that shot down, reached a compromise, and come back to vanquish Vince at
Mania.

Instead, I heard the idea about a day before its scheduled shooting, got cold feet, and called up Vince, saying something about “never wrestling again,” blaming it on fear of one final devastating head injury.

WrestleMania
was salvaged. In fact, it may have been the greatest
WrestleMania
of them all. I even refereed Vince’s match with Shane, and aside from considering the possibility that Vince nailing me in the back of the head with a chair (it was supposed to be the upper back) was not entirely unintentional, I thought all was again well in our relationship.

But in retrospect, I will always look at my decision to bow out of
WrestleMania
(a decision that probably cost me a few bucks, too) as the reason I would come to feel like “the boy who cried wolf” in Vince’s eyes.

I had been a wrestler, I had been the commissioner, and I just felt like I was drying up, dying on the vine. There were other things I wanted to try in life, without a WWE contract hanging over my head.

It was in July of 2001 that I asked for a meeting with Vince. I showed up in Stamford with a list of grievances, but the moment I sat down, I just went for broke and asked for my release from the company. What ensued was fairly ugly, a shouting match that echoed through the halls of Titan Towers and shook the very foundation of our business and personal relationship.

No, I didn’t get the release, at least not at that time. But I did get something else—confidence. Vince McMahon was a superhero (or supervillain) of sorts, a larger-than-life billionaire I had been watching on television since childhood. Yelling at Vince had been very therapeutic. I had stood my ground, made my points, knocked away many of his contentions, and, in the process, gained a new belief in myself.

I mean, after this, life was easy. What was there to fear? I felt like I could do anything. Debate foreign policy with the president? Easy. Stand up for causes I believed in? No problem. Get in the gym and shed some of those pounds I’d piled on? Well, let’s not be ridiculous.

I specifically remember the outcome of one of those verbal volleys with Vince. He was contending that the WWE machine had made me who I was, and that it therefore wouldn’t be fair for me to just walk away from it.

I said, “Vince, if that is true, how come my most popular character was actually Commissioner Foley, which was just me dressed in my regular clothes, acting like myself?”

“That’s not true,” Vince said. Although he damn sure knew it was. For although my commissioner character didn’t sell merchandise (I didn’t even have a shirt) or drive Pay-Per-Views, in terms of recognition and response, none of the other characters I’d played came close.

“It is true, Vince,” I said.

“No, that would be…Dude Love.” I’d done it! Point Foley. By opting for such a ludicrous joke, Vince had conceded that particular round of the great July shouting match.

I finally did get that release in November, with the help of my friend Katie Couric. Apparently, I’d made a decent impression on Katie during our first interview in May, as I was invited back for Halloween, in conjunction with my children’s book
Halloween Hijinx.
I’d actually received the invite mere days after that first Katie interview, prompting me to ask a mature question of my publicist: “Does that mean Katie likes me?” Yes, it was asked in the same tone as a sixth-grader in the throes of his very first crush.

“Well,” she said, “it means
somebody
likes you, because they just booked you five months in advance.”

Thinking about that interview was actually a great source of comforting anticipation to me. It was like the anticipation of a Disney trip or the promise of Christmas morning: it was going to be just me and Katie, and my wife, and kids, and Matt, and Al Roker, and Anne, and…well, you know what I mean.

Suffice it to say, it was going to be a big deal, and I didn’t want WWE screwing it up.

In my opinion, WWE made the whole Halloween book experience a lot harder than it should have been. It was their book, and I understood that WWE did business in a way that was not conventional. Which was fine with me. But not paying my artist, who was a friend, was not fine. Sure I knew that she’d eventually get paid, but that knowledge was of little comfort to my friend, who hadn’t received a dime for work that had been completed several months earlier.

Jennifer Suitor had worked with me on three previous books. We’d spent literally hundreds of hours together, and during that time, I don’t think she’d heard me raise my voice, let alone yell. But, oh, that came to an end the day before
Today
, when I let loose during a phone call from WWE.

Courtesy of the Foley family.

“This is not a WWE event,” I yelled. “This is
my
event. They didn’t ask for me because I was a WWE guy. They asked for me because they liked me. WWE has taken a book that should have been nothing but fun, and they’ve taken all the fun out of it! You haven’t even paid my artist! The
Today
show invited my family, and it’s going to be a special day for me. And I don’t want WWE there for it!”

Jennifer was impressed. She knew I’d been feeling the strain of this failing relationship I had with WWE, and she knew how much this
Today
show appearance meant to me. Hell, I even wrote a bonus chapter, “Reflections on Katie” for the paperback version of
Foley Is Good.

So, it was with some trepidation that Jennifer later told me that WWE had asked for four passes to the show. It was at that point in the proceedings that I called a producer at
Today
and effectively had WWE banned from the building.

The show was great. Katie was great, treating my whole family as if we were honored guests. It’s been so common in my experiences with journalists and television personalities to be on the receiving end of cheap shots or to be treated condescendingly. Katie did neither, which is probably why she’s Katie…and they’re not. She also flattered me by signing her children’s book
The Brand New Kid
to me in a nice way. And in a moment I have publicly claimed was the highlight of my career (much to the chagrin of fans who thought having a tooth sticking out of my nose in Hell in a Cell should have won the honors), Katie even held eight-month-old little Mick in her arms to end the show.

To top it all off, Katie Couric, unbeknownst to her, helped me get my release from WWE.

It was November 5, 2001—just a few days after my Halloween hobnob-bing with Katie. WWE was at the Nassau Coliseum, about thirty minutes from my house, but upon arriving at the arena, I was told I wasn’t booked on the show. I guess it would have made too much sense. I was told, however, that J.R. wanted to see me.

J.R. is Jim Ross,
Raw
announcer extraordinaire and, at that time, head of WWE talent relations. Basically, J.R. was the liaison between the talent (wrestlers, etc.) and Vince—possibly one of the world’s most stressful jobs. J.R. probably won’t play much of a role in this book, unlike my other two WWE books, and after this little story, his name might not even resurface. So I will take this time to point out how instrumental he has been in my career. He helped get me my job at WCW, was almost solely responsible for doing likewise at WWE, where over Vince’s consistently unenthusiastic response he waged a steady campaign of support on my behalf for many years.

It seems that every few years, J.R. gets taken for granted and is sent out to pasture. And every time, he comes back with a renewed, albeit temporary sense of respect from WWE. I sincerely hope that respect will at some time become permanent.

While I’m on the subject of J.R., let me take the time to send a personal message to Vince concerning his 2005 treatment of J.R., which I’m sure WWE employees will be hustling to have edited, and which, no doubt, Vince will read and respond to with, “If that’s the way he feels, print it.”

Vince, colon surgery is serious. Not only that, it’s a sensitive issue. It’s not funny. Exploiting it and humiliating a loyal employee because of it is not only in poor taste but downright baffling to me. As far as I know, only one person found it funny—you.

Back to November 2001. I walked into J.R.’s office at the Nassau Coliseum. He looked up at me, that ubiquitous black cowboy hat on his head, a concession on his part to a time when Vince thought plain old Jim Ross wasn’t entertaining enough.

“I heard about that
Today
show deal,” J.R. said.

“I guess no one’s ever had WWE banned from an appearance before, huh.”

“No, can’t say they have.” J.R. then got serious, leaning forward in his chair. He said, “Mick, we think we’re at a pivotal point in our relationship with you here.”

I nodded in agreement.

“Vince and I feel that if we were to keep you here, it might very well prevent us from doing business together in the future.”

“I think you’re right,” I said.

“But if we were to let you go, now, we might be able to do business in the future.”

“You mean?”

“Mick, we’re going to let you out of your contract.”

Yes, free at last, free at last, thank…never mind. Sure, it was important, but not quite worthy of ripping off Dr. King’s famous speech. But for now, it was good to be free. So, with the exception of one final
Raw,
where I was infamously flown out to Charlotte, North Carolina, just to be fired aboard the WWE private jet, I was free.