The Hardcore Diaries (30 page)

June 7, 2006
11:01
A
.
M
.—Zanesville, OH

Dear Hardcore Diary,

It’s a huge day for our show. A make-or-break show. As I headed into Monday night’s
Raw,
I admitted to myself that I’d basically given up on the angle. Admitted that I was a defeated man. I accepted that this ECW show was going to be a disaster, both creatively and financially, and that I’d have to chalk it up as a giant and very expensive learning experience.

At one point, Kurt Angle, Edge, and I sat down to talk over our promo. Kurt was supposed to say a line that read, “If I were a true Mick Foley rip-off, I’d be selling out to whoever flashed the biggest wad of cash in front of my face.”

Kurt looked at me and jokingly asked, “Is that true, Mick?”

I laughed. “No, actually, I’m taking quite a financial hit on this one.”

Kurt and Edge both exploded in laughter. Man, on this day, laughter really was the best medicine, and I needed its anesthetizing quality. Whether it was one wrestler comparing the creative team to a bunch of art lovers, each one intent on putting their own little touch on the Mona Lisa—a pair of glasses, a bigger smile—or Terry Funk telling a ridiculous story about a doctor sticking hard-boiled eggs and a doughnut up his ass in order to lure a tapeworm out of its anal lair, I laughed an awful lot on Monday.

I had accepted my fate as a headliner on the worst show in recent history. Still, I attempted to make a last-minute appeal to Vince, more to ease my conscience than to actually get anything done, because I sincerely doubted that it would succeed.

But I hit Vince with as much truth as I could, going on record with saying the angle sucked, having been watered down to the point of being unrecognizable. I pushed for Terry Funk. I pushed for Tommy Dreamer. I pushed for a video package that could feature both guys at their best and could convey in a few short sound bites just how important this match was to both of them.

I reminded Vince that my pitch in Stamford specifically called for the use of the ECW video library, which would definitively showcase the passion of my past feuds with Dreamer and Funk. I astutely pointed out that none of that had actually been done, and even went so far as to say, “Vince, this has been screwed up so badly that it made me think of WCW, where people speculated that it was being done badly on purpose, to derail angles and Pay-Per-Views, just to maintain the status quo.”

Okay, maybe I went too far with that last one, as Vince seemed to take offense at the insinuation.

“Mick, why don’t you write all that down, so we can try to get some of it done for Wednesday.” Then he stood up and, leaning in toward me, said, “I may not be a good person, but I am always a good businessman.”

“I disagree, Vince,” I said, shaking his hand. “I think you are a good person.” Vince seemed stunned as my nose grew five inches in an instant, turning to wood and sprouting small branches that a trio of tufted titmice twittered on triumphantly.

Actually, I do think Vince is a good person. I’ve known him for a long time, and I know he is, deep down, a caring, warm human being. I once asked him for a day off in 1999, due to a death in the family. Vince’s eyes teared up immediately, so quickly that he couldn’t possibly have faked it. Sure, some of the things he does make me shake my head in disbelief, or even disgust, but the fruit of his labor, WWE, has entertained so many millions around the world, and has put smiles on countless faces that don’t often have a reason to do so.

A few minutes later, I was approached by Paul E., my saving grace. “Vince said you have some ideas,” he said. “Talk to me, I’m writing the show for Wednesday.”

Earlier in the day, I had spoken to Paul about the “whore” accusation. Actually, I didn’t do it in a confrontational manner, or even use the
w
word. But I did say, “I know you think I do a lot of things in this business just for the money. That’s true. But this wasn’t about the money. This was all about the vision.”

“I know,” he said.

Having Paul at the helm gives me hope. He knows the audience. He knows emotion. He will do whatever is possible to make Wednesday’s show as good as it possibly could be. We need those two hours on Wednesday as a last-chance endorsement for
One Night Stand.
We have two hours to do the hardest sell job in sports entertainment history. Like a traveling salesman of old, we’ll be going door-to-door, via the miracle of cable and satellite, telling millions of people all about our product and why they can’t afford to live without it.

We had a very good
Raw.
From a wrestling perspective, I’m not sure what happened, but from an ECW perspective, it was just what we needed. I finally felt the buzz. The ECW buzz that had been so prominent before last year’s show had finally returned, along with a host of ECW alumni.

The show itself seemed to gain new meaning. I no longer felt that I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, that my one match would either make or break the show. Of course, if the buy rate is good, I will try to claim that I did indeed make the show, but that’s another fight for another day.

John Cena did a hell of a job, even better than usual, with his contract-signing segment. Cena has become incredibly good at shifting emotional gears, interchanging humor and serious dialogue effortlessly, hopefully impressing on his legion of fans just why this match is so important.

I’m really looking forward to my potential
SummerSlam
match with John, provided my knee holds out, or we don’t have a last-minute creative shake-up. Maybe someone will decide that Mona Lisa needs a coonskin cap or a tattoo.

My knee actually feels a little better. Doc Rios said it was possible that my Baker’s cyst had ruptured, allowing me some relief from pain, and better movement, too. Earlier in the week, I’d had trouble just walking. I’d even taken a pain pill one afternoon, which I took as a sign of personal weakness and failure. It is one thing to take medication to get through a six-hour red-eye in coach; another to pop a pill just to get through the day. It was a failure I do not intend to repeat.

Somewhere around 10:30
P
.
M
., after Beth Phoenix broke her jaw, but before a great Vince–Shane–Triple H segment, I was summoned to the writers’ room for a talk with Paul.

“I’ve got a promo for you on Wednesday,” he said. “I’m not sure we’re going to get the package you wanted, but I’m going to make sure that you get a chance to talk. We’re going to show the ‘Cane Dewey’ promo, and then we’ll go to you, in a room, horror lighting, no fans booing, no cheap pops. Just you and your promo.”

Then Paul gave me my promo. Sure, I take great pride in coming up with my own stuff, but when something is real good, I’m more than happy to steal it. And this was real good. So good that I can’t wait to steal it. So good that I’ll put my own little touch on it and practically dare people not to buy this show. So good that I may just do the unthinkable—push the doors to Promoland open just enough so I can squeeze in and go on one last heart-pumping ride.

12:18
P
.
M
.—time to go to Dayton

June 9, 2006
11:40
P
.
M
.—Long Island, NY

Dear Hardcore Diary,

Okay, here’s the fact sheet from the June 7 WWE vs. ECW show from Dayton. There was no video package. No Funk promo. No Dreamer promo. Tommy Dreamer officially heads into
One Night Stand
as a main eventer of sorts, despite the fact that the vast majority of our fans don’t even know what his voice sounds like. Actually, Terry did get to cut a promo (and a very good one), but it was for the Internet only; not exactly the casual fans Terry needs to convince his worthiness to. The “Cane Dewey” promo did show, but only for about thirty seconds—not long enough to make fans feel they knew my mindset back in ’95. I did get to do that promo. I did get the horror lighting. But it wasn’t just me in a room—it was me in the middle of the ring.

Unfortunately, the gap between what I wanted to do with that promo and what I actually did do with it was a wide one. It was like the verbal equivalent of Evel Knievel’s infamous Snake River Canyon jump. Man, did I ever want to make history with this promo, but in much the same way that Evel’s courage (or rocket ship) failed him back in ’74, my confidence, testicular fortitude, or talent took a hike almost immediately, causing me to fall back on a few worn-out clichés and a whole lot of yelling. As I was doing it, I was aware it wasn’t sucking, but I was also well aware that it was far, far from what I wanted it to be. I was looking for a 1971 Reggie Jackson All-Star game type of blast. Instead, in my moment of truth in Dayton, I unveiled a whole lot of warning track power. At least, I thought so at the time.

Despite the cryptic nature of the previously mentioned facts, I thought we had a tremendous show. There was a definite ECW buzz, although the buy rate will ultimately tell if the show was too little, too late, or just enough, just in the nick of time.

I was given some verbiage for my promo but decided not to look at it, opting instead for the potent cocktail of my memory of Paul’s previous night’s promo, my emotional ride to Dayton, and the heartfelt hope and belief that the right words would hit me when the spotlight was on. And on this one night, the spotlight would literally be on. As per Paul E.’s request, I would be sitting in a chair in center ring, house lights off, only a single spotlight illuminating me.

I wasn’t required to rehearse my promo—just the lighting. Damn, it looked good. Not “good” as in “handsome” good. But “good” as in “different” good. Eerie good. Moody good.

Seeing my face in such lighting, in such an extreme close-up, gave me two immediate thoughts. One, I would need to tweeze my nose hairs before I went out there. Which I eventually did. The second one was a little trickier. To do it, I would need two separate approvals: one from Terry Funk, and one from Vince.

I spotted Terry at ringside right after my lighting test. “Hey, Terry,” I said, walking up into whispering range. “Did you see how good that lighting looked?”

“Yes, I did,” Terry said.

“Might be a good time for a hardway.”

Terry raised an eyebrow and looked quickly around. “It might be,” he said. “But you know it’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, I know. But it might really make this angle.”

“Okay, let’s do it,” he whispered, “but its going to hurt like a mother blanker.” Actually, he had an alternate word for “blanker.”

Now I needed to sell Vince on the idea. There are some things that are best done in secret. I judged that this particular hardway idea was not one of these things. Sure, I’d tried to do a top-secret hardway with Randy Orton—but this was different. Vince loved me back then. I could afford to call an audible that would piss him off. That was April 2004. In June of 2006, I believed that Vince McMahon had taken about as much of Mick Foley’s grief as he was willing to. A move that he interpreted as “devious” could well lead to either the removal of my promo or the removal of the close-up that would make the hardway seem memorable.

Besides, that 2004 hardway idea hadn’t worked out so well.

“Hey, Vince,” I said, trying to figure out a way to cozy up to my favorite billionaire without seeming smarmy or too deferential.

“Hello, Mick,” my favorite billionaire said.

Keeping in mind that Vince was up to his Mick Foley limit, I decided to forgo a deep psychological preamble about why the time was right for such a unique step. So I just dove right in. “I think tonight’s a good time for a hardway.”

“Why do you say that?” Vince said. Great, he wasn’t instantly disgusted. He was going to allow me the opportunity to sell it to him.

“Well, the lighting’s just incredible. No one’s seen a hardway in years, and Terry’s about the only guy left in the business who still knows how to do them. I think it will really make a difference in the angle.”

“If it’s too bloody, we won’t be able to use our close-up.”

“I don’t think it will be, Vince—an eyebrow doesn’t usually bleed too much.”

“Okay, if you’re okay with it, let’s do it.”

Technically speaking, I’d done a hardway in January of 2004. But that was self-inflicted. I really can’t remember the last legitimate, intentional hardway in WWE.

I gave Terry the thumbs-up and, one at a time, told all three handheld cameramen, Marty, Rico, and Stu, to get real tight shots of Terry’s postmatch punches. The production of WWE shows is so top-notch that we often take the work of so many people for granted. Still, when something is really needed, I try to consult with the guys on the ground, and when something is done really well, I do my best to let them know how much it’s appreciated.

The crowd was hot, enthusiastic in their support of ECW. They seemed to enjoy being live witnesses to this historical head-to-head adventure, and thrive on getting behind the underdog promotion. A company-versus-company battle royal was well received, and then it was my turn. Normally, a role as Edge’s second, kind of a Kenickie to his Zuko, wouldn’t be much cause for personal anxiety. Few jobs in life are as easy and fun as getting paid to watch WWE from the best seat (or standing area) in the house. But this was somehow different. I was nervous. Nervous because I knew I had to deliver on this promo. Or, maybe more accurately, because I knew I had to deliver on it right after getting my eyebrow split open by Terry Funk.

Edge is a pro. He understands that our biggest problem is the credibility issue our opponents have with Vince (and with some of our fans), so he used the match to try to “make” Tommy Dreamer. It was a hardcore match; no rules, very physical, and, with the exception of Edge missing a table on a backdrop and landing in a precarious manner on his surgically repaired neck, it was a success.

There I go again, mixing up my past and present tenses whenever I describe a match or interview. I hope you’ll just try to live with it.

Lita interferes, causing Terry to get involved, which causes me to wrap a piece of barbed wire around Terry’s neck. Terry and I roll outside, and I watch as Edge spears Tommy for the win. Good match. Now it’s my turn…to get punched in the eye. Hardway time.

I see two handheld cameramen in position, and I know the “hard camera” in the stands is on us, too. There’s no way to miss this. Terry rears back with that big left hand, and “bam,” fist meets flesh. Yes, we’ve done it! Except I’m not sure we have. I don’t feel the telltale trail of hot blood charting its course down my cheek. Terry rears back again. Damn, this means we didn’t get it the first time. Oh, man, this is going to hurt. I had prepared myself for one shot. “Bam!” Fist meets flesh, part II. Still no trail. No warmth. Terry rears back again. There’s no blood on his knuckles. This is not going well. Take three…and rolling. The third punch is different. It lands below my left eye. So does punch four. Number five may or may not have broken my nose. The crowd is actually chanting my name. They feel bad for me. Hell, they should.
I
feel bad for me. This idea sucked.

Finally, left hand number six, or nine, or sixteen, sends me down to the ground, where my legs promptly get tangled up with a barbed-wire bat—an everyday discarded item in these types of matches.

Wait a second. I feel something. Something warm. I touch my fingers to my head, pull them back, look at them. Yes! Genuine hardway blood. It may look the same as other blood, but it’s not. There’s something special about hardway blood. It’s earned blood. There’s just a little of it, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s enough. My hardway joy is short-lived, however, as the Funker slaps me hard, cutting off my moment like a nosy mother walking in on a teenage pickle-tickling session.

Finally, mercifully, Edge intercedes, and I head up the ramp, trying to clear the cobwebs in time to cut the promo of a lifetime. I’ve got a three-minute commercial break, and then I’m on. Magic time. Time to reap the harvest of all those late-night seed-planting rides. I’ve got all the ideas I need in my head. It’s just a matter of allowing them to come out.

I head out to the ring with a chair. Per my request, I am not accompanied by music. It feels more real this way. Besides, my music is just so damn peppy. I sit in the chair, and I get my cue—I’m on the air, live.

But the moment I open my mouth, I know I’m off my game. I wanted a slow build, a gradual escalation of emotion and volume. Instead I’m yelling. I’m also trying to make a comparison between ECW and an old girlfriend, but this crowd doesn’t seem to be in a metaphor-buying mood. Besides, it’s a crappy metaphor. Not only that, I’ve lost my storyteller’s touch. Maybe this isn’t the right crowd for stories. After all, it’s Ohio, a battleground state. A red state, a Bush state. A sound bite state. No wonder I’m dying out there. I’m trying to pitch Updike to a “Suck it!” readership.

I really had imagined that ball clanging off the lighting tower in centerfield of Detroit’s old Tiger Stadium. I still remember where I was: in a tent at Lake George, New York, listening to that game on the radio—that home run as fresh in my mind now as it was at the moment of impact, thirty-five years ago.

It’s strange how my two most vivid baseball memories, Jackson’s All-Star heroics and Chris Chambliss’s game-winning home run in the ’76 American League Championship series, were both radio experiences. Maybe the spoken word simply has the power to fire the imagination that a visual moment does not.

But what about the famed 1960 Kennedy/Nixon debate, the first to be aired live on television? JFK kicked Tricky Dick’s ass all the way back to California in that one. Or did he? Depends on who you ask. To those who saw the debate, the handsome, confident senator from Massachusetts had an easy time with the pasty-faced, sweating Nixon. But those who only heard the debate thought Nixon had won.

That debate is often looked at as a pivotal moment in television history, because it helped prove the power of the visual image. Perhaps a video of my Dayton interview can be put into some type of time capsule as well, as further proof of that power. Because last night, after catching a 6:00
A
.
M
. flight home and taking my younger children to the zoo, I settled down into my cracked white leather recliner and fired up the TiVo, fully prepared to wallow in the mire of depression that my lackluster promo promised to bring.

The Dayton hardway promo.

Here’s the promo. Read it for yourself.

MICK FOLEY:
Where the hell do any of you get off telling me I sold out? Where do you get off, where do you find the nerve, to call me a whore? You think I hate ECW? I loved that place. I loved that place. But ECW simply didn’t love me back. She was like the girl I can’t let go of, but the one who makes me sick upon seeing her. She wanted too much blood, too much of my heart, too much of my life! So I left. And I found fame and fortune in WWE. And Paul Heyman was right. There’s only one real difference between me and Tommy Dreamer; I’m a whore, and he’s not. You see, about seven years ago, I pulled a sock out of my pants and made Vince McMahon laugh, and the doors of opportunity opened wide for Mick Foley…but not for Tommy Dreamer. All he’s got is his heart, his pride, and the initials ECW. And I want to tell Edge that I went back and I watched our
WrestleMania
match, “the greatest Hardcore match of all time,” I said. Well, the truth is, maybe it wasn’t quite as good as I thought. Maybe, Edge, you and I are going to have to be tougher than ever, hungrier than ever, sicker than ever to walk into that steaming cesspool that is the Hammerstein Ballroom. Twenty-five hundred sickening, twisted fans screaming for our blood. Because Tommy Dreamer can do everything I can, and maybe with more passion. He’s going to beat us up all over New York City! He’s going to bludgeon us. Terry Funk, the greatest wrestler I ever saw. If you look at Terry Funk and see an old man, you’re not seeing the real Terry Funk. His slaps hurt worse than most men’s punches. His punches dole out concussions. And when he picks up a weapon, he can use it like no man ever has. He is in excruciating pain waking up every single day, looking for one more chance to have one great last match. I blew the son of a bitch up in Japan, and he came back and hugged me. I set him on fire in Philadelphia, and he put his arm around me. He doesn’t put his arm around me anymore. I don’t want your arm around me, Terry Funk. Tommy Dreamer, the only differ-ence between me and you is, I had the guts to go to WWE! Because when I go to the Hammerstein Ballroom, Edge and I are prepared to take the beatings of our lives. And I will do that to exorcise the sick, twisted whore that is ECW. I want her out of my life. You’ve seen me thrown off cells. You’ve seen me slammed on tacks. You’ve seen me go through a burning table at
WrestleMania.
It is nothing compared to the horrors I will unleash on Dreamer and Funk! Because, ECW, I’m going to take the hearts of your heroes, and I’m going to shove them down your throats for making me fall in love with you to begin with! You stepped on my heart! You stepped on my soul! You took everything I believed in, and you threw it away! And now, when I walk into that ring at the Hammerstein Ballroom, as a WWE legend, you, Terry Funk, and you, Tommy Dreamer, will learn about loss. Have a nice day.