Authors: Mick Foley
Brett had reached an agreement to wrestle Shawn for the good of the company, but only with the understanding that the belt would not change hands in Montreal. He walked to the ring that night with the understanding that the match would be disqualified due to interference from the Hart Foundation, which consisted of brother Owen and brothers-in-law Davey Boy Smith and Jim Neidhardt. What actually happened was far more interesting.
As I’ve said before, people can say what they want about Shawn, and a lot of it might be true, but no one questions his in-ring abilities. With two of the top stars of this generation at their peak, the bout was shaping up as a match-of-the-year contender. The Montreal fans were solidly behind Brett, who was something of a national hero in his native country. Then in a moment, everything seemed to fall apart. The match had for the most part been a one-sided affair, as Shawn was receiving punishment from the Hitman both in and out of the ring. Shawn had momentarily stopped Brett and placed him in the Hitman’s own sharpshooter submission. This was interesting, but not all that strange until I saw referee Earl Hebner calling for the bell. The bell rang, and Hebner quickly sprinted from the ring and into a waiting automobile that whisked him away from the arena. Brett and Shawn both seemed dumbfounded. Shawn was handed the belt and was ordered by Vince McMahon to “get the hell out of here.” Brett later labeled Shawn as a co-conspirator in the title change, but if true, he did a good job of hiding it as he reached the backstage area. “There is no way I’m accepting his fucking belt like this,” the Heartbreak Kid yelled. “This is bullshit.”
Back in the ring, Brett started to sense that he’d been swerved out of his title. Confusion turned to anger when that realization sunk in and the Hitman spotted Vince at ringside. Not knowing what else to do, he launched a wad of spit that hit Vince high on the right side of his face. The crowd was still in a state of disbelief when the Hart Foundation joined Brett in the ring and gave support to the man who had given fourteen years of his career to the World Wrestling Federation, only to have the organization screw him over.
The backstage area was also in a state of disbelief. Actually, a state of shock might be a more accurate description. I was really upset by what I had just seen. “You don’t do that to a guy like Brett Hart,” is all I could say for minutes, as I repeated it over and over. I began to get angrier as time went by. “How can they expect me to work here after this?” I said to Pat Patterson, who was visibly upset by what had just transpired.
“I know, I know,” said Pat, with tears welling up in his eyes. “I can’t believe it myself.” I wasn’t mad at Pat, but gave him a message to give to my boss, who, at that specific time, I detested. “Tell Vince that I’m not coming to work tomorrow.” Several other wrestlers also echoed my sentiments about not wanting to work for the company. I saw Vince Russo, our head writer, who also looked greatly stressed. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” I said to Russo, without knowing that he’d been innocent of the deception. Russo later told me that those words hurt him worse than anything he’d ever experienced.
I stormed out of the arena with Ronnie Gaffe in tow. We got in the car, and I was not shy about letting my feelings be known. “I’m not working for this damn company anymore,” I spat out emotionally. Ronnie, for his part, was devastated, not only because he’d seen his hero’s brother get screwed, but because he could sense his long-anticipated wrestling road trip “vacation” falling apart. “Cactus, please,” he begged me, “think about what you are saying.”
“I have thought about it, Ronnie,” I shot back, “and I’m not going to work.” When I got to my hotel, I placed a series of phone calls.
I called Jim Ross first, and left a message that said, “Tell Vince I’m not coming to work. I’m sick to my stomach, and don’t feel like I can work here anymore. If you have any questions, you can call me at the Quality Inn.”
Next I dialed Brett, who was staying in another hotel. He wasn’t in, but I left a message repeating sentiments I’d explained to Ross, and giving him my support. I then tried Owen’s room and was relieved to find him in. “What happened?” I asked.
“Well,” Owen said matter-of-factly. “Vince walked into Brett’s dressing room while Brett was getting changed. He apologized to Brett, but Brett told him, ‘Vince, I am going to take a shower. If you are still here when I get out, I’m going to punch you right in the fucking mouth!’”
“Well, did Vince leave?” I asked.
“No,” Owen replied, “he stayed there the whole time Brett was in the shower.”
“Well, what happened when he got out?” I wanted to know.
“Brett walked up and punched Vince right in the mouth,” he calmly told me. “Vince went down, and Shane [Vince’s son] tried to help him get his wits, and then they left.”
I wanted Owen to know that his family had my support. “Owen, I’m not going to the show tomorrow, and a lot of other guys aren’t either. Vince is going to at least have to apologize tomorrow or else he won’t have much of a company.”
By this time, Kane had walked in (we were splitting a room), and had heard much of what was said. He was also upset, but as a seven year veteran who had finally found a bankable gimmick, he was not in a position to walk out. I assured him that I understood his position completely, before noticing that my message light was on. I called the operator and was told that Jim Ross had returned my call.
I talked to J. R. for quite a while, and while not condoning what had just happened, he did try to explain the extenuating circumstances that surrounded it. “Mick, you’ve got to understand that Vince only did what he thinks is necessary for this company’s survival,” Ross told me.
I listened to everything he said, and a lot of it made sense, but nonetheless, my mind was made up. “Tell Vince that I’m not showing up,” was how I finished the conversation.
Next, I had the dubious distinction of informing my wife for the second time in a little over three years that I was walking out on a six figure salary. By this point, my figure was about double my WCW income, which made my distinction about twice as dubious. I told Colette of my plans and she seemed bewildered. “Are you sure, Mick? Things were going so well,” she said.
“It doesn’t matter, Colette,” I said. “I can’t work for people who would do this type of thing.”
She was sensitive to how I felt, but realistic as well. “Mick, what will we do for money?” she rightfully wanted to know.
“We don’t have to do anything,” I assured her. “We have enough money to live on for a long, long time. I can be at home and actually get to spend time with the kids, and I guarantee you when my contract expires in four years, there will still be a place in the business for a guy like me.”
Colette was sad, but she knew that my mind was made up, and that I believed in my cause. “Well, I guess I’m behind you then,” she said, before saying our goodbyes for the evening.
When I hung up, I noticed that the message light was on again. I called the operator and asked for my messages. “Mr. Foley, a Mr. McMahon called and wants you to call him back.”
“Oh, God,” I said to Kane. “Vince called. I’m sorry, but I just don’t think I could handle talking to him right now.” I lay awake for a long time that night thinking about the events of the evening. I couldn’t help but think that Vince, who had just been punched in the face, had thought enough of Mick Foley to call him when he heard of my decision.
At this point, I was cursing myself for having ridden with Ronnie. Without him, I would have caught the last flight out of Montreal to anywhere and been gone. Because of him, my rental car was in a garage that I couldn’t find and I was completely dependent on him to bring me back to my car in Hamilton. Ronnie was intent on traveling to the next two shows, even though from a Hart family perspective, the tour was over. So, while the rest of the crew left for television in Ottawa, I stayed behind in my hotel in Montreal.
I didn’t have much to do that day but think, and so I thought a lot. I still couldn’t quite believe what had happened the night before, but hoped that somehow things would work out. When Vince saw his depleted crew, he would be forced to fix things, and then I would be happy to rejoin the Federation. I began thinking about my decision to leave and realized that quitting the company amounted to a breach of my contract and that I would forfeit any moneys that were due to me. I didn’t mind sitting out for a year, but I sure didn’t want to lose money that I had already worked for. If I left with no notice, I would be out three months of Pay-Per-Views, six months of royalties, and one month of arena shows. That gave me cause to think about giving a three months’ notice, so at least I could get what was rightfully mine. Still, an apology or a rectification of the situation by Vince would make things a whole lot easier for me.
I watched Raw with great anticipation that night, but was devastated to see that instead of admitting their mistake, the World Wrestling Federation was actually playing it up. They were mocking Brett, and I was disgusted. One by one, I saw wrestlers appear on the screen who told me only one night earlier that they wouldn’t be working anymore. I realized that I had absolutely no pull-it was the difference between robbing a store with a real gun and robbing a store with a water pistol. My show of rebellion just wasn’t going to work. Surprisingly, the telecast had nothing but positive comments about Mankind.
Later that night, I received a call from Jim Cornette, and we talked for close to two hours. He made me see that even if none of us approved of what Vince had done, we had to understand that he did what he felt was best for the company. WCW was hell-bent on destroying Vince by any means necessary, and when it came to Vince McMahon, Ted Turner did indeed have very deep pockets. I had seen the World Wrestling Federation Women’s champion show up on Nitro with her belt, and throw it in the garbage. It wouldn’t be beneath the WCW to offer Brett a couple of hundred extra grand to do it as well. The Federation had always been able to make its world title mean something-without it, the company would be in a gigantic hole.
Finally, my decision came down to money. I respected Brett and I liked him a great deal personally, but I had to feel that he was going to be all right. He would have about two million a year to fall back on while I would have nothing. I just kept thinking of those figures. Two million to zero. Zero to two million. With great reservation, I showed up at TV tapings the following afternoon.
I was welcomed back with open arms, and my walkout was never brought up again. As a matter of fact, I received an unusually large payoff for Ottawa-larger still, when you remember that I wasn’t even there.
Apparently, Brett had really appreciated the gesture of respect that I had made, and made mention of it in several interviews I read. WCW had a gold mine waiting in Brett but, not surprisingly, failed to take advantage of it. Within months, due to office politics and creative differences, Brett was just another one of the guys. They literally wasted one of the greatest performers in the business. The Federation, on the other hand, used the strange event as a catalyst for greater ideas and ratings. The real-life screwing of Brett Hart was used as a springboard for Vince McMahon’s evil Mr. McMahon persona-a persona that helped propel the company to greater success than was once thought possible. The renegade Stone Cold Steve Austin persona now had the perfect foil to play off in the corporate scumbag Mr. McMahon, and house show attendance took off immediately.
Personally, I felt as if my career was at a crossroads. I knew that Vince was a big fan of both Mankind and the Dude, but I felt personally that Cactus Jack could draw the most interest and money. With a return of Cactus Jack in mind, I proposed a somewhat bizarre series of matches with my old friend and nemesis Terry Funk, which would culminate in a coup de grace of barbarity at WrestleMania.
I had been talking with Victor Quinones of my IWA Japan past, and he asked if I thought death matches would ever go over in the States. Now it’s just my personal opinion, but I find bloodletting and savagery between two friends to be less offensive than heavy sexual content. At least when it’s done well. I would never propose putting this type of match on Raw, but if it were on Pay-Per-View with a disclaimer, then I wouldn’t see anything wrong with it.
I came up with the idea of the best of seven death match tournament. Magnum TA and Nikita Koloff had enjoyed incredible success with this concept in the mid-eighties featuring regular matches, and I figured the added allure of danger would complement their concept nicely. I imagined a press conference where Terry and I would pull these ridiculous matches out of a fish bowl. “Mr. Funk has just chosen a bed of nails match,” the announcer would say. After six matches were picked, the fans would be allowed to choose the stipulations for the final showdown. Now, I’ll admit, I was going to tamper with the votes just a bit, so that the finale would be a rematch of our Kawasaki Stadium classic-a no rope, barbed wire, barbed wire board, C4 explosive, exploding ring death match. I pictured it airing on WrestleMania via satellite live from Terry’s Double Cross Ranch near Amarillo, Texas.
I thought I had a winner on my hands and I wanted badly to propose it, but first I had to make sure that I had an opponent to propose. I gave the Funker a call. Less than a year earlier, Terry had been brought in for a couple of shows and the Federation had vowed never to use him again. He had, on the air, called an announcer a “Yankee bastard,” and had referred to Vince as a “goddamn son of a bitch!” The company had been somewhat less than thrilled with him, but hell, looking back, Terry’s verbal rampage had been a precursor of sorts for the current Raw show. The words he had been reprimanded for were pretty common utterances for the new Federation “attitude” and I thought that maybe they’d give the “goddamn Texas bastard” another try. I called Terry up and ran my idea by him. His answer was simple. “Cactus, I would love to work with you again.”
Now came the hard part-pitching the idea to Vince. I requested a meeting with him, and we met along with Bruce Pritchard and Jim Ross after television tapings in a dressing room in Columbus, Ohio. I tried to stress the human drama aspect over the blood and guts, although I freely admitted there would be plenty of that also. I also wanted him to know that the quality of matches would be what counted, and I personally gave him my guarantee that they would be top-notch. I proposed that the series of matches would cover the January, February, and March Pay-Per-Views, with March being the WrestleMania blow-out. The other four tournament matches could take place after television tapings, with cameras still rolling so that the highlights of the ring atrocities could be aired. I also speculated that a home video of the death match tournament would bring in big money.