Authors: Mick Foley
A few weeks later, I went on another African trip-this time to Nigeria. As a matter of fact, I went on two fourteen-day trips over the course of the next several months. These trips would mark my first two experiences with bloodletting of any consequence. I had experienced bloody lips and noses, abrasions and contusions, but Nigeria was the first place that I was ever “busted wide open.” At least it was the first time I pulled off the trick without the aid of a Jif peanut butter jar. I arrived in Nigeria without the benefit of a tour group-indeed, I was the only American on the cards, which were to be held in the capital city of Lagos, and Power Uti’s hometown of Benin. Lagos, as many travelers may recall, is the only city that is regularly listed at all airports as failing to meet international security codes. After my arrival, I could see why. I was whisked through the airport with the aid of a policeman, without going through customs or immigration. I also made the rather naive mistake of letting the promoter hold my return ticket.
I went through my match in Lagos with promoter Mr. Haiti, and then began promoting my big Nigerian championship match with Power Uti. On the trip from Lagos to Benin, I learned just how unlawful the Nigerian police were and also just how much influence Uti wielded in his homeland. I was scared half to death as our driver sped along at what felt like 100 mph on two-lane streets whose terrain was dotted with accident victims. It was not uncommon to see a tractor trailer truck full of poor manual laborers tipped over, with injured bodies strewn across the side of the road. With no exaggeration, I saw at least three such incidents during my time there. Oddly enough, the accidents didn’t cause rubbernecking delays, as no one slowed down to view the accident. They just didn’t care.
About halfway through our trip, I saw a roadblock up ahead, and could sense the tension in the car. “What’s wrong?” I nervously asked. “It’s a roadblock,” Mr. Haiti informed me. I really didn’t see what the big deal was and told him so. “You don’t understand,” Mr. Haiti nervously said. “If they check our car, they can take whatever they want.” I’m not ashamed to say that I got real scared when I heard that information. I didn’t own a lot in the world, but most of my valued possessions were in my bag in the trunk.
Suddenly, a flashlight beamed through the window-temporarily blinding me. A police officer banged on the glass, and the driver opened it up. “What do you have in the car?” the crooked officer demanded.
“Nothing,” Uti was quick to reply.
The officer was not impressed. “Open the trunk.” My heart was pounding. I really felt like my bag was the least of my problems. Deep inside, I was hoping that this officer hadn’t seen Deliverance.
Then Uti spoke up in a booming voice and yelled, “I’m Power Uti. I’m on my way to Bendel State for a match. Don’t waste my time!” Amazingly, the police officer let us go, and even wished the champ well in the match. One thing was very clear to me at that time-there was no way that I was going to win that match. They could not have paid me enough money to beat Power Uti in his hometown.
I’ll be damned-my wish came true. I lost the match, but not before I witnessed several strange events. The match was scheduled to start at 8 P.M., but at 8:15, the place was empty. “I don’t get it,” I uttered with a shake of my head, “I thought Uti was popular here.”
“Oh no, you don’t understand,” came a kind voice. It was Nigerian veteran Flash Mask Udor, who was a mountain of a man, but who possessed a truly gentle spirit. “This is Nigerian time. If it says eight Nigerians know to come at nine or nine-thirty. Don’t worry, they will be coming very soon.”
I was confused and let him know. “Does everybody know this?” I politely asked.
“Oh yes, Mr. Jack, everyone knows.”
Sure enough, by nine-thirty the place was almost full, and at that time, the ring announcer went out to the ring. At ten-fifteen, he was still talking. Apparently, his job was not just to do the announcing, but also to entertain the crowd with a standup comedy routine. Finally, he announced the next ring luminary, who made his way to the ring. Was he a wrestler? No, silly, he was the witch doctor, who did a rain dance to ward off the rain spirits who might threaten the outdoor show. I swear I’m not making this up. Finally, with Mother Nature held in check by the nifty moves of the doctor, the show was under way.
Honestly, I can’t remember a thing about my big match except being split open, losing to the champion, and the aftermath that almost did me in.
Uti was in command of his comeback when he took me toward the steel ring post. I wanted it to look good, but at the same time, I was counting on Uti’s respect for me to keep me safe. Apparently, that respect thing didn’t mean a whole lot to him as he sent me headfirst to the steel with all the power in his massive physique. With a sickening thud, I heard my head split like a ripe melon, and temporarily saw stars. When I regained my senses, I felt something hot and wet running down my face. I would be lying if said I didn’t like it just a little.
Within seconds the match was over, courtesy of a sunset flip, of all things. I knew the match hadn’t exactly been a classic, but it had been nothing to be ashamed of either, and as the crowd went crazy, I lay back for just a moment to bask in the glory of the job moderately well done. My basking didn’t last too long, because as I hopped out of the ring, I felt as if I was smack dab in the middle of the running of the bulls in Pamplona. Fans were everywhere, and they were dead set on rushing the ring, whether I was in the way or not. I saw a few faces, and they looked as if they were drunk on national pride, or something equally as intoxicating. I had just about two seconds left before I would surely be flattened like Leslie Nielsen in The Poseidon Adventure.
Luckily, the warm sensation of my own blood had sparked an adrenaline rush, and I decided to go on the offensive. I was thinking of Lou Ferrigno as the Incredible Hulk as I let out my best scream and charged the rushing crowd. Chuck Heston would have been proud of me as I parted the Benin fans like the Red Sea, even though the only guns in my possession were the seventeen-inch ones that threw wild haymakers at whoever stood in my path.
As I got halfway through the mob scene, several of the Nigerian wrestlers, including Flash Mask Udor, came to my aid. When I got to the back, I was dripping both blood and confidence as one by one the Nigerian boys voiced their concern. “Sorry” seemed to be the popular word for the boys, who by this time had grown quite fond of their American friend. Eventually I got cleaned up, strapped an ice pack to my wound, and waited more than three hours to be paid for the tour. Like most guys who have just been opened up, I had walked around for a great length of time with dried blood clinging to my face.
While waiting for the money to be counted, a religious discussion began, and I was more than happy to share my viewpoints. At one point in my life (actually about the age of nineteen) I’d briefly considered being a man of the cloth. I guess I must have gotten impassioned about something religious in that dressing room, because the wrestlers started looking at me as if I was a holy presence. One of them actually got down before me and said, “You are very close to the Kingdome.”
“Not really,” I replied naively. “I’m actually a long ways away.” This astonished the wrestlers, who collectively agreed that I was very close to the Kingdome. Apparently, they didn’t know their geography. “Look,” I tried to point out, “I live in New York-the Kingdome is all the way on the other side of the country in Seattle.” Their faces showed nothing but confusion. I was midway through explaining the Seahawks and the Mariners to them, when one stood up and said, “Mr. Jack, we are talking about the Kingdom of God-you are very close to that.” Suddenly, I understood-I was close to the Kingdom, not the King Dome.
Shortly after my discussion, I was handed my payoff. Three hundred dollars for the two-week tour. Wow! Maybe I should have been a man of the cloth, because although the vow of celibacy may have proved difficult, pro wrestling was doing a damn good job of preparing me for a vow of poverty.
My dad was at JFK to greet me when the plane touched down. Halfway through the trip home, he asked me about my financial compensation. “I got three hundred,” I sadly replied and waited for a lecture about throwing away my college education. Instead, I got a vote of confidence.
“Hey, it’s a great experience-how many people can say they’ve been to Nigeria?”
“Good point, Dad, but why would they want to?”
Upon returning from Africa, I embarked on a memorable trip through the Dakotas, Maryland, Idaho, and Wyoming. I headed out of Columbus, Ohio, by Winnebago and had a blast, as it was the last time that I remember the DeNucci school together as a whole. On the downside, we performed in front of miniscule crowds and received about $20 a day. But I prefer to think of it as a free vacation with some of my best friends through beautiful scenery, Yosemite Park, and the site of Custer’s Last Stand at the Battle of the Little Big Horn.
I was also developing rapidly as a wrestler. With only a little over two years’ experience to my credit, I was actually touring and performing like a veteran, even though I never did start smoking stogies and calling everybody “kid.” My timing was getting to be real good, my psychology was coming along, and my chemistry with Brian at ringside was resulting in some classic stuff.
My most vivid memory of the trip was almost the last memory of my life as our RV lost its brakes on the way down a mountain in Yosemite. I was listening to a tape and feeling fine with the world when I became aware that our lives were in danger. For some reason, I didn’t feel even the slightest twinge of panic. I saw my buddies holding on to each other and crossing themselves, but it all seemed like a dream and I had no doubt that I’d be fine. Not even the impact of our vehicle crashing into the mountain to slow our momentum could ruin the moment for me, although everyone else seemed pretty upset about the whole situation. I saw Dominic nonchalantly head down a hill into a meadow with a stream, where rumor has it he removed his underwear, which were no long suitable for wearing. After a day of repairing the Winnebago, we continued our tour.
After the western disaster, I headed back to Nigeria-where I was scheduled to perform as a manager and referee and wrestler on three different cards that would take ten days to complete.
I showed up in the country and was almost immediately taken to a house for breakfast. I was informed that many of the Nigerian wrestlers were at the house, so I packed a dozen or so Tshirts that I had brought them. These were not wrestling shirts even, for at the time the concept of a Cactus Jack shirt selling to anyone outside my immediate family was unreasonable. Instead, these were shirts that I had either outgrown or didn’t wear. I handed them to the boys as I walked in and excused myself to use the restroom. When I came back less than a minute later, every last one of the wrestlers was wearing the hand-me-down gift they’d been given. The smiles on their faces were unbelievable.
For reasons that I never could quite figure out, I was sent to the ring as a manager with a generic black mask. Tony Nardo, who was usually Moondog, but for this trip was “Eric the Red, Jr.,” was my wrestler. Eric the Red had been a big name in Nigeria for years, and the exploitation of Nardo was supposed to pack the crowds in for another Uti title defense. It didn’t. Something to do with running the show at the end of the month when no one had any money left, or so I was told.
Power Uti entered the ring to the thunderous applause of about 8,000 people in a 30,000-seat soccer stadium, and the match was on. At the right moment, I handed Nardo his special prop-an eighteen inch cow’s thigh bone that he used as part of his ring persona. Nardo hit Uti with the bone as I distracted the referee, and then handed it back when the referee went to check on Power Uti. I really didn’t think too much about it-after all, without outside interference, wrestling might start resembling a real sport, and I don’t want any part of that boring stuff. To the fans in attendance, however, it was a very big deal.
I sensed a rumbling and turned just in time to be clubbed with what felt like a chair, although I’m not certain. Whatever it was, it was delivered with a great deal of force, as it put me down with one shot, which, as people who watch Raw will attest, is no simple feat. When I gained some semblance of rationality, I realized that I was being stomped, being punched, and getting my ass kicked in general, by what had to be at least a dozen people. I would like to be able to say that I jumped up and fought them all off, but the truth is I got up and rolled into the general calm of the ring. This is generally the best place to fight off a fan attack, as you can see them coming, and can usually knock their dick stiff the moment they stick their head through the ropes. I could see that the mob was mad, but I didn’t have any further trouble.
I felt my head, and even through my stupid black mask I could feel a large divot in my hairline. Mr. Haiti was refereeing, and didn’t seem to have a whole lot of sympathy for my plight. “Get out of the ring, get out,” he yelled, in his heavily accented English.
“I’m hurt, I’m hurt,” I yelled, in an attempt to reason with him. No dice. He again ordered me out, as I looked at police officers armed with machine guns who were much more intent on watching the match than they were on helping a bloody white guy with a cheap black mask. Finally, the cavalry of Nigerian wrestlers came, lead by Flash Mask Udor, and escorted me to safety.
I took off my mask and was sickened by the heavy blood loss. Unlike the incident during my previous trip to Nigeria, I had not enjoyed this feeling at all. To make things worse, my black mask had hid all the precious juice, so no one even knew I was busted wide open.
Also unlike my last cut, which I had patched up myself, this one definitely needed stitches. “Flash, how do I get to the hospital?” I asked the grizzled Udor. His response both worried and surprised me. “Mr. Jack, the hospital is no good-we will take you to a chemist’s office. They will take care of you.”
“A chemist’s office?” I asked with slight dismay in my voice. “Are you sure?”