Authors: Mick Foley
Terry and I were scheduled to be on last. Like most ECW shows, we would have to try to follow a lot of strange and exciting action. By the time we got out there, we knew, the fans would have seen a variety of chair shots, pan shots, stop sign shots, incrowd brawling, out-of-thering dives, and obscenity-laced ring interviews. It wouldn’t be easy, and in retrospect, main eventing in ECW never was.
Keeping in mind Funk’s theory, “Every match is a great match until it begins,” I grabbed the mike. “Terry,” I called, in my Cactus Jack warble, “it’s going to hurt me to kick your ass all over the ECW arena-but … not as bad as it’s going to hurt you!”
I handed Terry the mike. He smiled that lovable old Uncle Terry smile and said, “That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Cactus-you’ve always been a dreamer.” Terry and I then shook hands and tore into each other. As two veteran hardcore warriors, the Funker and I didn’t have to rely on cheap, violent stunts to get a pop out of the crowd-we knew how to work. No, we didn’t have to rely on it, but we did anyway-giving the crowd the same variety of chair shots, pan shots, stop sign shots, and out-of-the ring brawling that they had already seen for the past three hours.
We did throw in one added bonus, however. It was actually a combination of two moves we discussed earlier, but paired together for maximum audience enjoyment: a hangman complemented by a busted eyebrow. Terry threw me to the ropes, and I caught my head and neck in perfect textbook form, even if I doubt the existence of just such a textbook. My legs were kicking, but my head was in perfect position. I looked up with my right eye, and saw Terry throwing that big left. BAM-his fist went off like a rifle against my eyebrow bone. The blow helped knock me out of the ropes, and I lay on the cold, concrete floor (no protective mats at ECW), relishing that rare feeling of pain and satisfaction. We had the fans rocking and rolling, when a tag team called the Public Enemy hit the ring. Seeing that the PE had pooped on our party, Terry and I banded together to fight them off. After a minute, they went down, and Terry told me to get him a chair. There were no more within easy reach, so I called to a fan to throw me his. He willingly obliged, and a chair sailed into the ring. Then another one flew in. Then another. Then another, and another, and another. It was literally raining chairs, as the plastic seating devices were coming from all angles. In all my years, it was the damnedest thing I’d ever seen. I stood there in wonderment at this spectacle, until one of the chairs bounced off my head, and I realized it was time to leave. In a scene that would be replayed weekly on ECW television for years, the ring had been bombarded with over 200 chairs-with the Public Enemy literally buried underneath. When they emerged from under the sea of hard plastic, we had next month’s main event already booked-Funk and Cactus would be taking on the Public Enemy.
The backstage area of the bingo hall often more closely resembled a triage unit at a hospital. So many guys were trying so hard to impress this unique audience that injuries were inevitable. Guys were practically killing themselves to earn the fans’ approval, and the fans in ECW could often be callous about these ring mishaps.
J. T. Smith was a perfect example of an ECW guy who would do anything to get over. I had met him four years earlier, and he had unfortunately taken me on as his role model. He would do Cactus Jack moves, but he didn’t have the Cactus Jack ability to absorb them, and as a result, he spent a lot of his time either injured or in agony. On one memorable night, J. T. attempted a springboard dive off the ropes to the floor, and slipped-sending him crashing headfirst to the concrete below. As he lay unconscious, the crowd broke into the chant they used whenever someone visibly messed up a move-“You fucked up, you fucked up.” Over the course of time, incidents like these would weigh very heavily on my mind. Ironically, J. T. Smith, the guy who spent years searching for acceptance, finally found it in ECW as a comedy act. As a black man portraying an old-world Italian, J. T. would talk like a paisano and would screw up moves on purpose, and the fans loved him for it. “You fucked up, you fucked up!” became a chant of affection.
I worked a string of independent shows for anyone who met my price, before returning to the ECW arena three weeks later, for the big match with Public Enemy. I worked hard on all these shows, but I’d be less than honest with you if I didn’t admit that my main purpose was to sell as many Cactus Jack pictures, shirts, and assorted paraphernalia as I could. In addition to purchasing Cactus Jack shirts through a liquidator, I also bought a host of kids’ belts and foam fingers that I hawked shamelessly through these shows. The ECW arena was different, however. If I sold pictures at all, it would only be for a few minutes, as it was important for me to retain my “aura” in that atmosphere. An “aura” could be ruined in a hurry if these ruthless fans caught you saying, “Please buy a picture.” Within a month, however, I would unveil a new shirt that would both make me a hell of a lot of money and revolutionize the way ECW looked at merchandising. The “Wanted Dead” T-shirt-a black shirt with a weathered yellow Old West-style wanted poster on it-was so nice that it blew away anything else for sale. For a while, the ECW arena looked like the future Austin 3:16 craze, with a sea of black and yellow to meet me. Unlike the Austin phenomenon, however, the “Wanted” craze was limited to a thousand fans at the ECW arena, and not millions worldwide. Paul E. took note of this small-scale success, however, and went to work. Today, ECW merchandise is a huge seller, nationwide.
When I got to my hotel, I was alerted by Todd Gordon that Terry had missed his flight and wouldn’t be making it to the show. Actually, due to reasons of his own, Terry would not set foot in an ECW ring for another six months, paving the road to our future feud overseas. Todd was beside himself-this was a huge match, and the rabid fans at the arena would be hard to appease without it.
“What do we do?” I asked Todd. “Can we use a substitute?”
“It’ll never work,” Todd stated dismally. “The only guy the fans wouldn’t shit on is Big Al,” referring to a huge wrestler whose chokeslam had made him a cult favorite in the arena. Al chokeslammed everybody: Santa Claus, midgets, two wrestlers at once, women—even the guy playing the National Anthem. Aside from that one move, however, Al didn’t do a whole lot well.
I thought about the situation for a minute before asking, “What about Mikey?”
The real-life John Watson was a smallish nineteen-year-old kid who grew up idolizing Cactus Jack and didn’t look like he had an athletic bone in his body. He was trained by a guy named Sonny Blaze, whom I myself had trained in Mark Tendler’s garage. John was so unimpressive that Sonny refused to charge him money to train, out of guilt, because he assumed the poor kid would never make it. John began setting up the ring at the ECW arena, and was spotted performing moonsaults and various other high-flying maneuvers inside the empty building. Paul E. saw this unassuming kid, and somewhere in his mind, Mikey Whipwreck was born.
Paul cast Mikey as the ultimate loser, a gimmick that had been a cult hit for his Jim Ignitowski-like “wrestling school dropout” several years earlier. The difference was, Mikey had talent. Paul began booking him against the top guys in the company, and every week, he’d take a world-class ass kicking. Dressed in sweatpants with shorts over them and a long-sleeve dragon-printed shirt, and looking all of about eleven years old, Mikey didn’t exactly send shivers down spines. Throw in a hometown of Buffalo and the theme music of the Beck song “Loser,” and you’ve got a pretty good idea of what was going on.
It was months before Mikey even got in an offensive move. When he did, it was major news. “Oh, my God, oh, my God!” announcer Joey Styles yelled. “His first offensive move!” So without any offense, Mikey got beat up-a lot. But he was so good at it that fans actually started taking notice. The ECW fans may have been heartless, but they could recognize good wrestling. Soon Mikey was a cult favorite. One night, several months before my ECW arrival, Mikey won the ECW television title on a fluke, and the place went ballistic.
As a champion, Mikey was finally given a chance to talk. Unlike traditional wrestlers, Mikey didn’t exude confidence while talking on the contrary, he was terrified. He’d get on the microphone and attempt to hand the belt back. He’d claim that his mother didn’t want him to wrestle. He’d start to say, “Let me tell you something, Pit Bull number 1,” before thinking about it and crying, “I’m gonna get killed!” Then for several weeks straight, Mikey would wrestle, get destroyed, but somehow win by fluke. The guy was winning title matches without getting in a single offensive maneuver. By the time he lost the title, he had been on the receiving end of some brutal beatings, but was also the recipient of tremendous applause.
Without Funk, we knew we needed a gimmick, and I felt like Mikey was it. I went to the ring alone to the sounds of Steppenwolf’s “Born to Be Wild.” The fans were aware that Funk was not in attendance, but no substitute had been named. When Public Enemy hit the ring, I grabbed the house mike and said I would be returning shortly with my partner. Joey Styles called the action as I disappeared behind the curtain. “Who is Cactus Jack going to find? What tough guy, what tremendous athlete, what former world champion will he return with-it’s MIKEY! Oh, my God, it’s Mikey!” I came though the curtain dragging Mikey by the arm, as he tried desperately to get away. He looked like a child who doesn’t want to sit on Santa’s lap,or an adult who is forced to watch an Al Snow match.
I started in with the P.E., and Mikey promptly ran away to the back, leaving poor Cactus Jack defenseless against the ECW tag team champions. After a few minutes of this beating, when all looked lost, Mikey reemerged-and in true ECW fashion, he had a foreign object. But it wasn’t a chair or any other normal instrument of destruction because that wouldn’t be Mikey-like. Instead he held a flimsy piece of paneling that looked about as threatening as a gaggle of baby geese. Flimsy or not, the paneling made a hell of a noise upon impact, and he took turns bringing it down on the heads of the P.E. When the paneling broke, Mikey Whipwreck-the man of no offense-began throwing lefts and rights to the jaws of both men. The roar of the crowd rose with each blow, until he was laid out with a vicious doubleteam move. As he lay unmoving, Grunge and Flyboy Rocco Rock (P.E. members) began the attack on me.
As we went over the railing, I noticed Mikey still lying there, motionless. Now we were in the crowd, and still no Mikey. For five minutes I took abuse while Mikey lay motionless inside the ring. Finally we returned, and Rocco went to the top rope for what would surely be the coup de grace. As the Flyboy stood perched atop the ropes, I got up and stumbled, falling into the ropes, sending the Flyboy testicles-first into the turnbuckle below. He screamed on impact, fell into the ring, and tripped over Mikey, who still hadn’t budged. With Rocco prone, and holding his testes for comfort, Mikey found the strength to drape an arm over him. I stopped Grunge from interfering, and the referee made the historic count. One, two, three, and ECW had new tag team champions. There was a whole tour of Japanese wrestling fans sitting ringside at the show, and when I saw them, I hopped the rail and celebrated, as the Japanese media flashed away. I had no idea then just how much I’d see the Japanese fans and their press in the future.
Victor Quinones was a longtime promoter from Puerto Rico, who was booking talent for a small blood-and-guts group in Japan, called IWA. I received a call from him about coming to Japan and competing in their death matches that featured barbed wire and a variety of other torturous devices. I told him that I’d pass. At that time, I was having fun in ECW and was being booked around the country, and I had no desire to have my body torn to shreds. I really had no idea just how shredded I would become.
I had a weekend of matched for the ECW in November, and decided to bring Dewey along with me. He was two and a half years old, and I figured it would be a great bonding time for father and son. He enjoyed the trip, and even rolled around the ring a little when we got to the small arena in Hamburg, Pennsylvania, that the World Wrestling Federation had used to tape television in before it went big-time. I bailed out of the ring to do a telephone interview, during which I told the interviewer that the two most important philosophies in life were simple ones learned in childhood: “He who smelt it, dealt it,” and “Bang bang, you’re dead.” Actually, I find the whole “He who smelt it” theory to be full of holes, as is its counterpart, “He who denied it, supplied it.” In reality, especially in wrestling dressing rooms, the dealer of a gaseous emission is more likely to exit the room, and leave others to enjoy it, or else laugh with pride-thereby shooting the denial theory to pieces.
I was booked in Hamburg with Sabu. The two of us had become a hot ticket around the country, and I certainly was earning my money. We had engaged in more than a few classic battles, including one at the Silver Nugget in Las Vegas that included a foray into the casino area. I piledrove Sabu onto the blackjack table, sending gamblers scurrying and chips flying. Looking back at it, however, it may not have been the wisest decision in the world-if we had been at a bigger casino, with more money at stake, there is the possibility we could have been physically punished for our action.
I pumped myself up mentally for a long time in Hamburg. Dewey was fast asleep in the dressing room on a mattress made out of ring robes and turnbuckle pads. Sabu’s music was playing when I heard a faint sound. My son had awakened, and he didn’t seem pacified by the shaved heads and wild outfits all around him. He started to cry softly at first, but with progressively more volume, until it escalated into a full-blown tantrum. “This can’t be happening,” I said out loud, as I could feel my entire hour of mental preparation sailing away. I tried to comfort the little guy, but he was beside himself, and I could hear “Born to Be Wild” booming from the loudspeakers. I had to go. I kissed my son goodbye, placed him in the arms of the towering wrestler named 911, and walked sadly out the door.