Authors: Mick Foley
I also found my stock dropping in other independent organizations. I had been off national television for over a year, and though I hate to admit it, many people had either forgotten about Cactus Jack or didn’t care all that much. As a result, I had lowered my price and, once at the show, no longer sold the same quantities of merchandise. Polaroid business was slowing down as well, and while it never got close to the Gordy in Chattanooga level, there were many times when my ego took a little beating.
So I guess my decision to meet with World Wrestling Federation came down to two simple things: physical and financial well-being.
The Federation at that time, however, was far from wrestling utopia. Crowds were down, morale was down, and paychecks were down. I had heard horror stories from the road about Canadian trips where guys hadn’t even made enough to meet their road expenses. Wrestlers were at one another’s throats, and there were deep divisions among groups of guys in the dressing room. Shane Douglas, who had left ECW months earlier with high hopes for his World Wrestling Federation chances, was now miserable. “Abort mission” was one of Shane’s more pleasant messages, as he pleaded with his longtime friend not to follow down the same lamentable path that he had taken. In truth, Shane was at least partly to blame for his Federation woes, as he had let Vince change him from the dynamic, intense Franchise into the monotone, drippy Dean. Now don’t get me wrong. A guy with a good vocabulary who thinks he’s smarter than anyone can be annoying, but it was not exactly the type of thing that would inspire me to buy a ticket. “Hey, Jimmy, I was watching wrestling, and there was this really smart guy on there-let’s go buy a ticket” was not a conversation that I envisioned kids around the country having. No, I wasn’t going to fall into the same trap that Shane had-I was too smart for that. Vince was going to get Cactus Jack the way I wanted him-or else, dammit, he wasn’t going to get him at all.
I drove to Stamford, Connecticut, that day with lots of questions on my mind. In an uncanny coincidence, I was wearing the same sport coat that I had met Ted Turner in. Actually, maybe the coincidence wasn’t quite that eerie, as it was the only sport coat that I owned. The prospect of meeting Vince McMahon was definitely unnerving. This was the same guy that I had been watching since I was a kid, and he was definitely a larger-than-life character. In addition, Vince was the man responsible for starting the wrestling revolution in the mid-eighties. By combining a bold vision with a savvy marketing plan, Vince had gambled everything to turn his father’s regional northeast territory into an international powerhouse. His product had infuriated wrestling purists and most old-time promoters, who felt that Vince had turned their beloved sport into a circus. He had taken a low-class, vulgar, and bloody sport and turned it into clean family entertainment. Under those conditions, Cactus Jack was not exactly the old Federation’s cup of tea. Now, with business down, and with society rejecting McMahon’s dated vision, he was in the beginning stages of spicing up his product. In some ways, just bringing in Cactus Jack for a meeting was evidence of the Federation’s new “attitude.”
I walked into Titan Towers, an ominous-looking, eight-story structure of glass and steel, and I was shown to Vince’s office. This itself was a dubious distinction, as I had been told for years that if Vince really wanted you, he’d have you brought to his house. Still, at least I had a meeting with J. J. F’ing Dillon. I swear, Dorothy had an easier time getting an audience with the Wizard of Oz.
Vince walked into the office looking fit and wealthy. I don’t know if that’s a proper way to describe a man, but that was the impression that I got. I’d met Vince fleetingly when I did my World Wrestling Federation matches in 1986, but this was over nine years later, and if Vince had remembered our little encounter, he was doing a good job of hiding it.
“Mike, how are you?” boomed the voice-the same voice that I had heard call so many matches from my childhood. Ooh, that wasn’t a good sign. I hadn’t been called Mike since the early seventies and didn’t really enjoy it then. I didn’t want to correct him, especially within the first nine seconds of meeting-it would be almost like telling the President he had mustard on his chin. So, instead of speaking up once and correcting the small inaccuracy, I allowed myself to be called the wrong name for two hours.
Actually, other than the “Mike” thing, which we could work around, I hit it off well with Vince. So well, in fact, that we went over to his house, where I borrowed a pair of Vince’s trunks and did cannonballs and belly flops into the McMahon pool while Vince flipped hamburgers on the grill. Okay, maybe not that well-maybe there were no burgers, cannonballs, trunks, or home visit-but at least we were cordial.
Vince explained some of the company’s past problems to me and how those problems had affected business. A federal steroid trial, in particular, had been especially damaging. Vince was eventually cleared of all charges, but the length of the trial, cost, and energy involved had badly damaged the company and its public perception. Vince told me that the company had actually wanted to change gears and adopt a rougher style much earlier but had found it necessary to maintain a clean image during the aftermath of the trial. Now he was ready to forge ahead, and the timing seemed right to bring in the Hardcore Legend.
I guess I was lucky to have escaped the ECW curse, because it seems that many of the ECW mainstays have floundered and looked out of their league when they jumped to the big two. Much of the time, there is a stigma that surrounds them, and a negative feeling toward them in the dressing room. Vince had sent out feelers, and I found out later had actually gotten positive feedback from some of his bigger stars, like the Undertaker and Kevin Nash. Actually, it was the Undertaker who was most instrumental in my hiring … in more ways than one.
I loved the Undertaker’s character and had been a fan of it since its debut at the 1990 Survivor Series. I had actually known the ‘Taker quite well, and rode and roomed with him back in his Mean Mark Callous days. Over the years since, I had run into him on the road a few times and had always been happy to catch up on old times. The Undertaker seemed to have suffered over the past few years, however, due to a lack of decent opponents who could generate interesting feuds. The Giant Gonzalez experiment, in particular, yielded some tough-to-watch matches. At six-foot-nine, and over 300 pounds, Undertaker was one of the largest men in the business, but his last several years had been spent feuding with wrestlers who were either taller or heavier. With the exception of Yokozuna, who ‘Taker had done big business with, none of these feuds was able to capture people’s imagination.
The idea that Vince had was to match Undertaker up with someone who could get inside his head and could threaten him mentally as well as physically. Vince assured me of his ambitions for this “marriage” by saying that my interviews would really put this thing over. He was so convincing in his accolades for “Mike,” as both a wrestler and a human being, that I couldn’t wait to become part of the World Wrestling Federation family, even if the money stank and the guys in the dressing room hated one another. Then Vince spoke again.
“We’ve got a gimmick for you, Mike, and it involves putting you under a hood,” Vince said with a big smile, as I felt my heart sink to the bottom of my stomach. A hood was a mask, and outside of Mexico and Japan, a mask was a death knell for a career. Hell, a mask was something the underneath guys wore at Center Stage, when they didn’t want their friends and family to know that they were losing on TV. I may have been in awe of Vince, and willing to let him call me the wrong name, but this time I had to speak up.
“Vince, I always felt that my facial expressions were part of my charm-why would you want to cover me up?” It was then that Vince showed me a sketch of a hood that more closely resembled something from The Man in the Iron Mask. The mask was actually an idea that was first brought up for the Undertaker after he’d suffered a fracture of his orbital bone and needed a mask to protect his face. Instead of putting the ‘Taker in a hockey mask, Vince had requested several ideas for a mask that would add to instead of detract from his image. The drawing I was shown was actually a reject from the Undertaker project that Vince had saved for future reference. Apparently my name had come up some time later, and Vince thought that “Mike” Foley might just have found his niche in the World Wrestling Federation.
I looked at the sketch and picked it up to study it more closely. The mask was actually quite a bit different from the one I would eventually wear. It definitely appeared to be made of metal, with small iron bars caressing my mouth, Hannibal Lecter-style. I could see some possibilities in the sketch, but my heart was still feeling a little low in my gut. “Vince,” I asked with confusion in my voice, “why can’t I just be Cactus Jack? “
Vince tried to be comforting but failed miserably with his words. “Mike, you’ve got to understand that the average fan sees wrestling as a glut of performers who seem to blend together. It is hard for our licensees to get behind our products, and hard for us to push your characters if there is no distinction between the competition and us. We feel that with this unique character, we can market Mike, and make Mike a bigger star than he’s ever been.” His words made sense, and in retrospect the marketing of Mankind has been a great success, but at the time, I was thinking something altogether different. Not only did Vince not want the Cactus Jack I wanted to give him-he didn’t want him at all. Poor Mike. He wasn’t happy.
Our meeting ended with me holding on to my sketch and trying to hold on to my lunch. I told Vince that I really liked his idea, when actually I was secretly wishing that he had come up with an amnesia angle. J. J. F’ing Dillon walked in and handed me a contract, which I took-but I was sure that I’d never sign. In addition to the lame gimmick I’d been handed, the World Wrestling Federation contract called for no guaranteed money at all-just an opportunity. The opportunity may have seemed enticing back in the days when his wrestlers were on Saturday morning cartoons, but with the knowledge that Federation “superstars” were having trouble paying for their rooms in Red Deer, Canada, I began thinking that Mr. Asano’s offer was not that bad after all.
I arrived home and gave the bad news to Colette. Surprisingly, she liked the idea of the new character and began pointing out the possibilities. Colette has a creative mind, and as I mentioned, had been partly responsible for the Cactus Jack transformation from goof to monster back in 1990. She laid out some pretty wild images, and I began to see some possibilities. Then again, these thoughts were coming from a woman who thought Mick Foley was sexy, so how good could her opinion be? I thought about it for quite a while before calling up J. J. F’ing Dillon. I thanked J. J. for having thought of me and told him I had enjoyed my visit to Stamford, but that I didn’t think the idea would work and that I would go on living life as Cactus Jack. I’ve got to admit that part of me felt really good about me telling him that I wasn’t interested in the World Wrestling Federation.
A few hours later I received a call from Jim Ross, who talked to me for two hours about my decision. He was honest about the plusses and minuses of the Federation and convinced me of Vince’s sincerity in pushing the new character. I told him of my semicommitment to Japan and of my desire to continue working in ECW until I actually began on television with the Federation. We worked out a deal where I would start on television after WrestleMania, and I would begin a full-time schedule in early May. In the meantime, they would start airing vignettes to introduce their audience to this new character.
I drove to New York City a few days later to be fitted for my mask. The mask maker was a peculiar little Orthodox Jewish guy named Stanley who operated out of his fifth-floor apartment. At first, I was driving around looking for a huge neon sign saying “Masks R Us” or something similar, but I eventually made my way to his strange lair, where I was given hot herbal tea with honey before having plaster poured all over my face to make a mold for my mask. The concept for the mask had changed quite a bit in the last few days. Stanley explained that their sketch would never actually work correctly, so he had modified it with hinges around the mouth. Thankfully, the Hannibal Lecter bars were gone from the mouth, as was the whole metal concept. Instead, it was a light brown rawhide leather mask with a mouth I could actually move. The almost-black color that I now sport is a result of three years of sweating. Needless to say, wearing the mask is not the most pleasant experience in the world.
I left Stanley’s and headed several blocks away to the seamstress’s office, where an elaborate costume had been made. Afterward, I drove to Stamford for a follow-up meeting with Vince. We talked at length about ideas for the character, and he seemed responsive to most of them. In some ways, I was actually looking forward to changing characters it would give me a chance to grow and try out some new things.
For one thing, I felt like I needed a new finishing move. The double arm DDT was fine, but I wanted something more sinister. A long time ago, when I was flying onto the concrete and rolling guys into the ring for the pin, I approached Jim Cornette about getting a new finish. “I’m dying, Corny,” I told him. “I just can’t drop elbows every night. Can you think of something that doesn’t hurt me and doesn’t require a whole lot of strength?” One of the keys to a good finish is that you should be able to put it on anyone, anywhere, at any time. The tombstone piledriver for example, was a move that the Undertaker had not been able to use in over two years, because all his opponents were up in the 400-pound range. The Stone Cold stunner, on the other hand, can be done all day long on any day to any guy. Cornette was like a wrestling encyclopedia, and if anybody could think of a simple, effective finish, it would be him. “Cactus,” he said, smiling, “have you ever heard of the mandible claw?”
I stood with Corny like a student looks to a teacher, as Jimmy laid out not only the biomechanics and philosophy of the hold, but the history behind it as well. “Cactus,” Corny began, “in the old Tennessee territory, there was a wrestler named Dr. Sam Shepard. He was the physician that the TV show and movie The Fugitive were based on. He was accused of killing his wife, and even though there were really weird circumstances surrounding the case, he was convicted and put in jail. Eventually, his verdict was overturned, but because of his notoriety, the poor guy couldn’t work as a physician anymore. He went to work in a small, Southern wrestling circuit, and, using his knowledge of the human anatomy, developed a finishing hold called the mandible claw.”