Authors: Mick Foley
“Why don’t you just rehire him?” I asked my wheelchair-bound boss. “The fans love him. He’s got lots of fire and pizzazz, and he makes for some exciting television.”
Vince would not be deterred. “You don’t understand, Mick, it’s not that simple. This is about principle.”
“Vince, I’ll be honest with you,” I addressed the boss. “I really admire your moral fortitude. Come on, let’s play some games!”
The show broke for a commercial and when it came back, the fans were treated to an opening shot of my big ass filling their television screen. As the camera panned back, I was revealed to be engaged in a game of solitary Twister, which despite my encouragement, I couldn’t get Vince to join in on. Finally, I succumbed to the intensity of the game, and toppled over onto the curmudgeonly Vince. “Get out, dammit! Get out!” he bellowed, even though my ouster would eliminate his only line of defense from Austin.
“Hey man, stop being a party pooper,” I snarled, in typical toughguy rhetoric.
Most of all, as October came to a close, I had Mr. Socko. With him, a bad match was good, and a good match was great. I had taken to tucking him inside my tights, and making an elaborate ritual of pantomime before actually pulling him out. In some ways, pulling the floppy cotton sock out of my tights was not all that new. To tell the truth, I had been pulling a limp, white object out of my pants for years-I’d just never gotten cheered for it.
November 1 was a historic night in Houston, and not just because we were in the same building that Ahmed Johnson had refused to put Kurrgan over in. No, this was the building in which my kindness and understanding finally won Vince over. Vince had just gone through an on-air “falling out” with his son Shane, and was no doubt feeling a little melancholy about life. Maybe he was thinking about the hospital or Twister, or maybe he was just sensitive, but whatever the case, he summoned me into his office. In the office, he bestowed upon me a sacred gift, which in actuality was a broken, glued-together old belt. “Mick, this is yours.” He smiled. “You’ve earned it; this is the new hardcore championship belt.”
I was overcome with emotion. “I’ll be honest with you, Vince,” I tearfully said. “I love it.”
Vince looked at me and it was obvious that he had something on his mind. “You know, Mick,” he began, with about as much sincerity as the Grinch addressing Cindy Lou Who, who was no more than two, “I lost a son tonight, but in some ways, I think I’ve gained one too.” Vince smiled at me as the stooges wheeled him away.
Just as he was about to exit the room, I responded to his touching claim with an equally touching “Gee, thanks … DAD.” At the sound of “Dad,” Vince’s face literally looked as if he’d just swigged down a glass of sour milk. I even got the Adam’s apple to bob, as if he were actually having trouble swallowing what I’d just told him.
The next night, I was officially welcomed upon my entrance by Vince’s stooges, and became Vince’s “boy.” The Survivor Series was coming up at the end of November and all indicators pointed to the possibility that Vince was hand-picking me to be his “corporate champion” and tear right through the Survivor championship tournament. First, however, I had to look the part. Borrowing more than slightly from the Hardcore Christmas Cactus and the Kiss-Ass Dude, I was given a complete makeover. My hair was shortened by seven inches, I was completely shaved (I still wore the mask), I was given a manicure and pedicure, and I began wrestling in a tuxedo.
In that very tuxedo, I engaged Ken Shamrock in an excellent battle for my Hardcore Championship belt. The belt actually went on to become a coveted possession, to the point that I believe it means more than any strap in the company, save the big one-the World Wrestling Federation Championship. Our match spilled up onto the ramp where “Dad” was watching with the stooges and the corporate bodyguard, the Big Boss Man. Behind my back, the Boss Man helped me gain the win, and I was elated to learn of my victory when Patterson and Brisco handed me the belt. I looked for Vince, and ad-lib bed a big hug. When I got back to the dressing room, Al Snow informed me, “You should have seen Vince’s face when you hugged him. It was hilarious.” Sure enough, when I saw the tape of it, I had to laugh, Vince was great. Within three seconds of the hug, Vince’s face had run a gamut of emotions from disgust, to acceptance, to fake happiness, to indifference. Though he was supposed to be like a father to him, “Dad” didn’t seem to care for Mankind all that much. Heading into the Survivor Series, the fish were smelling just a little bit in Denmark.
To win the title, I would have to wrestle and win four matches. Despite promising myself that I would come into this tournament in top shape, I was uneasy about my conditioning for such a big Pay-PerView. My first-round opponent was a “mystery opponent” that many in attendance thought would be Shawn Michaels. Shawn had retired from active competition eight months earlier and had only sparingly been heard from since. I was brought out to the ring first, and while inside the squared circle I heard Vince read off an incredible introduction before announcing “the man, the myth,” Duane Gill. Out came Gill, who would later have a small but fun run as “Gillberg.” Gill acted overjoyed at just seeing his visage on the overhead screen as he lost match after match to former Federation stars, and was startled by his own pyro. The match was over in twenty seconds, and I prepared for my next matchup. Obviously, Vince was going to make everything as simple as possible for his “corporate champ.”
Al Snow was next, and he did the J-O-B on the PPV. Vince had masterminded a plot that included stealing Mr. Socko and placing him around Al Snow’s “head.” Now usually I’m a big fan of the Federation story lines, but this one was a little weak. For one thing, Mr. Socko was actually several different Sockos, as I usually threw my Socko to the crowd after a match. Apparently this sock was special, as I mourned its loss. For his part, Al looked like a complete moron for parading around with a Mr. Socko headband stapled to his “head.” When I saw the missing Socko, I went ballistic and, as usual, Al played Winger to my Hulka, as I scored the victory.
My semifinal opponent was Stone Cold, and we picked up right where we left off and tore the Kiel Center in St. Louis apart. A referee went down, and as Austin hit me with the stunner, babyface referee Shane McMahon slid in to make the count. One, two, and nothing. Steve looked at Shane and the younger McMahon flipped him off, revealing himself to be a no-good SOB just like his dad. At this point, I was waiting for the Big Boss Man to make his presence felt, but he was nowhere to be found. He reminded me of the reindeer in the story my mom used to read me, who fell asleep in a snow bank and missed out on the “Happiest Christmas of All.” Trust me, though, there was nothing happy about the finish of this match, even if I did emerge the victor. My means of victory was so weak that it never aired in any form on World Wrestling Federation programming. Actually, compared to this, my “Lost in Cleveland” vignettes didn’t look too bad.
The final match of the tournament, with the Federation title hanging in the balance, pitted me against The Rock. By virtue of his charisma, good looks, endless stream of catchy phrases, and two big moves, The Rock was riding a huge wave of momentum and popularity into the finals. One of the two moves, the “people’s elbow,” was the most ludicrous thing I’d ever seen in any form of entertainment, but its effect on a crowd was phenomenal. Momentum and popularity aside, I had to be considered the heavy favorite going in, due to my close relationship with Dad.
I had only one problem. I really had no clue what I was going to do in this huge main event. I was physically exhausted and mentally drained. For a wrestler with only two years’ experience, The Rock had incredible poise in the ring, but he too looked worn and confused. We locked up, and I drew a blank. Another lockup and another blank. I was worried as hell. Within minutes, I had The Rock on the mat with a rear chinlock-a sure sign that the match was sailing down the tubes. Our match was literally dying, and as the senior member in the ring, I would be held to blame.
Somehow, we turned it around. The momentum began to grow and we turned up the volume to the point that it was a very good match. The Rock was making a comeback and had things going his way until I caught him charging at me and backdropped him over the ropes. As The Rock struggled to his feet, I climbed to the second turnbuckle outside the ring, as I had done many times before. This time, however, there was nobody home, and I crashed hard into the Spanish announcer team table with my right knee absorbing the impact. Because I had hit the edge, the table didn’t break like it normally did. Instead, it put up a hell of a fight before crumpling to the ground. I lay on the ground and tried to will myself back into the ring. The pain was intense, as I had dislocated my kneecap and torn my medial meniscus. The injury would eventually put me on the operating table six months later. Regardless of the pain, I had a match to finish. I rolled into the ring, and saw The Rock waiting for a big clothesline. I ducked it, and instead delivered my double arm DDT. I went for the corner. One, two, and … ooh, The Rock just kicked out, but it was real close. I lifted up my button-down shirt that I’d bought at Kmart for $12.50, but would later sell for $200. The fans knew what was coming next, and despite the fact that they disliked Vince’s new stooge, let out a mighty roar. The Rock turned around and I clamped on the hold. He struggled mightily, but managed to counter with his second big move, the Rock Bottom. The Rock was groggy, but placed an arm over my chest. The referee dove down. One, two, and … I just kicked out, about as close as a count could get. The Rock stood up. He glared at the St. Louis crowd, and the place just erupted. The Rock threw off the elbow pad, signaled for the move, and then went about completing the single worst move ever created in sports-entertainment. Boom. People’s elbow. The place exploded. This had to be it. One, two, … I just barely kicked out, and a big “ooh” echoed throughout the arena.
It was about time for things to get screwy. The Rock looked at Vince and gave him the “people’s eyebrow,” the same facial gesture that Lee Majors had used so well throughout his career. Vince nodded and shot his version of the arched brow back. The Rock then calmly stepped between my legs, and crossed them with my right foot hooked between his biceps and armpit. He turned me over, and Vince frantically called for the bell. I had not been in the sharpshooter for more than two seconds and the match was over.
Vince hugged The Rock, and proclaimed him the new “corporate champion.” In a complete reworking of Brett Hart’s Survivor Series screw-job ending, I had now been “screwed.” Somehow, Vince had managed to take last year’s real-life situation and turn it into the most creative finish of the year.
Immediately, The Rock became the most hated man in the company and my popularity took off. I was entering into the territory that only Austin had previously had access to. I was about to get my hands on the McMahons. Over the course of the next several weeks, I wreaked havoc on Vince, Shane, and the corporate stooges. I beat up Vince in a parking lot and destroyed Patterson and Brisco in a boiler room. I had the honor of giving Shane a beating in his first professional match, which was very good for what it was. With Shane in trouble, the stooges ran in for the save, but I was able to cut them off and caught Brisco with the Socko claw. Patterson came running as well, and I had a claw waiting for him too. No, it was not a mandible claw, but instead the dreaded ball claw that I had once had used against me in the famous “backyard match” at Danny Zucker’s house. My parents were visiting for the holidays, and my dad thought the claw and Patterson’s subsequent selling of it was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. “Play that back again,” he howled, and as a result, we got to see poor Pat tap dancing in terror as I traumatized his two testes half a dozen times. “Show it again, Dad, show it again,” my kids kept saying, as we laughed as a family at the gonadal goings-on. It was a perfect example of wrestling bringing a family together.
The next morning, I was awakened by the sounds of my children laughing. They were watching that same tape over and over again. I thought so much of it that I even addressed it the following Monday in Albany, New York. “Last week was a big week for me,” I informed the raucous Raw contingent. “It was the first time that I’d ever touched another man’s testicles, and I’ve got to admit that, in a rugged, manly type of way, I kind of enjoyed it.” Fortunately, footage of the previous week’s scrotal assault was aired while I was speaking in order to clue fans in on what the hell I was talking about. Otherwise, they might have thought that I was referring to a secret camping trip or something.
The stage was set for Worcester, Massachusetts, the next evening. We had been defeating WCW in impressive fashion, but they had been promoting a huge title match for their Georgia Dome Nitro, with which Raw would be competing. We decided to give them a title match of our own.
The Royal Rumble was set to be our next Pay-Per-View at the end of January. Triple H and I were set to wrestle in a Rumble qualifying match, with Shane McMahon as the special guest referee. The match was forgettable except for Shane’s ridiculously fast count that spelled defeat for Mankind. Helmsley said that he hated to win like that, but with a spot in the Rumble at stake, he’d take a win any way he could get it. “Here’s a late Christmas present, Mick,” he muttered as he booted the junior McMahon and proceeded to pedigree him into mat.
Now I had a tremendous task in front of me. I needed to put a painful submission hold on Shane, but it needed to be visually exciting. A choke old or front facelock wouldn’t do. To add pressure to the situation, I also needed to perform this painful hold while talking into a microphone, so I needed one hand free. In a flash I remembered my amateur career, and my propensity for leg wrestling that was unusual for a big man. I remembered the hold that used to make my friend Allen Bloomberg cry and even made future King of Queens star Kevin James suffer in the hot basement wrestling room at Ward Melville High. (Yes, he really was on the team with me.) Seconds later, I had Shane hooked in a pretty impressive guillotine body ride, which is more or less a lying abdominal stretch. “This is a move that Jim McGonigle taught me at Ward Melville,” I sneered over the mike while Shane whimpered beneath me. It turned out that Coach McGonigle, who had beaten leukemia when I was in grade school and had coached both me and my brother in high school, became more well known from that one comment than he had from twenty years of diligent coaching.