Countdown To Lockdown (6 page)

Jeff has his guitar in hand, but Sting grabs it from him in midswing. I can now concentrate on the action. Sting has the guitar. Jeff may be the founder, and he is a tried-and-true good guy in TNA, but he is not above backpedaling with his hand extended in the face of danger. That “wait a minute, let’s talk about this” gesture that must be second nature to a guy like Jeff, who grew up with the business in his blood, a second-generation wrestler who’s seen the sneakiest heels in the business do the Memphis backpedal. No one did more backpedaling than a classic Memphis heel — Eddie Gilbert, Jerry Lawler, Robert Fuller — not counting that horrible moonwalk Michael Hayes used to do during all his matches. I never could tell whether Hayes really thought his moonwalk was good or whether he did it just to get heat. But I guess the same could be said for his singing.

I pick up the chair, seemingly looking for vengeance on Angle, the man who bounced my head off the concrete. I make a move toward
Kurt, but he bails from the ring — a noticeable disappointment for all the fans in the Impact Zone. Jeff has stopped backpedaling, Sting has lowered his guard, the situation has seemingly settled. Not so fast. Moving in a little semicircle, maybe a six-foot arc, I wheel my body around, facing an unguarded Sting, and bring the metal chair down over the Icon’s head. It’s a good shot — maybe not my best, but I think it’s good enough. It was probably more of a lunge than a wide-open, have-no-mercy blast, the kind of blast I’ve given and received (usually received) many times over the course of my career. But he’s Sting, he’s a legend, he’s got a family. Those weren’t conscious thoughts in my head, but I wouldn’t doubt they were clanking around my subconscious when it came time to pull the trigger.

Maybe I’ll feel differently when I have a chance to watch the video, but for now I feel like the contact made is solid enough. If the crowd reaction is any indication, it certainly was. Besides, it’s the surprise and outrage that I’m looking for, that “shock and awe,” as the previous administration might have said. Hey, say what you will about George W. Bush, but I honestly believe that of all our ex-presidents, he is the most recent. I cover the body of the fallen Stinger, just as our referee conveniently arises from his temporary slumber. One … two … three. I have a lot of explaining to do. I can’t wait to start.

March 18, 2009

Orlando, Florida

12:15 a.m.

I had really wanted to wait a week to make any type of comment regarding the chair shot heard round the world. More accurately, I guess, I had wanted our fans to wait a week to hear my explanation. Maybe the treacherous act could even attain a certain status almost impossible for pro wrestling in 2009 — perhaps it could
become “watercooler” cool, the subject of conversation at workplace watercoolers.

“Hey Jim, why ya think Mick Foley hit Sting last night?”

“I dunno. Maybe he’s just plain crazy, but come on, we gotta get this tranny fixed before we balance and rotate the tires.”

“Jim, why don’t ya balance and rotate this … whoa!”

or

“Dr. Stevens, are you bothered at all by Mick Foley’s actions on last week’s
Impact
?”

“Troubled, deeply troubled, Nurse, but we can talk about that later. That can wait — this heart transplant can’t.”

or

“Cut, cut. You seemed preoccupied out there, like your mind wasn’t on your scene.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I was thinking about Mick Foley, wondering what his motivation for attacking Sting could have been.”

“Listen, Trina, maybe you could just text him or e-mail him, find out for yourself. Right now I need you concentrating on business. These group scenes aren’t cheap, you know.”

Still, I understood TNA’s concern. They needed to make this match public as soon as possible, to give them an extra week to advertise and promote it. Which meant I needed to come up with a reason in a hurry. A reason I could grab hold of, make people believe in. More important, it had to be a reason I could believe in myself.

Sometimes, out of necessity — dollars and cents, or time — interviews are pretaped and inserted where needed in our two-hour show. One of my tendencies is to lose sight of the context the interview will be placed in and use too much humor, because it feels good at the time. It’s a tendency I have to continually be mindful of — which can be difficult when looking at Jeremy Borash holding the microphone with those bulging Ralph Furley eyes. Sometimes I wonder whether Don Knotts had some kind of dalliance with a Borash ancestor during a break on
The Andy Griffith Show
set, or possibly during the filming
of
The Ghost and Mr. Chicken
, the critically acclaimed smash film Knotts bailed out on Mayberry for.

Fortunately, on this particular occasion, we’re doing this shot more or less live. Less live than if it was being aired live — more live than if it was pretaped earlier in the day. The promo is shot in real time, and I’ll be responding to Sting’s postmatch challenge to face me for the TNA World Heavyweight Championship at
Lockdown.

So what’s my motivation? It’s got to be plausible and I’ve got to believe.

Ever since hearing of this possible matchup with the Stinger at
Lockdown
, I’d been trying to think of the go-home promo — that last interview people would see before making that choice. To buy or not to buy, that is the question. Honestly, it’s a question that way too many of our viewers answer the wrong way — they go with choice B, the “not to buy” option. Don’t get me wrong; we’re thankful for their viewing support, but the percentage of viewers who go with choice A is too small for our liking. We’ve got to get that percentage up and it hasn’t been easy.

Up until I actually sat in Jeff Jarrett’s chair — a symbolic act if ever there was one, a little subtle foreshadowing of things yet to come — I wasn’t sure where I might go with my explanation. I just knew my previous idea for a go-home promo, an “I respect you, Sting, but you have to understand, when I get inside that cage I only know one way to wrestle, brother!” type of deal, complete with handshake, was a recipe for a mighty bland entrée. I needed a different recipe — one with a little more spice.

“Okay, I’ve got it,” I told our producer, Vince Russo. “Let’s just roll and see how this thing goes.”

They began shooting.

J.B. is holding the mike, his eyes not Furleyesque but always on the verge of being so. He’s trying to get answers from Jeff Jarrett, who is pacing, irate, confused. Sting had been this close (sorry you can’t see it, but I’m holding my thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart,
which is pretty close indeed) to leaving Kurt’s Main Event Mafia, and now I’d ruined, or at least greatly jeopardized, that possibility.

“Hell, J.B.,” Jarrett says, “for the last time, don’t ask me, I don’t know what the hell is going through his brain.”

“I’m here with Jeff Jarrett,” J.B. says. “I’m here with Mick Foley, and Mick, you heard the challenge from Sting, you versus Sting, Six Sides of Steel at
Lockdown
, in Philadelphia — and Mick, what happened to you out there?”

Okay, here it is, my big explanation. Ready … and go.

“Do those eyes, J.B., do those eyes for me, J.B.” I’m holding my head, I’ve got an ice pack on my neck, and I’m calm and joking, asking J.B. to show off those Furleys for me.

I’d asked him to show me those eyes earlier in the show, but the mood was lighter then. I’d told Jeff I needed just one match to satisfy my wrestling craving, comparing an occasional match to a slice of pumpkin pie or a sporadic ride on the Incredible Hulk Coaster at Islands of Adventure, the Universal theme park about fifty yards from our studio. The pumpkin pie and coaster were things I could never completely do without but could manage in moderation. But now, this one slice of pie, this one loop-the-loop had turned into something far from moderation.

“The eyes?” J.B. and J.J. (Jeff Jarrett) say in simultaneous disbelief. I mean, how could I take this turn of events so casually?

“Hell, I don’t know what happened out there,” I say, kind of chuckling to myself. “It was a gut decision. If I had to do it over again, would I? I don’t know. But I’ll tell you what — I’m proud of my actions. I guess you could chalk it up to inspiration. Sting went out there and he said, ‘What inspired you, Mick? ’ and I think if I had to use one word to explain what inspired me it would be … Sting. Sting inspired me.”

Time to get serious now, time to make my point. I take my hand off my head and get a little more animated.

“Make no mistake about it, J.B., Kurt Angle beat the crap out of me — it was on
Impact
, it was live [not technically true, but cut me a little slack]. Worse than I’d been beaten in a long time — and that’s
fine! That’s how the game is played. You know what’s not fine, J.B.? Out of the corner of my bad ear [usually it’s eyes, not ears, that are associated with corners, but continue that slack cutting, please] I hear Sting say the words, ‘That’s enough, Kurt, he’s had enough, just pin him, Kurt, just pin him.’”

Here it comes. If it was an adult film, they’d call it the money shot. If it was any other business in the world, they wouldn’t.

“‘Just pin him’?” I repeat incredulously, this time in a yell, and throw my ice pack at the wall. “Just pin him? You condescending little son of a bitch, Sting! Who the hell do you think you are? Who the hell are you to tell me when I’ve had enough? Are you making all the decisions now? Are you the decider? I’ll tell
you
when I’ve had enough! And it’s not yet! You want to issue a challenge like a big man? You want to go back to school? Old school? You want to lock me up inside a steel cage? Are you sure that’s a good idea? Because what you call hell — I call home. I was looking for happiness, J.B., and by God, I found it! Stinger, you and I at
Lockdown
… and I will tear you apart!”

There it is. My reason. A reason I can believe in. Aside from the Colonel Trautman “what you choose to call hell, he calls home” reference from the 1985 movie
Rambo: First Blood Part II
, I really liked it.

First Blood
, by the way, was the movie I went to on my very first date — a true romantic gesture. Come to think of it, my last date, too, with that particular young lady, except for the Superdance debacle about a week later, which I fictionalized, but only slightly so, for my first novel,
Tietam Brown.

I wouldn’t have another date for almost three years — my first real girlfriend, my college sweetheart. It only lasted a couple of months, until she graduated from college, but, man, that was a good time in my life. I hadn’t really thought about that college love in a while — until right now, that is. So, instead of thinking about my return to Promoland, I’m thinking about my first love, wondering what she’s doing, where she might be, if she remembers those memorable seconds (almost thirty, I believe) of passion we shared.

Thank goodness for wrestling — it cushioned the heartbreak, gave me something to love that occasionally loved me back in those next couple of years between dates. Yes, that’s right, a couple of years, until a charming coed stepped into my life and closed out the last two weeks of college life in memorable fashion. Really, really memorable fashion. Memorable as in I remember every second — and this time there were almost sixty of them! Yes!

In the interest of full disclosure, there was the motel manager who seduced me in Pittsburgh (really knew her stuff) and the hitchhiker who massaged more than my ego while her boyfriend slept in the backseat of my Ford Fairmont. But that was it. You know, I don’t believe this thought has crossed my mind in twenty-three years, but I believe that motel manager would have been up for seducing me a second time if I’d only made a phone call. My loss — she really, really knew her stuff.

So, I lacked a little in female companionship. A lot of people did. And they dealt with it in different ways. Some retreated into little fantasy worlds, be it
Dungeons and Dragons
, a fifty-seventh viewing of
Star Wars
, or the precursors of Internet porn — videotape rentals. Back then, it wasn’t so easy to be a pervert. You had to actually enter a store, make your way into that forbidden back room — eighteen and older, please, we do check ID — and make a person-to-person videotape rental transaction. There might even be eye contact, provided you could take your eyes away from your shoes for just a fleeting moment before heading out that door, hoping you hadn’t been spotted by a former teacher, the parent of a friend, or any living soul, before making it to that trusty VCR and seeing what Kay Parker had to offer before Mom and Dad got back home.