Mick Foley Have a Nice Day Read Online

  Tabular array of Contents

Introduction

Affiliate 1

Chapter 2

Affiliate 3

Affiliate four

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter ten

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter fourteen

Affiliate xv

Chapter sixteen

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Affiliate xix

Chapter xx

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Affiliate xxx

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Affiliate 35

Chapter 36

Affiliate 37

Introduction

I came bounding in the door of my house in the Florida Panhandle on May 17, 1999, with an most unbelievable amount of energy. Later on a trip that had consisted of an hr'south bulldoze from my hotel in London to Heathrow Airport, a two-hour layover, an eight-and-a-half-hour flight to New York'southward JFK airport, a 2-60 minutes layover, a ii-hour flight to Atlanta, some other 60 minutes-and-a-half layover, a ane-hour flight to Pensacola, and an hr drive home, I should have been wearied. Merely I wasn't. My wife, Colette, saw how upbeat I was and assumed that I'd gotten a lot of sleep on the flight. "No, not really," I said. "Actually I didn't slumber at all." She of a sudden got concerned and asked me if I'd done drugs while on the plane. "Of grade not," I answered, only Colette looked worried. Later all, what could account for this great blitz of energy her normally exhausted husband had? "What have you been doing and so," she asked, to which I answered, "Writing."

I had written the entire length of the trip back to Pensacola, as well equally the whole way to England. Really, I'd been writing for near the unabridged time since May 7, when I convinced the Globe Wrestling Federation's head of marketing that I could write my own autobiography. I hate to spoil this for a lot of people, merely most autobiographies are not actually written past the supposed authors, but by biographers and ghostwriters. Talking into a tape recorder and having someone else make a book out of information technology didn't bother me, but the idea of "artistic license" did. I simply wasn't comfy with the idea of a author putting words in my oral cavity. If the book was boring, it wouldn't be the writer taking the rap, it would be me, and I wasn't willing to put that much faith in someone else's easily. Hey, if this book stinks, I want it to stink because of me. At to the lowest degree I desire you lot equally the reader to accept the comfort of knowing that if the words stink, they are my ain words, and if the stories stink, they are my stories too.

My mom used to try to convince me to write a book when I was younger, because she thought I had a gift for it, merely I lost involvement when she told me that I couldn't write bad words in information technology. When I started wrestling, my dad told me I should proceed a journal, so that one day I could write my memoirs. I kept saying that I would, and he kept telling me that I should do information technology soon, before I forgot everything. As information technology turned out, my retention is outstanding, which is a piddling scary considering all the shots I have taken to the head over the years. My main problem in writing this book is that my trusty old Sears electrical typewriter, which I used to type out my schoolhouse reports with one finger, had bitten the dust 5 years earlier, and existence calculator illiterate, I had no realistic way to put my story on paper. Except the erstwhile-fashioned manner. So I hope y'all tin can appreciate that what you are about to read was written by mitt on 760 pages of notebook paper in the seven weeks spanning May 7 to July one, 1999.

There are a few different subjects I'd like to affect before y'all embark on this daring literary journey into the world of sports entertainment.

Hardcore Fable-I volition occasionally refer to myself by this name throughout the pages of the book. Delight don't accept it seriously. I simply get a kick out of referring to myself past that name. Al Snow-Al Snow's proper noun appears often, and what I say virtually him is non usually meant to be taken seriously. Al and I have had a longstanding insult contest, which had to be stopped a few months agone when feelings started getting hurt. It is my hope that the cheap shots and digs I go in at a defenseless Al will leap-start our contest, because causing Al Snow pain and embarrassment is one of the simple joys in my life. In truth, Al is a not bad guy and an fantabulous wrestler, and if he gets the chance to write a book, I would consider information technology an laurels to be insulted by him in it. Then, later on buying Al'southward book, I will purchase some stone common salt to sprinkle on all the places where hell but froze over.

Ric Flair-Hey, I know Ric Flair is a fable, and I savour him as a performer, but as a dominate, I didn't think too much of him, and would be less than honest if I told it any other way.

I actually hope that some of the people who read this are not wrestling fans. Professional wrestling is truly an astonishing world, and I remember that fan and nonfan akin volition be intrigued by what goes on behind the scenes. I refer occasionally in the book to what I consider the three best things I have ever washed in the wrestling business. Writing this book has been a joy and privilege, and I honestly feel that if I were to hang up the tights (or in my instance the sweats) tomorrow, my career will have been fabricated complete because of writing it. I at present truly consider it among the four best things that I have ever done.

Enjoy the volume, and if you practice, recommend it to a friend because I would really consider it a triumph to see my name on the bestseller listing. From then on, I could appear on talk shows as Mick Foley Wrestler/Bestselling Author, and that, I know would make my parents proud. If you don't relish it, well, let'due south merely keep that our little surreptitious.

Read on, prosper, and oh, Have A Overnice DAY.

Sincerely,

Mick Foley

July 1, 1999, in a trailer in Los Angeles on the set of the Us television receiver series GvsE

Affiliate 1

March 17, 1994 Munich, Frg

"I tin can't believe I lost my fucking ear; bang bang!" Now, I'1000 non a big proponent of the "F" word-in fact, I went from age half dozen to historic period 20 one without saying it once-but this was a special occasion and it cried out for a strong expletive. In fact, without the "F" give-and-take, that statement but isn't as impressive, is it? Bang blindside? Well, for those who know, no explanation is necessary, and for those who don't, well, well get to "Bang blindside" before long enough.

March 17, 1994, wasn't shaping up to exist a real great mean solar day anyway, fifty-fifty before the F'ing ear in question was torn off the side of my head. I was non all that happy with my current place of employment. World Title Wrestling was owned past Ted Turner, but even with Teds deep pockets backside it, WCW had never really seemed to exist on the correct path. Part of the reasona huge office of the reason, actually was a breathy misuse of talent, a category that I, as Cactus Jack, certainly fell into. In this instance nosotros were on a two-week tour of Germany, and I was the only guy on the tour who spoke High german. Proficient German. So it would seem similar a natural to take Cactus Jack leading the promotional charge, right? Well, not exactly. In the first week of the bout, I did a few local radio spots while the other guys appeared on national television shows, print work, and promos.

On the offset day of the tour Ric Flair, our booker (wrestling vernacular for the guy who makes or breaks you), admitted he wasn't familiar with my piece of work as a babyface (good guy). At present, Flair was a legendary performer in the ring-cracking charisma, conditioning, and promos that could raise goose bumps on your arm. But apparently, grooming wasnt the Nature Boy'south fo

rte. Not familiar with my work? What the hell does that hateful? It'southward his job to be familiar. I'd been a babyface for all of his 14 months back with the visitor. I'd main-evented Pay-Per-Views that he wrestled on. Not being familiar with the talent he was in charge of meant that, in my book (and hey, this is my book), he was every fleck as bad on the booking side of things as he was great on the wrestling side of information technology.

About an 60 minutes before the match, Flair had talked to me for a longtime most irresolute the course of my career. Naitch, short for Nature Boy, felt that I needed to be a heel (bad guy). His rationale was elementary."You lot and Vader had the virtually fell bouts I've ever witnessed," began Flair in his trademark voice, a strange combination of lisping and perfect enunciation "But your rematch didn't raise the ratings at all. Nobody cares about you equally a babyface."

Even before the Monday night Raw/Nitro wars, WCW had ever lived and died by its television ratings. At that time, its flagship show was WCW Saturday Night. Also at that fourth dimension, there were no quarter-60 minutes breakdowns to more accurately determine merely who was responsible for viewing patterns. In other words, Flair was property my fifteen minutes on air responsible for the ratings of the unabridged 2-hr show. He too failed to realize that ratings increases are more than a consequence of trends and ongoing story lines than just one match. In my book (and once again, this is my book) Flair was wrong about the ratings. But he sure as hell was right well-nigh the brutality of my matches with Vader.

Vader, the existent life Leon White, was in 1994 the greatest monster in the business. Guys were terrified of him. His style was the stiffest in all of wrestling. Some guys have a style that looks like they're pain guys when they're not, which is good. Some guys' stuff looks similar crap, but it hurts like hell, which is bad. Vader left no room for error; his stuff looked similar information technology hurt, and believe me, information technology did.

Some of the newer guys used to actually leave the arena if they saw their proper noun on the lath reverse Vader. Other guys would hide until that evening's card had been drawn up, and so come out of hiding if Vader wasn't their opponent. Really, underneath information technology all, Vader was a nice, sensitive guy. I even saw him cry in the dressing room after he paralyzed a young kid named Joe Thurman (Joe recovered the feeling below his waist a few hours later). Still, when that ruddy low-cal turned on, the '94 Vader's sensitive side seemed to turn off.

Strangely, I enjoyed my battles with Vader. I'd pump myself upwards for days before a big match and would usually injure for a few days subsequently. The two matches that Flair had mentioned had indeed been brutal. During the get-go match, at my suggestion, Vader did a number on my face, even though it seemed that my interpretation of "effort to raise a little swelling around my eyes" varied dramatically from his. The toll after match number one was impressive: broken nose, dislocated jaw, fourteen stitches in my countenance and seven underneath my eye. The second lucifer almost put me out of wrestling for good.

Now, we should probably become something directly. I know you didnt pay $25 (unless your cheap ass waited for the paperback) to accept your intelligence insulted. I volition non try to portray professional person wrestling as being a "existent, competitive sport." I volition readily admit to occasionally stomping my foot on the mat, and ever placing a greater accent on entertainment value than on winning. I accept, all the same, over the form of fifteen years of blood, sweat, and tears, compiled a list of injuries that I would compare to that of any "legitimate" athlete. So unless otherwise noted, delight consider all injuries to be legit. In our foreign little world of sports-entertainment, I hope you will see that life can frequently be both "real" and "competitive."

Anyway, back to March 17, 1994. My opponent for that night: you lot guessed information technology, Vader. Except that this was an injured Vader, who was having trouble with the feeling in his fingers. He even asked for the nighttime off, only Flair said no. "Information technology'southward no problem, Ric," I said, "I'll work around it." Every bit a thing of fact, I looked frontwards to the challenge of coming up with a proficient match with an opponent who was injured-it was the one of the signs of a good worker (wrestler). As a matter of fact, for a guy with all the natural athletic ability of a behemothic three-toed sloth, I had a pretty damn good purse of tricks up my sleeve. One of these "tricks" would send me home from Europe without my ear.

After nigh 10 minutes of back-and-forth action, I charged at Vader, who was standing against the ropes. Earlier in the friction match, I had caught Vader with the patented Cactus clothesline, a motion I had already successfully completed minutes before. In this move, I clothesline my opponent and let my momentum carry me over, as well. It was a pretty impressive sight, peculiarly when you lot consider that in this case, over 750 pounds of humanity were tumbling to the floor. This fourth dimension, however, Vader moved out of the way. I launched myself into the ropes and prepared to grab my head and neck between the 2nd and third ropes, sail my torso over, and, using precise timing and my own torso's momentum, twist the second rope over the third. This is a motion known as the hangman because the end result is the illusion of a man being hanged V by his neck while his body kicks and writhes in an attempt to become out. Although information technology is a planned maneuver, it is no illusion, as the man actually is hanging by his neck and the torso really does kick and writhe in an attempt to go out.

I was probably the sport'south foremost practitioner of the motion, and I had the scars to evidence information technology-about fifty of them behind both ears. Its funny, as many times equally my ears were stitched, and as many times every bit I would watch them plow from black to majestic to blueish to slight shades of green and yellow, I never did accept a problem with cauliflower ears he fashion some guys exercise. As a matter of fact, unless yous looked closely backside my ears, at the zippers that decorated my auditory landscape, you wouldn't know that I'd been a veteran of so many late-night emergency room visits.

In that location was no doubt nearly information technology; the hangman was a difficult motility, but even more so in W, Championship Wrestling. WCW didnt actually use ring ropes-it used elevator cable covered with a rubber casing, and when the cables were entwined, they were almost incommunicable to pull apart. Now, throw a human head into the equation, and were talking well-nigh considerable pain. This evening in Munich would turn out to be fifty-fifty more pain. Too Common cold Scorpio, a brilliant high flyer (aerial wrestler), had wrestled in the evening's outset match and had complained that the ropes were besides loose. Unbeknownst to me, the German roadies had tightened the cables to the maximum; there was no give on the ropes at all.

With my caput defenseless in the ropes, I could immediately feel the difference. Instead of the normal hurting that I had long ago accepted as a consequence for this exciting movement, I felt as if my neck was in a vise. I literally felt like I was going to die right there in the Sporthalle in Munich. I'm usually known as a pretty good ring general, and I had kept a calm head in some pretty bizarre conditions, but in this case I was panicking big fourth dimension. I began to do what no toughguy, large-cheese, blood-and-guts wrestler would ever, under normal conditions, even retrieve of-1 began screaming-and I do hateful SCREAMING-for help. Vader later took the credit for getting me out, thereby saving my life, but video evidence showed the big SOB with his back to me, yelling at the crowd and doing his "who's the homo?" gorilla-grunting routine.

Even with the panic setting in, I knew enough about the homo anatomy to know I was in trouble. I knew that if the pressure connected on my carotid arteries, which run along both sides of the neck, I would soon pass out, and and then, without exaggeration, could endure encephalon damage and even expiry. With that grisly noesis in mind, I fabricated one last attempt to become myself costless and wrenched my caput from betwixt the ropes. I afterward likened it to a fox that chews off its paw to escape a trap.

I lay on the floor momentarily, and then got to my knees. Blood was literally pouring out of my right ear. I could actually hear the creep of drib after drop of bright reddish blood hitting the blue protective mats that surround the ring. This struck me as strange-I mean, as many times as the backs of my ears had been laid wide open up, they had never actually bled. They are made up more often than not of cartilage, later on all. But this was unlike. Information technology was gushing. For some foreign reason, I didn't ini

tially touch that right ear; instead I felt backside my left. To my disgust, there was a separate I could damn well-nigh fit my finger in."If this one feels similar this, the other 1 must be real bad," I retrieve thinking. I climbed into the band and the match continued. "Prissy juice, huh?" I said to Vader every bit he set up me up for a monstrous forearm to the head. Loosely translated, that means "I'm bleeding pretty bad." At this betoken, my ear was all the same hanging on … barely. I blocked Vaders third forearm and threw a blow of my own. When this happened, a fan's videotape clearly shows something fall off the side of my head. Also at this signal, in any other event, a ripped-off ear would probably be crusade for a time-out. I mean, if Mark McGwire were beaned out at the plate, he probably wouldn't jog to kickoff base with a missing torso part. If Shaquille O'Neal collection the lane and came up a near short of a pair, he probably wouldn't go to the foul line with juice" running down his tank top. Only in our sport, the false sport, we accept a single rule-"The show must become on." And I went on as best I could.

The events that happened next are almost too ridiculous to exist real. Almost. Because two of our referees had been injured on the bout and had been sent abode, a referee from French republic had been flown in. Because he spoke no English, he was unable to tell me that he had picked upward role of my body and was belongings information technology in his hand. He handed the ear to ring journalist Gary Michael Capital. With his face turning white, Gary tiptoed the ear back to the dressing room, where he informed Ric Flair, "I have Cactus'due south ear; where should I put information technology?" Flair, being the thoughtful guy he was, bundled to have it put in a bag of ice for me. I later asked Cappetta what the ear looked similar, and he told me in his perfect journalist's vocalisation, "Well, information technology looked like a piece of uncooked chicken, with record on it."

I accept often imagined how this entire scene would play out on film, with Martin Scorsese directing, in blackness and white if possible. Dramatic music in the background. Vivid shut-ups of the ear as information technology pirouetted in the air before dropping gracefully to the canvass, old-fashioned flashbulbs going off all the while. The referee screaming in French with tears streaming downwardly his face. Cappetta sprinting to the back, trying not to lose his lunch. Flair, played perchance by Buddy Ebsen, crying at the fate of Cactus Jack. Except in the movie version, Ill be damned if I'm going to scream for assist. No, I'm going to take it like a man on the big screen.

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