Authors: Mick Foley
Abby and I vs. Sting and Steiner was the evening’s main event. I locked up with Steiner and out of the corner of my eye could see Abby fumbling around in his pockets for a foreign object. Abby always came to the ring with an assortment of things to use-a fork being his perennial favorite. He kind of reminded me of the kid in Old Yeller emptying his pockets and having a frog jump out of them. Except Abby was about fifty years older than the kid. And 350 pounds heavier. And black. And with huge divots in his head. Anyway, I brought Steiner to our corner, and Abby was still fumbling with his pockets. We went back to the center of the ring. I tried bringing him to our corner a second time, and again, Abby wasn’t ready. Suddenly, Steiner darted behind me, and with about as much care as an airport baggage handler throwing a piece of luggage off a plane, launched me high overhead with a belly-to-hack suplex. I landed high on the top of my head, to the point where I ended the move lying on my stomach with my feet lying on the bottom rope.
“Why would you do that to the guy?” asked Sting later in the dressing room. “I mean the guy has beaten himself up trying to get me over, and you nearly killed him.”
“I thought he was going to try to take something on [take advantage of] me,” Steiner replied.
Now I’m not a liberty-taker inside the ring. I’m rough and much of what I do is quite painful to be on the receiving end of, but I have too much respect for my opponents to try to take something on them. And if I ever decide to start, Rick Steiner definitely won’t be the guy I do it to. I mean, I’m not that deranged, nor do I really love pain, no matter what you’ve been told over the last fifteen years.
The next evening, Terry Taylor walked up to me in the dressing room. He probably was spouting one of his Terry Taylorisms, such as: “Two questions: who is your favorite wrestler, and why am I?” Terry was a funny and charming guy, to the point where even my mother-in- law had a tiny crush on him. That evening, however, Terry’s humor and charms were falling on deaf ears-literally. A few minutes later, I could barely hear Grizzly Smith, a weathered agent who was also the father of wrestlers Sam Houston and Jake Roberts, speak to me, and I felt as if the conversation was taking place underwater. Grizz looked into my eyes, the pupils of which were about the size of pinpoints, and said more words that I had trouble hearing. “Son, I think you’ve got yourself a concussion.”
We finished our swing in Florida, with the other wrestlers ordered not to hit me in the head. When we got back to Atlanta, I had my first (but definitely not my last) CAT scan, and I’ll be damned if the old, wizened Grizzly Smith wasn’t right-1 had a concussion. I’ve only had eight documented concussions in my career, with “documented” being the key word, as I’ve had my bell rung so many times that I’d probably have to rank high on the all-time list of brain-swelling injuries.
In addition to all this wrestling success, things were really shaping up for us as a family. We finally had a little financial security, and were able to buy some nice things to welcome our impending newborn into the world. I even bought a new car-a ‘92 Ford Crown Victoria that I still have today. It’s a piece of crap now, but hey, there’s a lot of history inside that car. For the Christmas holidays, Colette and I drove back home from Atlanta, where we’d been renting an apartment. Colette ended up staying with my parents for the remainder of her pregnancy, while I hit the road to seek even greater fame and fortune.
In addition to my fame and fortune, something else was growing at the same time. Me. Some husbands put on “sympathy” weight during their wives’ pregnancy. Being a sensitive guy, I couldn’t bear to make Colette feel bad about herself as her former model waist gave way to a huge basketball underneath her shirt. In addition, I suffered the double whammy of picking up “Abdullah weight” on the road. “Let’s get some ice cream, champ” was one of Abby’s favorite sayings as we sped onward into 1992 in our rented Cadillac. This was at a time when WCW picked up the tab for our rentals. When that ended, so did the Caddies. Even today as a “World Wrestling Federation Superstar,” I am much more likely to be speeding onward in a rented Lumina.
I was gaining a reputation at this time as a guy who could “work with anyone.” In addition to being able to have a good match with pros like Bobby Eaton and Ricky Steamboat, I was able to pull out some decent ones from guys that didn’t exactly set the world on fire. One of these guys was a big, muscular kid named Van Hammer. Hammer had two things working against him. One, he was given a push well before he was ready for it, and two, he was given the gimmick of a heavy metal guitar player, even though he couldn’t play a lick. It reminded me of when I carried a bullwhip out to the ring with me in Memphis. If you don’t crack it, people know you don’t have a clue. So, if a guy walks to the ring with a guitar and never plays it, well, I think you get the picture.
Hammer was also a natural heat getter with the boys. He didn’t mean to, he was actually a nice guy, but he had a tendency to bury himself with his ways. Statements like “I came here to save the company” didn’t sit well with guys who’d busted their asses for years and didn’t have their own $25,000 music video. The first time I saw Hammer, he came strutting down the ramp, in preparation for his debut on a Clash of the Champions (the Albany Clash). He was wearing no shirt and was all oiled up to showcase his chiseled physique, and was wearing a pair of tight black bicycle shorts that showcased his … well, never mind. Let’s just say I could tell what religion he was before ever saying hello.
As a result, most guys didn’t care to help him out or even have a decent match with him. I, on the other hand, saw him as a challenge, like a piece of clay that I could mold. Instead of looking at his faults, I chose to look at his strengths, which were: He was an exceptional natural athlete, and he was willing to do whatever I wanted. And I wanted to do a lot.
We had a match in Topeka, Kansas, that people talked about for years-a falls count anywhere inside or outside the building. The outcome of this match was somewhat in jeopardy when I had a short meeting with Dusty. I tried to stroke his ego by telling him that I felt that a falls count anywhere was my specialty match, the same way that the leather strap match had been his. I even added that I potentially thought I could have a hell of a match of this type with his son Dustin. (Which we later did.) The Dream thought about it for a few seconds and said in his unique Dusty lisp (hey, why are all my bookers lispers?), “That’s it, baby, you’ll be known as the King of Falls Count Anywhere-you can take it all over the country.” I must admit, I doubted his sincerity, but I’ll be damned if we got to Topeka, and things hadn’t been reconsidered.
Nowadays, these falls count anywhere matches are usually called hardcore matches, and it’s commonplace for wrestlers to fight outside the building, and in Al Snow and Bob Holly’s case, even into the Mississippi River. But in early 1992, our fight into the rodeo arena outside the Topeka Coliseum was considered unique.
We fought all over the arena, and I even debuted one of the downright dumbest moves of my career-the sunset flip off the second turnbuckle to the concrete floor. In this move, I launch myself off the second turnbuckle, and in mid-air flip upside down while hooking my opponent’s waist on the way over. This theoretically leads to a pinning predicament, but with all of my new 300-plus pounds landing squarely on my lower back and butt, almost led to a hospital predicament. “Holy shit,” screamed referee Nick Patrick, who as a second-generation wrestler had just about seen it all, “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
We ended up fighting outside the building, and we spilled across the parking lot to the rodeo arena that actually had bulls brought in to add to the spectacle. Out of nowhere, a 400-pound black cowboy appeared and attempted to hit me with a scoop shovel. I instead maneuvered Hammer into the shovel’s path, and the shovel made a nice solid bonk off the back of his neck and head. I punched the cowboy, knocking off his hat, and I’ll be damned if that 400-pound black cowboy didn’t turn out to be Abdullah. I covered Hammer and gained the pinfall right next to a pile of dried-up horse manure.
But the battle wasn’t over yet. Abby and I continued the assault in the rodeo arena, where Missy Hyatt was on special hazard duty as an on-the-scene reporter. Earlier in the day, Dusty had pulled me and Abby aside and whispered, “I didn’t say this, but I want the girl to end up in the water.” And, wouldn’t you know it, in the freakiest of freak accidents, Missy Hyatt ended up taking an eighteen-degree bath in a horse trough.
The next day, Kip Frye, who had earlier in the week replaced Jim Herd as president of WCW, awarded Hammer and me a $5,000 bonus to be split between us. This was a Kip Frye policy. He gave $5,000 to the most valuable performer on all the big shows. Out of respect, we also cut Abdullah and Nick Patrick in for a share of the profits.
Kip Frye was almost the exact opposite of Jim Herd. Whereas Herd was gruff, Frye was polite to a fault. Also whereas Herd tended to be tight with a dollar, someone in the Turner organization must have authorized a budget increase, because Frye started throwing around money. It was almost as if Kip was walking around looking for acceptance from the wrestlers, and he decided the best way to do it was by signing them to big contracts. Hell, the Freebirds were given $50,000 raises and then were taken off the road for six months.
Kip was also like a kid when it came to appearing on television. After his first appearance on the tube, he sprinted to the back and picked up the phone. “Did you see me, did you see me?” he inquired anxiously as I wondered just what qualifications were required to run a multimillion-dollar wrestling company.
On the way to the matches one day, Diamond Dallas Page was singing Frye’s praises. “The good thing about Kip” said DDP, “is that he’s willing to listen to the wrestlers.”
Kevin Nash thought about it and countered, “The good thing about Kip is he’s sexy in a shy kind of way.” Nash was the King of ridiculous observations; at seven feet tall, he may well be the country’s tallest standup comic-which in reality is how he finally became a star some years later. He may well have been the worst wrestler in the business at one point (the Nash vs. Kazmaier battles still make me shudder) but he was always willing to learn, and because he was so well liked, the guys were always willing to help out. On one road trip, I talked to Kevin for two straight hours about using his size to be a dominant face, instead of the Vinnie Vegas comedy lounge wrestler that he was being portrayed as. A short time later, he left WCW for the World Wrestling Federation, and I saw him specifically doing some of the things I had talked about. I was very proud.
DDP was a classic. A former nightclub manager and walking cartoon character, he had gotten his start as a manager for Verne Gagne’s American Wrestling Association. His main attribute at that time was that he was willing to pay his own airfare to television tapings (along with paying for his two diamond girls) and work for free. He had eventually caught on in his home state of Florida as an announcer, where he hooked up with Dusty Rhodes, and the Dream brought him on board when he took over the book for WCW.
Page was eventually replaced as an announcer-even as one of his best friends, I’ve got to admit that his bag of play-by-play cliches was about as well received as a set of fingernails on a chalkboard. As a manager, he had been, at best, average. He had been relieved of his duties as manager of the Freebirds, probably because his style was almost a duplicate of Michael Hayes, who was already one of the Birds. So DDP at the tender age of thirty-five decided to step into the ring and become a wrestler, where, against all odds, he became a top name in the business.
It certainly wasn’t easy-most people didn’t want to see him succeed. Amid all the negativity, I remember one person predicting big things from him. I was riding in the rental car shuttle bus with Abby, when I saw DDP strutting across the parking lot, with one of his tacky outfits and some outrageous pair of shades. “He’s going to make it, champ,” I heard the Butcher say.
“Dallas?” I asked, with shock in my voice, wondering if years of headshots and cage matches had finally taken their toll on my partner. “Why?” “He lives his gimmick, champ” was Abby’s reply.
“He lives his gimmick.”
Indeed he did. He used the same tired cliches in real life that he did on TV. “How are you doing?” a lady would ask as we waited for change at her tollbooth.
“Lady,” DDP would start, “if I was doing any better, I’d have to be twins just to handle it.” I tended to roll my eyes a lot when I traveled with Dallas.
His first match, in Baltimore, sometime in the spring of 1992, was a classic, or at least the circumstances surrounding it were. I watched the whole thing, and to be honest, it wasn’t at all bad for a beginner. A few minutes after the match, I saw Dallas, and he was visibly upset. “Hey,” I said, putting my arm around him, “it wasn’t that bad.” I then proceeded to compliment some of his work and helpfully offer hints on how he might improve it.
“Thanks, Jackie,” he said (he always called me Jackie). “I appreciate it.” I felt like I had helped a little, but even when I left, his eyes were still red from crying.
Later, Steve Austin asked me if I’d heard about Dallas and Chip, who had been one of his opponents that night. As it turned out, Dallas wasn’t upset about the match at all-he was upset about the fist-fight that had occurred in the dressing room afterward. Apparently Firebreaker Chip (part of the little-missed team of the Patriots) had taken exception to some of the match, and being pumped up, had gotten in DDP’s face about it. Now, this may have been Page’s first match, but he’d been part of the business for five years, and he wasn’t about to back down. Somewhere in the argument, Chip threw a punch, and the fight broke out. The scuffle ended when DDP hooked Chip in a front facelock, a simple but effective submission hold that in real life is a finisher in almost any fight. Dallas had to be pulled off Chip, and then walked outside the dressing room, which is where I consoled him. I don’t know, maybe you can’t blame Chip (the real-life Curtis Thompson)-after all, the Patriots idea was one of the lowest in a long list of WCW lame ideas. (Does anyone else remember the Ding Dongs?) Maybe if I’d been given the gimmick of a “firebreaker,” who walked around giving fire tips, I may have had a little “Chip” on my shoulder, too.