Authors: Mick Foley
The match continued for several minutes, and as the fog in my brain lifted, I realized that my right kidney area was in tremendous pain. A look at the videotape reveals that the kidney is where the initial contact with the table was made. As I mounted an offense, I followed up a piledriver on a chair with a leg drop that was given with that same chair placed over the ‘Taker’s face. When I landed, I was aware of the incredible pain. That kidney would actually hurt me for the next eight weeks.
After the leg drop, I stuck my opponent with a double arm DDT and bailed out of the ring to search for the “special surprise” that I had promised the fans. I returned with a large canvas bag. I reached into my special bag and withdrew it to reveal about a hundred silver tacks that sparkled in the light of the Pittsburgh Civic Arena (The Igloo). I scattered the tacks on the ground, and as the crowd stood in anticipation, I dumped the contents of the entire bag, revealing about 6,000 tacks in all. Since my introduction of thumbtacks into the world of sports-entertainment three years earlier, they had begun making their presence in small independent shows, but this was the first national exposure that the pushpins had garnered.
The crowd was truly caught up in the scene as I hammered away at the Phenom, and he seemed primed to fall when I hit the ropes for the final blow. Instead he caught me around the neck in preparation for the goozle, but a knee to his midsection got me free. I hit the ropes again, but this time was met with a big foot to the face. I didn’t go down, but bounced off the ropes again, only to be hoisted onto my opponent’s shoulder for his “tombstone” piledriver. I slid down his back and hooked on my finishing hold. “Mandible claw, mandible claw,” Jim Ross yelled. “No one holds more victories over the Undertaker than Mankind, and a good many of them came from that very hold.”
The Undertaker went down to his knees, and I slid behind him while still employing the claw. In an instant, though, ‘Taker had me on his back, in the exact same fashion that Vader had at Halloween Havoc in 1993. In this case, however, I wasn’t looking for my career to end-just the match, in what I hoped would be a dramatic fashion. The crowd was buzzing in expectation of the only logical conclusion to this predicament. BAM. There it was. The audience groaned as I writhed in pain among the tacks. I was up slowly with several hundred tacks sticking into my flesh and clothes. I was hit with a chokeslam that sent me right back into the shiny, metallic resting place from which I’d just risen. “My God, what else can be done? What else will the Undertaker do to Mankind?” yelled J. R., and the question was answered immediately as a tombstone spelled the end of what countless fans have told me was the greatest match they ever saw.
“Mercifully, this is over,” Lawler commented as the fans cheered in appreciation of the spectacle they had just seen.
For the next several minutes, highlights of the match were replayed as J. R. tried to sum up just what had taken place. “In twenty-five years, I have never witnessed anything even closely resembling this,” he stated. “These two gave you everything in their bodies. They gave you their souls here tonight,” and “This has been, perhaps, the most ungodly match that I think we will ever see.”
I lay there for a few minutes, as Francois, the Funker, and the referees checked on my condition. The EMTs brought a stretcher into the ring, and as they loaded me on, the camera showed me whispering to referee Mike Chioda. “Was I already on a stretcher once tonight?” Chioda, in a conversation I had no recollection of-even after he reminded me the next day.
“Yes, Jack, you were,” was Chioda’s reply.
“Then can you help me up, Mike. I don’t want to be on a stretcher twice in one night.”
With the assistance of Chioda and Terry Funk, I was then helped to the back, as a chorus of “Foley, Foley” made its way to my one and a half ears. J. R. then summed it up as I staggered through the curtain by saying, “How anyone could not admire the effort of this man, Mankind, Mick Foley, is beyond me.”
When I walked through the curtain, I was met by a sound of applause from the remaining wrestlers and a hug from Vince McMahon. Despite recent media portrayals of Vince, he was genuinely concerned with my well-being. I responded by talking way too much, way too fast, and way too intelligently for a guy who’d just been through hell. He had to have known that I was messed up. It was almost like a drunk driver who tries so hard to act sober that he gives himself away.
My in-ring conversation with Mike Chioda was not the only one I failed to recollect. Several days after the match, I asked the Undertaker if I had spoken to him afterward. He laughed as he recalled our discussion. “Did I use thumbtacks out there?” is apparently what I had come out with.
He looked at me still covered with the damn things and said, “Yes, you did, Jack, yes you did.”
“Oh, good,” I reportedly said, and walked away.
My evening wasn’t quite over yet, though. Francois put my shoulder back in its socket, helped me gain my bearings, and I limped out to play a part in the finish of the Kane vs. Austin match. When I came back through the curtain, I was led to a spare room by Dr. Frank who, without the aid of a local anesthetic, put fourteen stitches below my lip. Vince observed the whole process while a Federation cameraman caught the magic moment on film. Afterward, Vince walked with me to my dressing room. “Mick, I want you to know how much we appreciate everything you’ve done for this company,” he said sincerely, as I nodded blankly. “But please, promise me that I’ll never see you do anything like it ever again.”
It was now an hour after the conclusion of the saga, and I had forgotten one very important detail-my traditional post-match call to Colette. Even if I had remembered, it would have been impossible to call, as I had neglected to pay my phone bill and our line had been disconnected. She had actually packed up the kids, who had cried themselves to sleep, and taken them to our gym to await some word of my condition. I was just about to be taken to the hospital when Dave Hebner stopped me. “Cactus, your wife beeped me, and I just got off the phone with her. She’s very upset and she wants you to call her at the gym.” I was not quite ready for our conversation.
“You can’t do this to us, Mickey,” she cried-and when I say cried, I do mean cried. “Your children love you and you can’t do this to them. I love you and you can’t do this to me. Please. Promise me you won’t do this anymore.” I hadn’t apologized so much since I took Noelle on the Back to the Future ride at Universal and she thought the dinosaur had really swallowed us. For a long time, the trauma that this match caused my wife had me on the brink of retiring, and Hell in a Cell is still a sensitive subject at home. I watched the match today in preparation for writing about it, and it still, a year after the fact, made Colette cry. My children, however, now think the match is “cool.”
For a long time, however, Dewey and Noelle were haunted by the match-especially Noelle. Historically, many wrestlers have not “smartened up” their kids and have led them to believe that Dad is fighting for his life every night. From what I have seen of such cases, such psychology leads to nothing but problems, as children are petrified for their dad, only to later learn that he was a “liar” and a “phony.” In a few extreme examples, such deceit has led to long-term estrangement of father and children.
I approached the situation from an entirely different perspective. I told my kids that I never got hurt and that Daddy was simply “playing.” Hell in a Cell was the night that my kids learned that Big Daddy-O was a big liar, and as a result, they thought I was getting hurt all the time. For months I would talk to my daughter on the phone and she would say, “Good luck, don’t get hurt,” to which I would soothingly say, “Don’t worry, honey, I won’t.”
Inevitably, I would hear her little voice a moment later as it sadly said, “I know you’re going to get hurt.”
I went to the hospital after my phone call with my tooth in its cup of milk. This is done to keep the tooth vital. I have no idea how. After four hours, I emerged with my missing tooth shoved back into its hole and a plethora of dental wires to support it. I hadn’t even been aware enough to ask about several of the other body parts that hurt, in particular my kidney, which was throbbing with each step. I stumbled into the Red Roof Inn about 3 A.M. and Al Snow was sensitive enough to inquire about my condition without once using the word “hammer” or any imaginative way of describing his penis. Hell, he probably did, but I was just too out of it to notice.
I generally pride myself on how much punishment I can take without the aid of pain medication. For example, I was given a whole bottle of pain pills following my knee surgery and only took one pill in four days. I will admit, however, to taking so much medication after Hell in a Cell that I was in a stupor for the next two days. I looked like a cross between Popeye Doyle when he was strung out on smack in The French Connection II, and an audience after sitting through an Al Snow match.
When I got to the television taping the next day, Francois worked on my poor body for hours while I continually asked female wrestler Luna Vachon to check on the Pay-Per-View replay in the cafeteria. I stumbled into the cafeteria and took a seat. As I mentioned earlier, much of what I was seeing was new to me, and I was shaking with emotion while I watched it, despite my chemically induced condition. When the match ended, I was surprised to see the entire cafeteria, which was filled with the boys, give me a standing ovation. I have never before or since seen a videotape get a standing ovation. It felt very good.
Many people point to King of the Ring as the match that catapulted my career to the top. Actually, I found this not to be the case. To me the match with the Undertaker is kind of like the famous Willie Mays catch in the World Series over thirty years ago, in that it has grown in legend. A review of the cell match shows my entrance receiving almost no reaction, and even the chants of “Foley, Foley” in Pittsburgh were depressingly slight. In reality, I found my career to be somewhat sluggish after the famous showdown, with three specific moments sticking out as low points in my career.
Two weeks after the cell match, I was given interview time to hype an Undertaker rematch on the Federation’s new Sunday Night Heat television show on the USA network. I went out with mike in hand, and in my old ECW fashion tried to make the fans feel what it was like to have my career nearly end. Within forty-eight hours, I had gone from my daughter kissing me on the cheek at Santa’s Village “because you’re a good man,” to having my tooth sticking out of my nose. What I got from the crowd was apathy and disrespect. As I poured out my heart, fans were yelling obscenities and filling the ring with garbage. It was the first time that I clearly felt that the new Federation “attitude” era had passed me by. Cool guys were in-Mick Foley was out. Catchphrases were in-interviews that required an audience to think were out.
I came back to the dressing room, and I was livid. Paul Bearer was the first one to come in after me, and as such, he caught the brunt of my anger. “Damnit, Purse, I don’t know why I’m doing this anymore. These people don’t give a fuck unless it’s a catchy phrase or a set of tits.”
Uncle Paul tried to calm me down. “Mommy,” he said (Paul had been calling me Mommy ever since a short-lived teaming when I was hooked up with Goldust as a Mommy figure), “it’s not you. It’s the end of a long night, and they’re tired.”
I wasn’t buying it. “They’re not tired. They’re assholes, Purse. And you know what-I’m an asshole, too, for even giving a damn.” A long time passed before I felt good about performing again.
About a week after the interview incident, I suffered an even greater indignity, this time at the hands of Rena Mero. We were both brought in to Fall River, Massachusetts, for a fund-raiser, and set up at separate tables for autographs. I guess a blind man can see where this one is heading. After a thirty-minute rush of autograph seekers, I sat in silence, while a parade of horny teenagers paraded past me and plopped down their ten bucks for Rena’s autograph and a peek at her cleavage. I was literally sick to my stomach. My body still ached from the Hell in a Cell, which the Fall River fans were acknowledging as the greatest match they had ever seen, while they walked past with the Rena photos in hand. I guess to add to my previous list, big boobs were in and dedication, sacrifice, and fourteen years of blood, sweat, and tears were out.
My third low point reared its ugly head right after our July Pay-Per- View, in which Austin and the Undertaker had teamed to defeat Kane and me. It hadn’t been a great match, but it was certainly very good. Afterward, I was scheduled to do an autograph session with Owen Hart at the hotel across the street from the San Jose arena. I arrived at the hotel and was greeted by a line about 400 people long. When the session started, I went right to work. I knew I couldn’t personalize the pictures or even talk to the fans much, as we would be hard-pressed to satisfy the voracious appetite of the fans. Ten minutes later, the line did more than just slow down, it stopped. “What’s going on?” I asked Owen. “There’s still hundreds of people in line.”
Owen laughed, as he was privy to information that was unknown to me. “Jack, they’re here to see Austin and Shamrock at eleven. Our line is done.”
I felt my heart drop down to somewhere in the vicinity of my left ball. “You mean we have to wait here until then?” Owen seemed to take cruel pleasure in seeing my feelings shattered as he chuckled, “I hope you brought a book.”
These were the longest two hours of my life. Every once in a while, a straggler would give in and get a picture, and in contrast to the quick Mankind signature the earlier fans had gotten, these lucky few were able to get my life story on their photo. “Dear Johnny,” a typical one would start, “it matters not how narrow the gate, nor how charged with punishment the scroll, I am the captain of my fate and the master of my soul. Have a nice day. Your friend, Mankind. Two-time Tag Team Champion.”
I really had doubts about my future. I had always been able to adapt to changing elements, but the wrestling phenomenon had gotten so big, so fast, that a guy like me had gotten trampled in the dust. In the same way that most kids would rather scarf down a couple of greasy fast food burgers instead of enjoying an aged and seasoned filet mignon, the new breed of fan wanted satisfaction and wanted it now. Our show was tearing up the Nielsens to the point that a great deal of our audience was completely new to the world of sports entertainment. They had no knowledge of my feuds with Abdullah the Butcher or Eddie Gilbert, and in truth, only half of them had even seen my interviews with Jim Ross. Actually, only a year had passed since those interviews, but I doubted that our new fans would even have the patience to sit through those, unless of course I showed a little cleavage. I decided to take a gamble.