Have a Nice Day (49 page)

I had always been a Halloween fanatic. When I was a kid, I used to start plotting my next year’s costume as soon as the current Halloween was over. I tried to be creative and flat-out refused to buy one of those cheap, ready-made costumes that other kids wore. It just seemed like you should have to strive a little more for the privilege of eating free candy. My brother didn’t share my sense of theatrical importance. As a result, in every picture of us on Halloween, I looked cool, and he looked like a doofus. My mom would never admit it though. “You both look great,” she’d say, although photographic evidence certainly seemed to disagree with her.

My kids could not, under any circumstances, look like doofuses on Halloween. I consider myself a pretty lenient parent, but sometimes a dad has to take a stand. Dewey was a huge Batman fan, and exactly as my mom had twenty-five years earlier, I would be summoned into the room to call the action as Adam West and Burt Ward laid the smack down on all the villains’ candy asses. “Bam! Pow! Biff! Kapuff!” I’d yell as my kids both threw kicks at imaginary bad buys. Dewey wanted to be Batman and Noelle wanted to be Batgirl, which was a dilemma, because I knew that half of West Babylon would be wearing the cowl and cape. I was determined that my kids would have the best of all the costumes, so I special-ordered some outfits from the lady who made my wrestling tights. Sure enough, my kids were the best-looking Batman and Batgirl in town. And they weren’t wearing the trendy new black outfit with the built-in muscles either. No, my kids were wearing the classic Adam West blue and gray-the way it was meant to be, dammit!

I may have a reputation for pinching pennies so hard that it makes Abe Lincoln scream-and in some cases, rightfully so-but not when it comes to Halloween. Or Halloween candy. My mother had long ago established a tradition of at least three quality fun-size bars in each little Halloween baggie, along with an assortment of other little goodies. With the exception of the year that I slipped dried cat turds into little Baby Ruth wrappers and gave them to Jacqueline Miller, everybody came out a winner on All Hallow’s Eve at the Foleys’. I had been carrying out that tradition for years. Anyone who came to the Victorian house in Georgia walked away a winner, and I was determined to continue that tradition at our “sweatbox on Long Island.”

We prepared thirty-six bags and waited for the trickle of innocent toddlers to start coming by. It was more like a flood. The moment school let out, there were kids everywhere. A lot of the teenagers didn’t even have costumes, unless they were dressed up as pimply guys with bad haircuts. The candy was gone literally in twenty minutes.

At least we broke even. When we trick-or-treated that night, we went so damn far into the immense neighborhood that by the time we were done, the kids had been asleep in the stroller for an hour. Colette or I would just knock on a door and point to the stroller and accept a single piece of candy on behalf of our sleeping kids.

I will always treasure that Halloween-especially a picture taken the night before, when the kids had worn their costumes to Grandma and Grandpa’s house. We had bought Dewey a pair of imitation snakeskin boots at a secondhand store a week earlier, and Dewey thought those boots went with everything. They didn’t. I guess that’s the reason Adam West never went Western while laying the smack down. Because if he had, he would have looked like my son. Despite all my great intentions, hopes, and ambitions, my son did indeed look like a doofus.

I think my affection for the holidays has played a part in the struggle with my weight. I just seem to associate food with happy memories, and happy memories with food. If I were to play a word association game with special memories, I would almost automatically answer with the food that it reminded me of. Birthday-cake. Christmas-cookies. Halloween-pumpkin pie. Fourth of July-hot dogs. Baseball games with Dad-peanuts. I had such a good time at Hershey Park with the kids a few years ago that I actually started eating Hershey bars with regularity.

We returned to ECW arena for the much-anticipated November to Remember show that pitted Cactus and Raven against Funk and Dreamer. After the fire incident, many felt that ECW had finally crossed the line and that there would be a backlash against the promotion. On the other hand, there were many who thought the match was the greatest thing they’d ever seen. There were actually chants of “ECW, ECW!” while Terry was on fire. I ran into some fans a week after the incident who said, “Man, how’d you do that stunt with the fire-that was great.” Unfortunately, wrestling has become so good at creating the illusion of disaster that when disaster does hit, it’s very difficult to tell the difference. Sadly, when Owen Hart died in the ring during a World Wrestling Federation Pay-Per-View, many initially thought it was just part of the show. I really wish it had been. The fact that the show went on, and that fans still enjoyed themselves-and that I stood two feet from the spot where Owen died-is something that I am having a hard time dealing with.

We made sure that November to Remember had some levity to it. The show had actually sold out faster than any other in ECW history, which seemed to rule out the idea of having gone too far. Still, we felt it was important that the brutality be toned down a little bit and that some fun be substituted instead.

My pro-WCW angle was really catching on. In honor of my former employers, I had some special ring attire made up for the showdown. On the surface, it was impossible to tell-but underneath, the “Wanted” shirt hid my secret weapon. Raven and I were having our way with our adversaries-with Funk catching a beating on the outside with Raven, and me putting the boots to Tommy. Tommy’s face was a mask of pain as I worked him over. He didn’t seem to have a chance. Suddenly, when things were looking bleakest, I pulled off the familiar black-and-gold Cactus shirt. Underneath was the insult to end all insults-at least in the ECW arena. I was now sporting a beautifully airbrushed T-shirt featuring The Shark/John Tenta, Kamala, and The Zodiac/the Butcher/the Booty Man/the Disciple/the Barber/Brutus Beefcake. Collectively, they were known as the Faces of Fear, and although they were all individually nice guys, collectively their respect among the ECW fans was microscopic. In addition to the great artwork on the front, there was a big valentine on the back-it looked like something that a twelve-year-old girl would wear to her first concert.

I stood up and did a meandering circle so that the entire audience could see my horrible shirt. It was a great heat getter. Cheap heat, yes-but heat nonetheless. I went back to Dreamer, who had by this time seen the blasphemous artwork. I kicked him, but it didn’t faze him. Another kick, but to no avail. A big punch, and he started shaking. Dreamer was now Hulk Hogan and was making a Superman comeback on the Turner-loving turncoat. He let loose with a barrage of punches and sent me down to the canvas with one of his violent innovations. He then ripped the offensive shirt right off my body. I stood up slowly and turned to the crowd. Immediately, they reacted. As I turned in my slow, torturous 360, everyone learned the ugly truth but Tommy. Finally, as I completed my circle, Tommy spotted it, and his eyes grew wide. There it was. Compared to this, the Faces of Fear shirt had been nothing. Compared to this, Kamala, Shark, and Zodiac were hardcore warriors. On my shirt, in front of 1,200 bloodthirsty WCW-hating fanatics, I was sporting a lovingly created, painstakingly detailed image of Eric Bischoff. On the back was this simple wish: “Forgive me, Uncle Eric.”

It was almost as if Dreamer was Popeye and Bischoff was his spinach, because Tommy kicked it into overdrive. Boom, boom, boom, boom-Tommy was connecting with solid rights. The crowd was eating it up. A few more punches and Dreamer was ready for the big one. He pulled my shirt up and stretched it over my head so that the WCW Boy Wonder’s head completely covered mine. It was almost as if I were wearing a Bischoff mask. I weebled and wobbled inside that shirt, as if it were a Rubbermaid, while Dreamer selected the perfect chair. I could hear the crowd buzzing, and I could see the silhouette of the swinging chair as I waited for impact. Bang! I staggered and stumbled but didn’t go down-although, when I lifted my head, it magically appeared as if Bischoff himself had been busted wide open. Was it magic, or was it real-only the people who watched Secrets of Pro Wrestling really knew for sure.

I honestly can’t remember who won the match that night, although the fact that I can’t remember is a pretty good indication that I didn’t. As a strange side note, I understand the Bischoff shirt from that show is now worth a huge sum of money.

When I returned home, I received a phone call that was of great interest to me. Jim Ross was on the phone with the news that the World Wrestling Federation wanted to meet with me.

It had been about a year since I’d spoken to Jim Ross. Jim and I had remained in contact throughout our different trials and tribulations, but this had been the longest I’d gone without keeping in touch with him. Despite being the best playby-play announcer in the game, Jim had been in and out of the World Wrestling Federation on several different occasions before finally coming back to stay. Oddly, one of the past differences between Jim and the Federation centered around his reluctance to don a cowboy hat and call himself J. R. Coming from a Bill Watts background, Jim did not see announcers as being “characters” and had fought the idea. Upon his return, Jim finally donned the Stetson and became J. R. It’s funny … because now it’s hard for me to imagine him without the damn hat, and even I refer to him as J. R. Hell, he refers to himself as J. R. Really, the hat just adds a little flavor and has in no way diminished his passion for the sport or his unique ability to make a bad match decent and a good match great. J. R. was now Vince’s right-hand man, so a call from him was no small deal.

A year earlier, I had informed J. R. that I was working steadily, was having fun, and in no way needed a job. I also let him know that if the right job came about, I would be interested. J. R.’s new call informed me that this might be the right job, and that Vince McMahon had a new idea, and that he would like to set up a meeting. This was a top spot, he informed me, and would hopefully lead to a successful series of matches with the Undertaker.

I had one question before I agreed to a meeting. “Jim,” I asked. “You don’t tell everyone who comes in that they’re being groomed for a top spot, do you-I mean, what did you tell Aldo Montoya when he came in?” (Aldo Montoya was a perennial Federation loser before he went on to stardom in ECW.)

Jim thought about it and came back with an answer. “No, we don’t, Cactus. If we say it’s a top spot, we mean it. In Aldo’s case, he was probably told that it was a good spot, but not a great spot, and that there would be room for advancement if the character caught on.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s set up a meeting.”

There were a lot of considerations to take into account at this time. I was making decent money in Japan, but my goodness, I was getting the hell beaten out of me. The death match tournament was not the last time I came home from Japan in a pretty bad way-not by a long shot. The brutality was taking its toll not only on me but Colette as well, as she was beginning to fear a ringing phone for the bad news it might carry. I had been approached by Mr. Asano about coming back to Japan for seventeen weeks during the next year. I was even offered a raise of five hundred a week-up to $3,500 a week. But seventeen weeks was really 170 days when you include travel-and a hell of a lot more than that when you figure in intangibles like jet lag. Also, without trying to sound like a big shot, I knew that my blood and sweat were worth more to the $500 million man than the fifty-nine grand that he would be paying me.

I would still be able to sell Tshirts, but that gravy train was showing signs of slowing down. I was a popular wrestler with enthusiastic fans, but our fan base was still rather small. Many of the fans who bought the “Wanted” shirt already owned several of them. To stay ahead of the game, I had designed a few new Tshirts, but their designs included tactical errors that I could not have foreseen. One of them featured a silhouette of Cactus Jack against a red sun, with the Japanese writing “King of the Death Match” on the front and “Born to Be Wired” in English on the back. Two problems. One-since the Japanese flag consists of a red sun, a newspaper reporter considered the design to show a lack of respect to the Japanese people. Two-for some reason, Japanese wrestling fans only want slogans that are written in English. Ironically, the ECW fans loved the Japanese writing.

My second shirt was a winner in theory but a flop in practice. 0. J. Simpson’s murder case was all over the news, and I figured I’d cash in on his international notoriety. I came up with an old-time wrestling card motif that billed a one-time-only death match between Cactus and 0. J., who was nattily attired in his Buffalo Bills jersey and a bloody glove, which held a bloody knife. Detective Mark Fuhrman was slated as the special guest referee. I thought the Japanese fans would eat up a shirt featuring these two hardcore icons-with 0. J. being a little more extreme than me. I think I sold twelve of them. So, if 0. J. wants to sue me for royalties, well, he can have them.

Japanese tradition has prided itself on honor for thousands of years, and going back decades, agreements with U.S. wrestlers were made on a handshake. I even asked Mr. Asano if he wanted to shake hands on the deal or sign a contract. He insisted on a contract-if we’d shaken hands, there is a chance that there would be no Mankind or Mr. Socko in the World Wrestling Federation, as I wouldn’t have broken that agreement.

With the exception of the fire incident, I was having a tremendous time in ECW. I got along with everybody, I was free to do whatever I wanted, hell, I was even able to call the owner a “scumbag” and his place of business a “pissant pawnshop.” Unfortunately, many of the things I’d said of the ECW fans in interviews were true. They were demanding, bloodthirsty, and insensitive. I was also aware that my presence there, while valuable, was by no means a necessity, as the ECW arena sold out whether I was there or not. By this time, the ECW merchandise machine had started to roll and my “Wanted” shirt was no longer the only quality item on the table. As a matter of fact, there were about eighteen to choose from, and the fans were so passionate about this company that they usually chose an ECW shirt as opposed to that of an individual wrestler.