Countdown To Lockdown (40 page)

I really think I can build a match around that one image. Provided, you know, that I can swallow and that my legs will hold me upright.

But I had a pleasant little surprise when I weighed in yesterday at the hotel fitness room: 292 with clothes. It seemed kind of impossible. I lost twenty pounds? In just three weeks? The maintenance guy peeked his head in to say hello, and I inquired as to the scale’s accuracy. Within a pound or two, he said. But how was this dramatic weight loss possible? Sure, I’d been eating good and exercising moderately (probably too moderately, but I guess we’ll find out tomorrow), but not enough to account for the loss of twenty big ones. I guess I could find another scale and get a second opinion. Nah, far better to
convince myself that I’m lighter. If I think I’m lighter, I’ll move like I’m lighter.

Maybe after the match I’ll weigh in again, get that second opinion. Maybe I’ll look for feedback, too. About my promo, about my match. Until then, I will consider reality my sworn enemy.

Maybe I pooped it out. Maybe there really was twenty pounds of fecal matter clinging to my intestinal wall.

Speaking of the Wicked Witch of the West, I vividly recall a conversation I had with Al Snow several years ago. It remains vivid, perhaps because it was the sole instance of Al making meaningful, memorable points during conversation.

“Who was the heel in
The Wizard of Oz
?” Al asked.

“The Wicked Witch of the West.” Duh!

“No, she wasn’t,” Al said.

“Yes she was.”

“Why was she the heel?” Al asked.

“Because she was trying to kill Dorothy.” Another simple, declarative answer.

“No she wasn’t.”

“Yes she was.”

“No,” Al said, correcting me. “Dorothy was trying to kill her.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, stunned, realizing I was losing a battle of wits with Al Snow.

“But the witch kept trying to get the ruby slippers,” I reminded Al.

“And why did she want them?” Al said.

“Um, because they were, um, her sister’s?” Still losing that battle, only now it’s a massacre.

“Who do you think the owner of the slippers would want them to go to when she died? Her sister? Or the person who killed her?”

“So what are you saying, Al, that Dorothy is the heel?”

“The Wizard.”

“The Wizard?”

“Yes, Mick, the Wizard. For bribing an innocent pawn into carrying out an assassination of a political rival.”

“Wow.”

Al had been reading
Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West
, by Gregory Maguire, later turned into a smash Broadway musical. I took Colette and my two older kids to see it, and I was blown away: by the story, the music, the scenery, and especially by the Wicked Witch, as played by Eden Espinosa.

I even dragged former ECW ring announcer Stephen DeAngelis with me to see Eden do her one-man (or one-woman, in this case) show at a small club in New York last week. She was at Joe’s Pub in front of 150, instead of the majestic Gershwin theater in front of three thousand. And guess what? No one felt sorry for her. No one felt like her career had nose-dived, that she’d fallen from grace since leaving the cast. I think we all felt fortunate to see such a wonderful performer, to hear that wonderful voice in such an intimate surrounding.

Say what you will about this book, but you’ll have to admit—it’s probably the only wrestling book out there to mention Eden Espinosa. Plus, of all the wrestling books you’ve read, I bet this is the most recent. Yes, I do realize that’s the second time I’ve used that joke in the same book. And maybe not the last.

My friend Gretchen is the manager of a hotel in Clarks Summit, and she was able to get me a good rate, which is important, even though TNA will be picking up the tab. I just hate wasting money. Back in my novel-writing days, I was on a thirty-city book tour to promote
Tietam Brown.
By about the fifth or sixth city, it was pretty obvious that the book wasn’t going to be a big seller, meaning I just had to accept that I had a couple dozen cities to visit for free (as book tours are promotional, unpaid appearances). But some of the perks were free travel, free beautiful hotels, and free food.

A few weeks into the tour, I received a call from my publicist at Knopf, wondering if I was okay, making sure I was eating.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Then why aren’t we getting billed for any food charges?”

“Well, you know, I bring some protein bars, or get a little fast food, or go to grocery stores. That hotel food just seems too expensive.”

My publicist laughed. “But we pay for everything.”

“I know,” I said. “But no matter who’s paying for it, I will not order fifty-dollar scrambled eggs.”

I didn’t. I won’t. I never will.

I’ve known Gretchen since I was nineteen, when I was a sophomore in college. I think she was the first actual feminist I really knew. I remember my mom reading some of those feminist books when I was growing up—
Our Bodies, Ourselves
,
The Feminine Mystique
by Betty Friedan—but my mom was a ravenous reader with two master’s degrees she got just for the fun of it. She read everything. I don’t know if she necessarily agreed with it all. Although I do remember her cutting a scathing promo on a guest in our home who suggested that “we might all be a lot better off if Martin Luther King Jr. hadn’t poked around in everyone’s business.” But I don’t really remember feminism being a major issue in our house.

It definitely was Gretchen’s issue, along with organic food and all that talk about the atmosphere, pollution, and oil addiction that didn’t seem all that important back then. I found her fascinating, though, which is probably why we’re still friends twenty-five years later. Yesterday, we laughed about our mutual friend Melanie, who was a serial boob flasher, whipping out those April Buchanons at the slightest provocation. Or without any provocation at all.

I shared a class with Gretchen, “Literature in Theatre.” Now that I think of it, Melanie, the unprovoked flasher, was in that class as well. One day after class, Gretchen mentioned that she was way behind on her daily journal for her class in “Feminist Social Thought” and worried that her missing journals might hurt her grade. “Hey, Mick,” she said. “Want to help me?”

Would I, she wondered, be able to write a couple journals for her?
I would only need to think like a woman and write like a woman on a couple of topics that escape me now, so many years later. But I remember tearing into those journals, using the right hand that would later pen so many towering best sellers to chart a course into the modern-day feminine mind. Proud of myself, proud of my work, I handed in my finished journals.

Gretchen thought they were awful. “Mick, you’ve got it all wrong,” she said. “How could you possibly think that way?”

I rebutted her quickly, eager to defend my newfound feminist positions. “Look, Gretchen, it’s just that as a woman, I think—”I stopped and thought about the words that had just crossed my mouth, taking my time before saying anything else. Then decided I’d probably said too much already.

There you go—the Hardcore Legend as a woman. Kind of a scary thought. That’s probably enough of getting in touch with my feminine side. Because tomorrow’s match is going to require all the testosterone I can muster. My kids get to see my gentle side all the time. Mickey’s nickname for me is Snuggly, a name he uses at least a hundred times a day. But something tells me the fans in Philly aren’t going to be interested in my snuggling abilities when I’m locked inside the Six Sides of Steel tomorrow night. I think it’s time that I got reacquainted with my masculine side.

Or, as masculine as I can be while wearing a pair of women’s triple-X leggings.

April 19, 2009

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

2:20 a.m.

I couldn’t wait to get back to my hotel room to let all of you know just how stupid I am. What was I thinking? Between the early morning drive from Clarks Summit to Philadelphia for Fanfest, to the drive to Honesdale, Pennsylvania, and back to referee a match for Northeast Championship Wrestling, I was behind the wheel for eleven hours
today. Eleven! The day before my biggest match in years? Stupid. Just plain stupid.

I should have just cleared my whole weekend. That’s what Sting did. I’m sure the Elmira house show would have done just fine without me. I should have canceled the show in Honesdale two months ago, the moment I heard that I might be wrestling at
Lockdown.
I still could have done Fanfest—just come in on Friday night, done my deal for a couple of hours on Saturday, and had a full day off to rest and think about the match.

Sure, I listened to some great tunes and came up with a couple of good ideas for the match, but I think I actually peaked creatively on Friday night, on the way home from Elmira. I was so busy being mad at myself this past night that I never really did get back into that zone. Plus, I was driving for hours on winding back roads, worried about running out of gas, hoping I didn’t hit any of the fifty or so deer I saw grazing alongside the road during the course of my drive.

Still, it’s hard to claim that any road trip that included hanging out with my buddy Tyler was a mistake to embark on. Even if I should have waited a week, after the
Impact
tapings in Orlando, and headed up for the visit.

Heading into
Lockdown
, there are still quite a few question marks hanging over my head. My mouth has gone dry several times over the last few days, without any assistance from a fog machine. My conditioning is suspect, stemming from erring way too much on the side of caution in regard to my back injury. I sincerely hope I don’t turn into a breathless, weak-legged, quivering mess out there tonight, but I think it’s a distinct possibility. And last night I got my first little waves of anxiety about the match.

I still think we can pull this match off, but I am more aware of the prospects of failure than I was just a night ago. I’m hoping to see the picture, but unfortunately, my clearest visualization right now is of the pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey I’m going to reward myself with when we fly into Orlando on Monday.

My little guys are excited about J.B. coming over to film us after the show. Mickey loves Jeremy, or “Germy” as he pronounces it, because it was J.B. who filmed Mickey farting “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” under his arm for TNA’s webcast of
The Spin Cycle.
Colette will be going to bed with her makeup on so she can be ready to go in the early morning. And I think Dewey is still hoping that the Guns will show up.

Look, I better get some sleep so I don’t stink up the place tomorrow.

Let me just repeat these words before hitting the sack:

1. See the picture.
   
2. Think the picture.
   
3. Be the picture.
   
4. Don’t be afraid to make mistakes.
   

and most important of all:

5.    How about a little fire, Scarecrow?

April 19, 2009

Liacouras Center

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Thank goodness I fit. Without the benefit of the blue steel cage, specifically tailored to suit my strengths, I was already at a distinct disadvantage. Even at my physical peak, I was a lousy natural athlete. At a height of six foot four (maybe a half-inch less these days, due to the twin miracles of disc compression and gravity), I had only once touched the rim of an official basketball hoop. And I’m not even sure
that was a
touch
as much as it was a
graze.
My biceps, while never quite as pathetic as the Fonz’s in late-seventies bench-pressing mode, were never much to brag about—and they were my most impressive body part.