Authors: Mick Foley
The bell rang, and we stalked each other like Rocky and Apollo Creed in the last round of Rocky. Terry flicked out a couple of weak jabs that grazed my eye, and opened my gash slightly. It was tough to get a rhythm going. Barbed wire matches were tough enough, even without the added presence of boards laced with explosives in every corner. We tried to use the wire, and we tried to do some moves. We fought outside, and used the nonexplosive boards, and I even hit Terry with a half-used spool of barbed wire. We rolled back into the ring and Terry pulled one of the boards into the middle of the ring. Kawasaki Stadium started to buzz. This is what they came to see.
With the ominous board in the center of the ring, we picked up the pace. Punch for punch we went, and then I took over. Wham! A forearm staggered the grizzled veteran. Wham! Another one had him reeling. Terry was positioned directly in front of the board and was about to go down. Four more forearms to the head and the Funker finally fell, like a tree, onto the explosives blow. BABOOM! “Uhwahh!” It was just as loud, and just as scary as it had been in the outfield seven hours earlier. Scarier, actually, because my idol was lying in the middle of 30,000 people with his body shaking and his arm badly burned. I knew that we shouldn’t have allowed the extra explosives. I also knew that it would be my turn next.
I brought Terry to the wire strands on his hands and knees. I draped him over, and then took two steps back. I came with an elbow, but Terry moved out of the way, and I landed awkwardly on the wire with my back and triceps taking the brunt of the barbs. Terry picked me up and shot me into the wire. As I got closer, I became braver, to the point that I thought, “I’m going to take this whole side out.” I’d done this twice at Korakuen Hall, and it was impressive, but injuries were likely. I didn’t really care at this point; I was pretty banged up already. As it turned out, the point was moot-the wire was strung so well that my entire body barely even made it sag. Oh, it ripped me up, all right, it just didn’t look very good. The move bought Terry some time, however, and when I got up, another explosive board was in center ring, and Terry was waiting with a hip toss. Baboom! “Uhwahh!” “Wait, what’s this?” I thought, “I’m not even really hurt.” Apparently I had been rolling with the hip toss, and in the split second between impact and detonation, I had narrowly avoided most of the explosion.
Terry stayed on me and threw me outside. After a brief foray into the fans, he threw me back in the ring, and after a flurry of punches, hooked on the dreaded stepover toehold. Actually, it’s only dreaded in Japan; if you tried putting on this ancient, boring maneuver in the States, you might find yourself out of a job. The hold was so over in Japan, however, that people lost their minds. Then, just when things looked their worst, my savior, the Tiger, came to my rescue. He stopped Terry with the butt end of his sword, while I set up another board in the corner. Side by side, like the true teammates we were, we threw Terry to the corner. Baboom! “Uhwahh!” Terry was entangled in the wire, and in a bad way at the nine-minute mark. We had one minute until the ring was set to explode. My heart was racing as we faced the moment of truth.
Tiger retreated to the back, as I attempted pinfall after pinfall. Finally when the announcer started his ten-second countdown, I slid underneath the wire to watch this tremendous spectacle from outside the ring. Eight, seven, six-Terry tried to stand, but fell back down. The fans were screaming his name. Five, four, three-no matter what happened, or how long it took, I was going to have Terry kick out of my pin attempt. He would be known forever as the guy who kicked out of the ring explosion. Two, one-I covered my ears. Here it comes. Pfftt. The four explosions that went off looked like Roman candles. My old neighbor Marc Forte had put on a better fireworks show in his backyard in ‘76. The fans didn’t just fart on it, they looked as if they’d just smelled a giant fart. I felt the whole match slipping away. Terry just stood up with his arms out to his side, as if to say “Hey, it’s not my fault.” I tried my best to think of a way to save the match, and came up with only one solution. Terry had the same idea. Injuries were about to pile up. ‘
I stepped inside the ring and Terry was there. I put on a sloppy headlock that was really just a setup, and waited for Terry to counter. He lifted me slowly in the air in classic Funk style, and dropped me backward on the remaining explosive board. Baboom! “Uhwahh,” and “Owuggha!” The third sound was me screaming. I had landed in such a way that Terry’s damn middle explosives had gone off directly underneath my arm. I felt like I’d been shot. I should have stayed down forever, but I was so hurt and scared that I popped right up. Terry stayed down-a portion of the explosion had caught under his right triceps, and he was in considerable pain.
I called to the outside and looked under the ring for something to play with. I saw a toolbox and a stretcher, but pulled out a ladder instead. I rolled into the ring and shouldered the ladder lengthwise. As Terry turned, I charged him, and the impact to his head was so severe that I felt somewhat guilty. I got over it. I set up the ladder to the side of the fallen Funker. He was too close to land on, so I gave him a boot that moved him over. I ascended to the fifth step-about six feet in the air. The blood was really flowing from a cut in my hairline. It was so thick that it resembled more of a solid mask than a liquid. A friend of mine, who had been a photographer for Baseball for a decade, later said that even though she didn’t like blood, she thought my photos were beautiful in an artistic way. I stepped from the ladder and dropped a perfect elbow on Terry.
Terry was really hurting now. As I rolled off him, I could see the anguish in his eyes. I tried to talk to him, but his mumbling was incoherent. I climbed the ladder again, but as I approached the fifth step, Terry got up and fell into the ladder. I felt like the guy in the old F-Troop fort, as I felt the ladder tipping. I had talked with Terry earlier about doing this, but had actually envisioned myself sailing over the sharp wire and crashing down onto the floor. Well, the good news is, I didn’t crash onto the floor. The bad news is, I did fall into the barbed wire and the consequences were steep. I opened up an angry gash on my right hand and a huge gash that almost cost me my good ear.
It took me quite a while to get up, and when I did, Terry still wasn’t moving. He was still down on his back, and was obviously too hurt to continue. I crawled over and draped my arm over him for a somewhat anticlimatic victory. The audience was confused, but not disappointed. I had wrestled way too long and hard that day for my victory to be questioned. I was the King of the Death Match. Cameras flashed continually for the next several minutes, as the press followed my every move. I tried to shake Terry’s hand, in accordance with Mr. Asano’s wishes, but he was hustled out by the young boys before I got the chance. I was handed a huge trophy, which I held high overhead for all of Kawasaki to see. I put the trophy down, and haven’t seen it since.
While I celebrated, Terry was placed in an ambulance and rushed to the hospital. It was a truly touching scene as the adoring crowd reached out just to touch him, and chanted his name. Terry had done me a gigantic favor. Terry had only lost a couple of matches in the last decade in Japan, and a victory over the Funker was a huge milestone. Terry Funk, who had spent his entire career giving, had just given me a hell of a gift. I guess after all those years, maybe he really did see “shit” in me after all.
I walked slowly back to the dugout area that led to the dressing rooms. Before entering, I stepped onto one of the alternate rings, and delivered a final “bang bang.” I walked to the empty concession area, where I saw Mr. Asano. He was beaming, and rightfully so-this had been a huge success for his little promotion. I was covered in blood from head to toe, and had literally risked my life for his company. I thought he would surely recognize this. “Asano-san” I said, adding the san to his name as a sign of respect. “Big house today. Maybe sukoshi bonus?”
Asano smiled his $500 million smile at me as he put a 100 yen coin into the soda machine. “Cock-toos,” he began, his hand now reaching for the frosty beverage, “ha ha, here bonus.” I don’t know where the $300 I earned that day went, but I do know where my bonus went. I brought it unopened, back home, where it now occupies a place of honor in my bathroom closet. I don’t want to showcase it too much, but I do want to be able to look at it every now and then as a reminder of my past.
I answered questions for the Japanese media, while they took careful inventory of my injuries. They photographed my ear, my hand, my eye, and my head. Strangely, I hadn’t thought much about my arm since the explosion, although it did seem to bother me. When the media left, I was practically alone. I had time to think about just what had gone on in the stadium, and just what the kids would think when they saw their battered “Big Daddy-O” stumble in the front door. After careful reflection, I had the sudden revelation that maybe I too needed some medical attention. When I walked out the door, the screaming fans were gone. The ambulance was history. Only Masa, a faithful Tonto to my Kemosabe, had stayed behind. He explained that everyone had gone, and that he’d make sure I got back to Tokyo. We were in luck also, as the hospital was less than a mile away. So, without a trophy, but with my head held high, the King of the Death Match walked to the hospital with his sidekick Masa.
I was stitched up in the same room as Terry. He took some stitches in his head, and his triceps area was badly burned. I took seven stitches in my hand, nine in my eyebrow, eleven in my head, and fourteen behind my ear. Once again, I failed to acknowledge the injury to my arm, even though it was now throbbing with pain. When I returned to the Ikebekuru section of Tokyo, I phoned home and blatantly lied to Colette by telling her I was fine. “A little banged up, hon, but nothing serious.” I then had a small dinner with Masa, and headed to my room to count T-shirt money and eat ice cream in bed.
I arrived at the Tokyo airport the next morning and waited to board. I heard my name called and walked to the boarding desk. “Mr. Foley,” a woman explained, “you have been upgraded.” I didn’t know what to think. I had been upgraded without asking. I thought about it while I sat in my wide, comfortable business-class seat, and concluded that they simply must have felt sorry for me. We took off for JFK, and the woman next to me started to wiggle. She tried not to look at me, and when she did, she was clearly uncomfortable. I tried to put myself in her shoes, and the situation became a little clearer. I had prominent stitches in my eyebrow and head. My right cheek was a deeply swollen purple, and I had my left ear bandaged with gauze. To make matters worse, because of the stitches, I couldn’t shower, and my hair was particularly matted with dried blood. The dried blood was flaking and falling in small chips onto my shoulder. And to top. it all off, my right arm, which I finally deduced had been burned by the explosion, was now turning brown. The poor lady excused herself to go to the restroom, and oddly, after an hour, had not returned. I looked around, and saw her in the distance, resting comfortably somewhere in the vicinity of 21 C. This woman had paid a great deal of extra money to sit in business, but had made a conscious decision to sit in coach rather than be next to me. I kind of like that.
When I landed at JFK, my dad was there to pick me up. I shook his hand, and he guessed correctly that the previous evening had been a rough one. I deliberately kept my right arm, which was now a crusty brown, away from him.
I stepped into our rented house in West Babylon, and I was met by a big reaction of “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” Colette gave me a hug and quickly said, “What’s burning?” I played dumb, but Colette persisted. “God, Mick, that’s bad, was someone smoking next to you on the plane?” By this time, I was twisting into some strange positions to keep my wife, children, and father from seeing my arm. I swear, I hadn’t fought so hard to keep my high school Mohawk from being seen. My dad said goodbye, and when he stepped out the door, Colette was on me again. “Can’t you smell something burning, Mick? It’s awful.” I finally answered. “Yes, I do, Colette,” I admitted, as I turned my right arm to my wife, “it’s me.”
I was home for less than twenty-four hours before I flew to Las Vegas for an independent match with Sabu. I wrapped my arm as if I were Boris Karloff in The Mummy, but midway through the match, my mummification came undone. As the gauze unraveled, so did my brown, crusty skin, leaving me with a bright pink arm from my wrist to my shoulder. At the time, I thought for sure the scarring would be permanent, but due to proper wrapping and dressing, the results are barely noticeable.
The next day, I had a match outside Pittsburgh. More unraveling and more exfoliating. Afterward, I ran into some of the World Wrestling Federation guys in the hotel. They were in town for the next day’s Summers/am and actually seemed happy to see me. The next day, there were rumors circulating that Cactus Jack would be doing a run-in at Summers/am. On the plane ride home, a flight attendant looked at my arm and requested that I put on my sweatshirt “out of respect for the other passengers.”
I arrived home and four days later was summoned to ECW headquarters for some interviews. Actually, ECW headquarters was the basement of the company’s cameraman, where amid a run-down toy train and some hanging laundry, many of the ECW’s finest moments were filmed. Much of the time, Joey Styles “live at the ECW arena” was actually Joey Styles in front of a banner hiding an old washer and dryer. Still, for some reason, I found it an inspiring place, and I needed inspiration to explain my diabolical turn on poor Tommy Dreamer.
Actually, I thought about interviews all the time. Colette would often see me either zoning out or physically shaking, and she would know that I was cutting a promo. We would go to Armitraj gym, and she would catch me standing alone for minutes. While others were lifting and posing, I would be physically shaking as the power of the promo coursed through my veins. “Are you doing interviews?” she would say, and break me from my trance. I didn’t get any stronger at the gym, but I sure did think of cool stuff to say.