Authors: Mick Foley
A minute later, and Terry picked me up for the powerbomb. The timing was off and Terry didn’t get me very high, but he brought me down right in the middle of the tacks, and the crowd went wild. Gordy turned to the fans and did his unique celebratory dance, while I picked up a handful of tacks. When Terry turned to me, I threw the tacks at his face. When he covered up, I gave him a boot to the stomach and a DDT into the box for the win.
It had been a tremendous match, and I was exhausted, but happy. With the exception of his hand, Terry had escaped thumbtack free. In contrast to my press conference prediction, it was actually I who had turned into the world’s largest pincushion. After the match, I was interviewed for the King of the Death Match commercial video, which would be a huge success around the world, despite the fact that I never received a dime for it. My interview was strong, as I praised Gordy for having taught me a valuable lesson, but it couldn’t match Terry’s for its verbiage and delivery: “Fuck, I can’t believe that fucker beat me. Fuck!”
I retreated to the dressing area, where I was shocked to find that there was no water, soda, juice, or beverages of any kind. I looked around to see if Bill Watts had secretly taken over. I ended up going into the concession area, where a fan was more than happy to buy a sports drink for the bleeding, sweating Cactus Jack.
The danger man, Shoji Nakamaki, had defeated Ono in their match, so a short while later, I looked on with great interest as two huge beds of nails were brought to ringside. I had only seen one other bed of nails match, featuring the team of Nakamaki and Ono against two Leatherfaces, and it had been obscene in its brutality.
Mike Kirschener had been the original Leatherface, for the FMW promotion in Japan. He’d had a short run in the World Wrestling Federation as Corporal Kirschener in the mid-eighties, but their attempt at making him a new Sergeant Slaughter had failed, and he had been drifting in the business for years before catching on in Japan. He was a nice guy, but he had a short fuse, and two years earlier an argument that he had not started ended with him punching a Japanese man in the face. The punch had been so devastating that the man’s face had been almost destroyed, and Kirschener spent six months in a Japanese jail as a result.
During his incarceration, Rick Patterson from Canada was suited up for the popular Leatherface gimmick, and had moved to IWA when Victor Quinones jumped ship. Six months later, with Kirschener returning, the tag team of the Leatherfaces was formed. They only lasted one match-the bed of nails. Kirschener was pretty adamant about not losing in his return to the ring, and when he did, he became incensed. “Let’s get these bastards,” Kirschener yelled in his deep gravelly voice. Kirschener had ripped off a piece of the board (no small feat) and had handed it to Patterson to press down on Ono’s neck. Now the secret of the nails, if there is such a thing, is to try to land on as many of the nails as possible. By doing this, no one nail has the chance to do serious damage. Kirschener was about to prove that theory’s flipside-fewer nails equals more damage-as he yelled “Hold him there, I’m gonna drop a fuckin’ leg on him.” Patterson was a kind human being, and he tried to hold the board steady, to minimize the impact. No such luck however, as the former Corporal came down full force, and drove the nails dangerously deep into Ono’s neck. It wasn’t enough. “Let’s give him a fuckin’ powerbomb” he ordered. Ono fought the powerbomb, but Kirschener was not to be denied, and he flipped him up, and dropped him down on the brutal, nail-filled board. He was fired immediately.
Now, I’m not a sadist, and I don’t take liberties, but this was a big match, and people were expecting big things. Luckily, the Danger Man loved this type of thing. The hot afternoon sun was giving way to a somewhat cooler evening as I took to the ring. Nakamaki stepped in and the bed of nails, barbed wire board match was on. I put the boots to good old Shoji, and then threw him outside. I set up one of the wire boards against the ring and whipped him toward it. He reversed it and I hit the board but bounded right back with a clothesline. The Insane Clown Posse, a rap group that later appeared in the World Wrestling Federation, released a commercial video of the match that contained some unique commentary. “He shoots Cactus Sack [my name in their version-my father was Prickly Balls] into the barbed wire, but look, it doesn’t even faze the toothless bastard.” Actually not much was fazing me that day-I was “in the zone.”
I was putting a beating on Nakamaki, but was taking some punishment as well. I slammed him inside the ring on the barbed wire board, and went for a big elbow. Shoji moved and it was I who now landed on the wire. Years later, even Paul Bearer winced when he saw the tape and saw wire sticking in my shoulder as I tried to get up. I took some Nakamaki headbutts (his big move) but came right back, and dropped him on the wire. It was time to introduce the bed of nails. I slid it into the ring and propped it up in the corner as the crowd began to buzz. I grabbed the bleeding Danger Man and, standing above him, attempted to grind his head into the nails. Bleeding was part of Nakamaki’s gimmick. Don’t feel bad for him, he would have bled that night even if I’d never touched him. To many in the strange Japanese subculture of “garbage wrestling,” scar tissue was seen as a badge of courage, and many young wrestlers set about getting that badge by any means necessary. To be honest, my career had benefited greatly from my scarred arm-it made me “legitimate” in many fans’ eyes.
Nakamaki scooted out backward through my legs and delivered a headbutt. I fell into the bed. “Uhwahh,” the crowd loved it. Another headbutt, another fall, another “uhwahh.” The nails pierced my skin, and pain shot through my body, but it honestly wasn’t that bad. I was rocking and reeling, but I stopped him and threw him to the infield grass. We were right by the second bed of nails, and when I picked him up, they stood in unison to see the impact of flesh on pointed steel. Instead, I slammed him somewhat harmlessly on the stadium infield. I could hear the disappointment from the fans. But I had a definite plan, and it didn’t include something as mundane as a simple slam on the nails. No, they deserved more. By God, I was getting paid $300 for the day ($100 per match), and I was going to give the fans and Asano every penny’s worth. I lifted the board, leaned it over Nakamaki, and then quickly hopped to the ring apron. The crowd was on its feet again. I think they could smell what I was cooking. I raised my arm toward the heavens and took off on my familiar twostep course down the apron. Nakamaki was only eight feet away, but in this case, distance didn’t matter-he was under a bed of F’ing nails! I took off and landed hard. I tried to take care of the poor guy, but I’d be lying if I said I cared more about his physical well-being than about the well-being of the videotape. His pain would go away, eventually-the video wouldn’t. And besides, in an attempt to ease my conscience, “This guy loves it.”
Actually he didn’t look like he was feeling a whole lot of love as he lay there writhing on the ground. My experience with the nails hadn’t been too bad, but I couldn’t say the same for Nakamaki. The nails had dug in deep in a couple of spots, and he was in considerable pain. “Okay, okay,” he assured me, when I asked him how he was.
The ending was less than smooth, as I attempted to superplex him off the top rope onto the boards. Nakamaki was a notorious “sand bagger” who was almost impossible to lift off the ground. Instead I gave him a sloppy-looking, low suplex in the ring, and finished him with a DDT on the barbed wire board. Two down, one to go.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the bracket, Terry Funk had defeated Leatherface in a chain match, and Tiger Jeet Singh in a glass match, when my interference backfired. Tiger was another veteran of Japan, and in some ways a legend also, but to me, he was sis of Terry Funk. Terry had become an icon through thirty years of blood, sweat, and tears, while Tiger had done it with a few wins over Antonio Inoki, back when Inoki never lost. Terry stayed “over” by constantly giving to other people. He gave of his heart, his wisdom, and his kindness. Tiger stayed “over” by taking.
I had been on the cover of the Japanese wrestling magazine Baseball the week of the tournament. Don’t ask me why they call it Baseball. I don’t know. I also don’t know why such a technologically advanced country has little porcelain holes in the ground to poop in instead of toilets. The few toilets they did have tended to be luxury models, with heating devices and bidets. I don’t know why. I also don’t know why their versions of respected news magazines had nude centerfolds. I do know why Tiger stayed over, however-he was smart. He saw me on the cover of Baseball magazine and immediately convinced Asano to team the two of us up. As soon as Asano gave the go-ahead, he called a press conference. Even though he was still in his underwear, he had photographers shoot our “training” session, which included “beating up” a couple of young boys in the ring. I’m sure the Japanese fans saw it as an example of the wild Tiger on the loose. My wife, however, saw it another way. When I returned home, she took one look at Tiger’s picture and said, “Who is the old guy with his balls showing?” Sure enough, upon closer viewing, I could see the great Tiger’s wrinkly sack peeking through his BVDs.
Tiger had taken me out to eat with him on the first night of the tour. Twenty years earlier, when wrestling was on primetime TV in Japan, the foreigners who were stars were able to attract “sponsors” who took care of them. The sponsors would wine and dine them, and often give them huge sums of money for the pleasure of their company. It was almost like prostitution, but without the sex. In the current era, sponsors were simply fans who took us out to eat, but a number of old stars like Tiger had held on to their old contacts.
We were picked up in Ikebekuro by a friend of Tiger’s in a Cadillac, which was a very rare luxury in Japan. We drove two hours to Kobe and along the way Tiger was giving instructions on how to act in front of the sponsors. “Don’t shake hands. Look at me. Do what I do,” Tiger kept coaching me on the way to the restaurant. When we got there, I undoubtedly had the best meal of all my tours. The Korean barbecue was unreal, and I ate with gusto, until my belly swelled with satisfaction. Now I wanted to go, but apparently it wasn’t time yet.
I sat there while the others talked, and I thought about the Yakuza. The only things I knew was that they sported tattoos over their entire upper bodies (kind of like the World Wrestling Federation dressing room) and had part of their pinky finger cut off as a sign of either loyalty or disloyalty. I looked across the table at my three new buddies, and tried to inconspicuously check out their fingers. I felt like I did when I was trying to look down Irene Farugia’s cleavage in tenth grade. There they were-no finger, no finger, no finger. I could hear Ricky Nelson singing again, but I had no way to leave.
Hours later, after hearing no English except for a stunning karaoke version of “Green, Green Grass of Home,” it was time to go. I saw Tiger walk up to our sponsors and shake their hands. Hey, I thought that was a no-no. When he did, I heard the unmistakable crumple of paper money being exchanged. Predictably, there were no handshakes or exchanges of crumpled money for the Hardcore Legend. On the way back to Tokyo, I promised myself that I would never do it again. From then on, I stuck to my sponsors-normal fans who would pick up the tab. Most of the time, I drank Met-Rx or paid for myself.
A friend asked me one time how much money I spent during a week in Japan. I asked him to guess, and having heard of outrageous Japanese food prices, he aimed high. “A thousand?” he asked.
“No,” I replied, “it’s a little lower than that.”
“Eight hundred?”
I shook my head. After he’d guessed a couple more figures, I broke the news. “I spend about a hundred a week.”
“A hundred,” my astonished friend blurted out. “That’s only $15 a day.”
I smiled and said, “I know, I go to Japan to make money, not to spend it.” On this night at the Kawasaki Stadium, however, I was hoping, in addition to money, that I would be bringing as much of myself home as possible.
I looked in the mirror, and saw a weary man looking back. I had a large gash over my right eye, and considerable swelling underneath it. My left arm was slightly cut, and my back was killing me. I really wasn’t even going to try to have a good match-I was just going to try to get through it. I could still hear those C4 explosions in my mind, and they still scared the hell out of me, despite the Funker’s assurances. I though of Colette, Noelle, and Dewey at home. I missed them terribly and wanted to see them. I was looking forward to my posttour ritual of a Japanese chocolate bar and ice cream in my bed. I was looking forward to the trip home, even if it would be spent jammed into seat 26B. I sat down on my bench and said a prayer.
I walked into the dugout. It was nightfall, and with the humidity all but gone, it had turned into a beautiful starry evening. The semi main event was in the ring, Tarzan Goto against ultimate fighting champion Dan “the Beast” Severn. Years later, in Chattanooga, I asked Owen Hart how his match with the Beast had gone. Owen said, “He’s a nice guy.”
I stopped and called to Owen, who was walking away. “Owen, I didn’t ask you what kind of guy he was, I asked how the match went.”
Owen smiled and gave his little chuckle, which I will miss hearing very much. The answer came back, “He’s a really nice guy.”
Dan never really could make the transition from ultimate fighting to sports-entertainment. On this night, however, he and Goto were having a hell of a match, and the crowd was eating it up. I stepped back into my dressing room to make some final mental preparations, but I couldn’t help feeling good for Dan. He really was a nice guy.
When I went into the ring I was still scared, but filled with a feeling of power that was not unlike my feeling of being on top of the scaffold in Fort Worth six years earlier. Some of the fans were chanting “Cock-toos-uh,” but most of them were physically and mentally worn out from hours of sunshine and bloodshed. The Funker arrived in the ring to his decades-old theme music, and chants of “Telly, Telly.” He looked old and worn out. Hell, he was old and worn out. His shirt was spattered with blood from his previous match’s tumble into the plate glass. It went without saying that Terry would be the guy taking the bump in the glass-it wasn’t Tiger’s style. Once again, Terry had given, and Tiger had taken.