Authors: Mick Foley
The next few months were uneventful, as I teamed with Maxx and wondered if I was going to ever get another chance on top. Bischoff had made the decision to curtail most of the road shows, and instead concentrate on the television product. That was fine with me. If I was going to hate the company, I would much rather hate it at home with Colette and the two children.
In March, we headed for Germany and the hangman incident that cost me my ear. I called Colette the next afternoon from Germany, expecting sympathy to be showered on me. I had attempted to call home after my operation, but was told that Eric would take care of it, and to get some rest. “Hi, Colette, how are you?” I said into the receiver, waiting for the sobs that I so richly deserved. Instead, I got: “The damn dog is barking, I think Noelle has an ear infection, and Dewey’s being a grouch.”
“Did anyone from the office call you?” I asked slowly, already knowing the answer to my question.
“What happened, are you all right?” screamed Colette, apparently deducing from my question that something indeed had gone wrong.
“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news,” I started. “The good news is I’m coming home tomorrow-the bad news is that my right ear isn’t coming with me.”
The hospital in Munich wanted to keep me for a full week, but when I found out all they were keeping me for was intravenous antibiotics, I convinced them to let me fly home, where I would continue the IV treatment. I checked into the hospital in Atlanta, where they assigned me a registered nurse, and I headed home. Believe it or not, I was actually in high spirits, because I knew, I just knew, that no one could screw this angle up. I guess I should have known better.
I showed up at Center Stage theater the next week, raring to go; wondering what the brainpower in WCW had come up with to take advantage of this unexpected “gift.”
To me, this would be a booker’s dream. Forget the bogus knee injury angles, this was a certifiable gold mine. I mean, how could anyone not see the money in a Cactus vs. Vader “you tore off my ear, you son of a bitch” grudge match? The match would sell itself. It would be so easy, it would-oops, I forgot we were talking about WCW here. I had one more match with Vader, about a month later in a little theater in Columbia, South Carolina, in front of a thousand fans. Not exactly what I would call making the most of the situation.
I knew also that all of Flair’s talk about turning me into a top heel was bullshit, as well. In some ways, I’m fortunate that I lost my ear, because if I’d let Flair have a say in my career for another year, I’d be cleaning pools right now. So when Flair is retired, and the fans are singing his praises (and rightfully so) as one of the greatest of all time, I hope those same fans will remember that as a booker, this is the same guy that let both Mick Foley and Stone Cold Steve Austin walk away.
With depression setting in, and with the knowledge that I had no future in WCW, I scheduled, with Bischoff’s approval, an operation that would reconstruct a new ear out of one of my ribs and the cartilage behind my ear. Eric assured me that as the accident occurred inside the ring, I would be fully compensated during my six-month absence. After that, it would be September again-time to call J. J.
I had one more match before the surgery-a Chicago street fight (an anything-goes, falls-count-anywhere match) that would team me and Maxx in a war with the Nasty Boys. I knew it was my last match, but I just couldn’t get up for it. I wondered, “How am I going to get through this without stinking the place up?” The answer was simple. Survival. Jerry Saggs broke a pool cue over my head, and Brian Knobbs nearly dented my skull. The Nasties were sloppy as hell, and more than a little dangerous, but they knew how to brawl. About a minute into this thing, I realized that I’d better start fighting or I was going to get killed out there. About three minutes in, I realized we were in the midst of something pretty special. Saggs attempted to piledrive me on a table for the finish. The table buckled under our weight and we crashed to the ramp. As I got up, Saggs pushed me and I fell backward off the five-foot ramp and onto the cold, hard concrete below. I didn’t land flat, however, and I knew that my shoulder was injured. But at least I’d earned the right to rest, right? Not quite yet. Saggs hopped down off the ramp, and I winced when I saw Knobbs throw him a scoop shovel. It was plastic, but I knew with this crazy bastard swinging, it would hurt just the same. He raised the shovel high overhead, almost like an axe. I remembered what DeNucci had taught us about protecting our teeth and nose, and I turned my head to the side. Saggs proceeded to hit me about as hard as another human being could, but at least I’d be out of WCW.
Man, you think I would have learned by now, right? I was awakened two days later by the sound of the telephone. It was Kevin Sullivan.
“Brotha, I need a fayva.”
“Kevin, hey, what can I do?”
“Brotha, Evad blew out his knee, I don’t have a pahtnah-brotha, you might think I’m crazy, but I think if the two of us teamed in Philadelphia, we’d blow the roof off the fuckin’ place.”
I tried to tell Kevin about my ear operation, but he could be a very hard person to say no to. His wrestling “brother” Evad was so named because his character supposedly had dyslexia and couldn’t say “Dave.” The two of them were scheduled to take on the Nasties at the next month’s Pay-Per-View Slamboree in Philadelphia. Without a partner at Slamboree, Sullivan’s whole stint with WCW might be in jeopardy, I felt, but in retrospect I should have realized that, as Kevin himself had once told me, he was like the phoenix, and eventually would have risen again.
Later, Flair called and said, “I want you to come to TV today.” I tried to tell Flair about the operation, but he persuaded me by saying, “We want to go all the way with you and Kevin.” For some reason, in a decision I would soon regret, I went to TV.
It would be easy for me to point fingers and blame people for bringing me back. The truth, however, is twofold. First, I felt that by going “all the way” with me and Kevin, my value would be raised and that I would maybe, just maybe, get that elusive pay raise, although probably for me, finding the Ark of the Covenant would be easier. And second, I really felt that wrestling in front of the Philadelphia fans might lift me out of the emotional mire in which I was walking.
I really had become a miserable bastard. I hadn’t cut the grass in three weeks. I had a two-year-old son and a four-month-old daughter that I barely had the energy to play with. My vaunted lovemaking skills were now barely adequate. Worst of all, I had rented Sophies Choice and watched it twice … in a row. As mesmerizing as Meryl Streep’s performance is, it’s not exactly the type of film that makes you want to go out and dance a jig. The thought of a big showdown in front of my favorite audience was just the thing I needed.
I went to TV that day with a renewed sense of purpose. Kevin and I revived our old Slaughterhouse chemistry, even though I was no longer “in urgent need of advice.” We were on fire-until we went to Orlando.
Orlando was the site of WCW’s syndicated television tapings. Every three months, we would head to Disney MGM Studios to film thirteen episodes of the most boring wrestling shows ever witnessed by human eyes. The wrestling was an “attraction” at the park, and a new theme park audience of about 300 fans was brought in for every new show. The fans would boo or cheer according to a sign that said “boo” or “cheer,” so although the studio was noisy as hell, there wasn’t an ounce of genuine emotion in the place. Most of the matches stunk, and because it was Disney, nothing that could be construed as violence was allowed. But, because the tapings covered so many weeks of syndication, a wrestler was able to get a decent idea of where his career was going-and mine was going nowhere.
Kevin and I were not on any of the television shows-no interviews, no angles, no run-ins, no matches-no nothing. The second to last nail was hammered when I overheard Paul Orndorff and and his tag team partner Paul Roma giving an interview about how they had defeated Cactus Jack and Kevin Sullivan for the belts. At this point, Kevin and I hadn’t even won the belts. This was really not what I considered “going all the way” with us. This meant that even if Kevin and I set the world on fire as champions, it would all be for nothing. I was, once again, being booked to fail. Kevin and I had a meeting with Flair, and even though Naitch and Sullivan had been friends for two decades, I did all our talking.
“Ric, a few weeks ago, you said you were going to go all the way with us, but I’ve been here [in Orlando] three days, and we haven’t been on television for three days.”
Flair, who only rarely drops his perfect gentleman manners, honored me by doing so. “Hey, last I heard, you wanted to take six months off for psychological counseling.” Flair then tried to draw a comparison between me and Barry Windham, who was at the end of nursing a year-long knee ligament injury. Barry had been paid the entire time, to the tune of eight grand a week. This was a perfect example of office gossip leading to factual errors, and the very rare occasion that the old cliche “When you assume it makes an ass out of you and me” was actually correct.
“Ric,” I said, “I think you’ve got a few things mixed up. I did want six months off, but that was for ear surgery. I canceled that because you asked me to come back. I am seeing a psychologist for post-amputation depression, but even if WCW does pay for it, we’re talking about four hundred dollars, not four hundred thousand like Barry. And to insinuate that I’d milk any injury is an insult.”
Flair took this all in. “So you want to wrestle?” he asked.
“Yes I do, Ric-until my contract is up, you can book me on every show you run.”
The next day, I was booked in a Texas Tornado Match with Vader. Actually, it was a Texas Death Match, but, being in Disney, a few concessions had to be made. In Texas Death Match rules, pinfalls count, but they don’t end the match. The wrestler has ten seconds to answer the bell. The match continues until one man can’t answer the bell.
Vader and I picked up right where we had left off. We had actually been given a little leeway by WCW to get a little rough, but we took it a few steps further. I had Vader rocking and reeling with punches that were thrown damn near as hard as I could. I gave him a chairshot that had him seeing stars. I went for the elbow off the ring apron, but Harley tripped me and I tumbled to the floor. Vader then threw back the blue protective mats, and exactly one year later, to the day, that my foot and hand had gone numb in Atlanta, powerbombed me on the cold, hard concrete floor.
Vader covered me for the easy pin. But the match wasn’t over yet. The referee began his count as I lay prone. One, two, three-no movement. Four, five-I started to move. Six, seven-I was on my knees. Eight, nine-Cactus Jack was on his feet. Then, with the ref’s back turned, Harley hit me from behind, and I went down. Ten-I lost the match. The loss, as is usually the case in our sport, didn’t really matter, because in this case the real victory was a moral one. I had taken the powerbomb and had gotten up. Nothing could be simpler.
I went to the back feeling like the weight of the world was off my shoulders. It’s amazing how a good match can make you feel that way. I talked excitedly with Eric about the story of the match. I told him about the coincidence of the two matches occurring on the same day one year apart. He agreed it was great timing, and assured me that they would play it up when it aired on TV. Even though Jim Ross was working for the competition, I could hear his voice in my head. “The referee is counting, folks, but it’s just a formality-this one is over. What we really need is some medical attention down here. But wait, what’s this, Cactus Jack is starting to move. My God, he’s on his knees! Ladies and gentleman, in twenty-five years, this is the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. Cactus Jack is up, Cactus Jack is up!” It didn’t matter who was calling the match, however-this was too good to miss. Only a complete idiot could screw this thing up. I went back to our hotel, the Residence Inn. I couldn’t stop sweating and I was lightheaded, but I was on a natural high. Even with a probable concussion, I was in the mood to celebrate. We went to a place called Jungle Jim’s and I scarfed down the biggest steak on the menu, while Colette turned her back and breast-fed Noelle. As good as my steak was, I couldn’t help but feel a little envious of my daughter.
Kevin and I were raising havoc every night with the Nasty Boys. At a show in Melbourne, Florida, in late April, Kevin and I were taking the fight to the Nasties outside the ring. I was working over Saggs, while Kevin tried to get a fan’s beer to throw at Knobbs. The fan resisted, but Kevin physically insisted, and he let a three-quarter-full beer fly. When Knobbs turned around, however, it was obvious that beer was not the liquid that had been inhabiting the cup. Knobbs’s pasty white face and a major portion of his bleached blond Mohawk were now brown. Tobacco juice was everywhere. Knobbs reached with his hands and tried to clear it from his eyes. He opened his mouth, and more came spilling out. He snorted and some came from his nostrils as well. “Sorry, brotha,” Kevin said, laughing, with a warmth that would have made Bill Watts proud. It may have been the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in wrestling. And that’s coming from someone who’s seen the Mean Street Posse in action.
The next day, we traveled to Fort Lauderdale. I tripled up in a room with Steve Austin and Steve Regal. These were two of my favorite guys to travel with, and we were looking forward to having a good time. Now, nevermind the fact that these three big-time wrestlers were so cheap that they actually had three guys jammed into a fleabitten Econolodge. The key thing was that the lodge was right across the street from the beach, and having practically grown up in the Atlantic Ocean as a kid, I was going to be hitting the surf as soon as I could throw my trunks on.
The three of us walked across the street, and I dove in gracefully and headed out to sea, while Austin and Regal soaked up some rays in the beautiful South Florida sun. I floated on my back for a few minutes, several hundred yards from shore, and when I looked to the beach, I saw that both Steves were gone. Then, in the distance, I saw them walking back across the street. A minute later, I could see them sitting by the pool. “That’s strange,” I thought. “Trading the ocean for the pool.” But hey, I wasn’t going to let those party poopers ruin my fun. I frolicked some more. After a while, I headed in to shore.