The Hardcore Diaries (4 page)

Free to pursue my own projects. Free to fail at them. Free to come back, of my own volition, with my tail tucked between my legs. But that was all off in the future. It would be eighteen months before I would see Vince McMahon again.

May 2, 2006

Dear Hardcore Diary,

Who knows when inspiration will hit, or why? Some of the world’s greatest songs have been written on napkins or matchbook covers when inspiration struck at unlikely moments.

I do know that I’ve just become inspired in a fairly unlikely place—a small commuter plane en route from Columbus, Ohio, to New York’s LaGuardia Airport. Luckily, I have my trusty notebook on hand, so no napkins or match-books will be required to document my extraordinary burst of brainpower.

I once heard Julie Miller, one of my favorite singers, repeat a line that she’d grown up hearing—that there was no such thing as problems, only solutions. Well, the road to wrestling immortality is littered with these types of problems, bumps, and potholes blocking the creative process—bumps and potholes requiring immediate solutions. Because without those immediate solutions, that ultimate destination, wrestling immortality, can be an impossible place to reach.

I know “wrestling immortality” sounds like a pretty pompous phrase. Wrestling fans are an extremely loyal group, but man, they can be a little fickle, too. Which I guess they should be. After all, they are constantly bombarded with spectacular images, dramatic storylines, and an ever-increasing array of physical maneuvers. During the late 1990s the stakes got incredibly high, and the Monday Night Wars between WWE and Ted Turner’s WCW upped the physical and creative ante to an unprecedented degree. Wrestling fans have seen so much, so often, that they have indeed become a little jaded.

Yet even within this overcrowded context, it remains possible to capture a special magic, to catch lightning in our own twenty-by-twenty-foot bottle, to etch an indelible sports entertainment memory into the heart of even the most jaded of our fans. It’s those types of memories that made me love this stuff as a kid. It’s the very possibility of creating those types of memories for others that keeps me loving it today.

And it was that type of indelible memory that seemed to be in jeopardy when I was given the news in Columbus that some unnamed person had taken issue with one of my ideas. Hell, it wasn’t just any idea—it was my
best
idea. It was the idea that made me call up Vince in the first place to request our historic meeting. It was the idea that had people falling out of their chairs in laughter at the damn meeting. It was the idea that was going to make millions of fans sit up, take notice, and realize in the course of just a few minutes that Terry Funk was someone to take seriously enough to tune in for next week’s
Raw.
Seriously enough to pay to see him at the ECW Pay-Per-View on June 11.

Terry Funk is the greatest wrestler I’ve ever seen. I’m not saying he is the greatest wrestler ever, only the greatest that I have ever personally witnessed. No one made an impact quicker than Terry Funk, and there has never been a more believable wildman in the history of the game. Maybe Bruiser Brody was just as wild in the ring, but in my mind, when it came to a combination of ring work, promos, and antics that made even grizzled veterans suspend disbelief, no one could beat my friend and mentor Terry Funk.

I still marvel at old tapes of the Funker in action, still wonder how he could just seemingly take over a wrestling show in a few short weeks. Whether it was building toward a bloody climax in the 1970s with Dusty Rhodes in the old Florida territory, or building intense heat in anticipation for the return of an injured Ric Flair in WCW in 1989, no one got over quicker, or was more authentic in their madness, than Terry Funk.

He claimed to be “middle-age crazy” during that classic Flair feud. He was forty-two then, and yet it took him only a few weeks to make that whole show his own. But now, at sixty, he’s no longer middle age, he’s just damn old, and he no longer has a few weeks to make his presence felt, he has only a few precious minutes.

So just how exactly can a sixty-year-old man, who hasn’t been seen in WWE rings in eight years, who is a virtual unknown to a large majority of our fans, be expected to become a main-event star in just a few short minutes of natural television exposure? After all, getting over with the fans isn’t easy—if it was, everyone would be doing it. There’s no scientific formula, no magic wand to wave, even if Ric Flair did once insinuate that Vince McMahon had worked some type of special magic to turn a loser like me into a WWE champion.

No, there’s no magic formula, but when it came to the WWE return of Terry Funk, I believed I had the next best thing. Terry Funk was going to bite a chunk out of Vince McMahon’s ass.

Only, if a person on the creative team had their way, there would be no ass-biting, no instantaneous star-making, no reason to tune in next week, no reason to pay for the privilege of seeing an all-time great like Terry Funk.

Why? They were worried. “How will it look if someone who isn’t even on our roster is the downfall of the ‘Kiss My Ass Club’?”

I pleaded my case to Brian Gewirtz. He and I have always gotten along, possibly because he was a huge fan of mine during his formative years, and possibly because we each considered Professor Bob Thompson to be our favorite teacher in our respective college years. I had Thompson at SUNY Cortland, where he concluded that my senior film project (which consisted in part of a deranged doctor using human testicles as deadly projectile weapons) was an expression of a hidden longing to be a woman.

Gewirtz had him several years later at Syracuse, thirty miles north and about twenty grand a year more expensive than my alma mater. To the best of my knowledge, Professor Thompson (who will actually love being in this book, as it will no doubt endear him to a whole new generation of communications nerds) made no such repressed-gender-jumping conclusion in regards to Brian Gewirtz.

Professor Thompson and I still talk about once a year, and even discussed our fond mutual recollections of our respective
Today
show appearances with Katie Couric. We both agreed that making Katie laugh was one of life’s great moments. “It’s just such an honor to give her any type of pleasure,” Bob said. I agreed with the professor, and suggested maybe one day, the three of us, me, Bob, and former presidential candidate Bob Dole, could all get together to swap warm, fuzzy stories of our good times with Katie.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Gewirtz. Yeah, I was pleading my case to him, even pointing out that the mere suggestion of the “Kiss My Ass Club” closing up due to a mere chunk out of an ass was ludicrous. “Why would it have to be the end?” I said. “Why couldn’t Vince just reinstate the club a few months later? He could do it with a whole new intensity, a sense of vengeance.”

Gewirtz knows my passion for good storytelling and knows that in my mind, leaving the bite out of the ass of Vince McMahon would be like leaving the bite out of the apple in
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
Sure, you’d still have some funny gags and some likable characters, but no heat on the heel and a big hole in the storyline.

“I’m not saying that it won’t get done,” Gewirtz said.

“Only that it might not get done, right?”

“Right.”

Damn, I couldn’t take that chance. Not if I wanted this idea of mine to have a fighting chance at attaining immortality. From time to time, I’ve been accused of doing things only for the paycheck. And from time to time that’s true. Hey, not every idea is a great one, and sometimes a paycheck is our only solace. I even found out last night that a guy I considered a good friend had referred to me as a “whore” at a creative meeting a few years earlier—as a guy who did things only for the money. Again, I’ll admit to being guilty of that occasionally, even if “whore” is probably a little rougher term than I deserve.

I should have been more pumped up following last night’s
Raw.
Man, we’d really laid down a hell of a foundation on which to build our program. But that conversation with Gewirtz was gnawing at me, taking little bites out of my confidence like a tufted titmouse on the suet feeder hanging from the dead Japanese maple outside my kitchen window. (I’m trying to make this book somewhere in the PG-13 range, so I’ve got to work in words like
titmouse
where I can.)

I just couldn’t take the chance. I had to come up with a new twist, a way to persuade Vince and the whole creative team that we could not only have Terry Funk take a chunk out of his ass, but create a long-term storyline that would see the eventual reformation of a “Kiss My Ass Club” that was bigger, better, and badder than ever.

My answer? Melina. For most people reading this book, the name Melina is self-explanatory. But as I am occasionally reminded by mothers who picked up their son’s copy of
Have a Nice Day,
or
Foley Is Good
(and to a much, much lesser extent, my novels
Tietam Brown
and
Scooter
) and couldn’t put them down, the idea of a reader not being familiar with the name Melina is not inconceivable. Unlikely, yes. Unfortunate, definitely. But not inconceivable.

So for those moms and others not familiar with her, I will simply describe Melina as a beautiful young lady that I have come to feel almost like a big brother to. Assuming, of course, that my sister would be Latina, exotic, voluptuous, and possess the single greatest ring entrance in the history of sports entertainment. Possibly in the history of
all
entertainment. As I write this, I’m willing to bet that in the process of transforming my writing from handwritten notebook paper to towering best seller, someone will see fit to put a photograph in the book right about now, thereby relieving me of the responsibility of painting any real descriptive written portrait of the lovely Melina. Turn back a page; there she is. Beautiful, right? Take a good look, because that’s the girl who is going to save my idea, the girl who will clear the road to wrestling immortality.

May 4, 2006

Dear Hardcore Diary,

I may have neglected a very important point in my last journal entry. You see, none of this stuff actually happens unless Vince McMahon says it does. Like President Bush, Vince ultimately is “the decider”; what he says goes. Unlike our president, Vince is a brilliant man, and although that brilliance doesn’t always take the form of good taste and decent judgments, he is open to good ideas that may cause him not to “stay the course” if indeed he can be convinced that the current course is not the most prudent one. That’s where I come in. Vince may be “the decider,” but I’m “the persuader.” I need to persuade Vince that my way is the better way, and because I feel very strongly about my idea, and the urgent need for Terry Funk to take a chunk out of Vince’s ass, I’m willing to give up something very important to get my way. What exactly am I willing to give up to get my way?

My dignity.

I want to be really honest about the development of this whole ECW story. But my idea involves the sacrifice of my dignity at a later date, to get what I want now. I don’t want to get into details about that later date, but I can assure all of you that it will be compelling TV. I hope it will result in that rare wrestling phenomenon—the story that actually makes people think and ask hard questions of themselves. Don’t get me wrong, I love what we do, and have come to really value the importance of the escapist entertainment we provide. I also accept that for an awful lot of hardworking people, WWE television programming is a welcome oasis of big, bold, over-the-top fun amid a desert of dreariness. A lot of our fans like to check their worries at the door and enjoy the show on its own unique merits.

But I firmly believe that once they arrive at our location, we can occasionally hit them with images, incidents, words, or actions that make them take notice. Occasionally we can make them feel that genuine emotion—real anger, fear, or concern. Who knows how many goose bumps are raised cumulatively around the world on those special occasions?

If this willing loss of dignity idea goes as planned, it will involve a few of those rare moments, and in the process create sympathy for one character, and considerable heat for two others.

I did have one slight concern—I wanted to make sure that Melina, on whom this whole plot revolves, liked the idea. Either that, or I was looking for a cheap excuse to call her.

I met Melina only a few months ago, and was immediately touched by her warmth and kindness, which served as a sharp contrast to the “she-witch” character I had become a big fan of on WWE television. It had never even crossed my mind that the cruel young lady on my TV screen might be someone I would like to know, let alone become so immediately protective and fond of.

But if you think that fondness involves romantic visions or thoughts that are anything but of the utmost respect, you’d be absolutely right! No, wait, I didn’t mean that. You’d be wrong, dead wrong. Honestly. I swear. For reasons that I can’t quite explain, talking to her brings about only feelings of childhood innocence. Hey, there’s a lot of things I can’t explain about myself. Why exactly am I listening to classical Christmas music as I write this, over eight months before Christmas? Why am I writing it in a year-round Christmas room, for that matter? Why do I leave drawings my kids made nine years ago up on my wall, as if the oak paneling was some sort of giant refrigerator, meant for little children’s artwork?

As some of you who saw
Beyond the Mat
might remember, my daughter Noelle went through a stretch of time where she had a rather unusual favorite word. Well, the drawing I’m looking at now was obviously created during that “nipple” phase, as every Foley member in this family portrait features a prominent set of them.

I can’t explain exactly why I keep them taped to the wall, or why I have the Christmas fixation, except for a very uneducated guess that all this stuff helps me reclaim the innocence of youth, and that every good thing in my life somehow leads me back to Jefferson, New Hampshire, and the trip to Santa’s Village my parents took me on when I was only three years old.

Don’t get me wrong, I get improper thoughts all the time. As a matter of fact, in about three weeks, I will be doing a radio interview with Christy Canyon, the former adult film star that I used to have improper thoughts about quite regularly. Occasionally, I even acted on them. So, yeah, I get improper thoughts, just like everyone else. But Melina is not responsible for them. As a matter of fact, with the exception of a couple of borderline Candice Michelle thoughts, and a momentary Stacy Keibler exception, I have had nothing but proper thoughts about the whole Diva crew.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m dying to do storylines with all the girls, especially storylines that involve me completely sacrificing my dignity. I’m willing to do this one with Melina for three very good reasons:

1. She’s very talented and will be able to pull off this difficult role;
   
2. It will ensure that I do get my way in the “Terry Funk takes a chunk out of Vince’s ass” idea;
   
3. It does indeed give me a cheap excuse to call her.
   

Which is exactly what I did.

I was at a great place called Abilities, formerly known as the National Center for Disabilities, when I made the call. I was a guest for the media day, which precedes their fortieth annual “Sports Night,” a gala fund-raising event that regularly includes some of the biggest names in sports history. This year’s guests for the May 18 event include Jack Nicklaus, Jim Brown, Gayle Sayers, Mike Schmidt, Frank Gifford, and me. Jeez, what the hell am I doing in there?

Actually, my role is vital to the success of the fund-raiser. You see, while Sports Night might feature a bonanza of bona fide sports heroes, very few are actually willing to participate in the cornerstone of the gala—the annual play, in which former Olympic skater (as well as former wife of NFL Hall of Famer Terry Bradshaw) Jo Jo Starbuck choreographs an amazing spectacular in which the students at Abilities and any willing athletes sing, dance, and act their hearts out for the entertainment of a very appreciative high-dollar crowd. Oh, and one group of people is made to look like complete fools in the process. And believe me, it’s not the kids.

I grew up idolizing people like Willis Reed and Walt “Clyde” Frazier of the New York Knicks. I always hoped that I would one day get to meet them. Now I see them every year. I guess in some ways, it’s like a dream come true. But for some reason, in my dreams, I was not singing or dressing in women’s clothing while making their acquaintance.

As a result of the unique demands of this play, not to mention the six hours of rehearsal needed to perform, Jo Jo pretty much has the same list of willing participants every year. With slight year-to-year variations, it’s usually ’69 Met Buddy Harrelson, an Olympic bobsledder whose name I can’t remember, former Islander Steve Webb, U.S. karate coach Tokie Hill, Olympic gold medalist Sarah Hughes, and me. Sarah has actually been doing the show since she was a twelve-year-old unknown, and as a result of our mutual willingness to make fools out of ourselves, we have become good friends. This year we’ll see the acting and singing debut of her sister Emily, who represented the United States in the Olympic Winter Games earlier this year. I have known Emily since she was just a kid, and look forward to her inaugural appearance at the event.

With my favorite Olympians, Emily (left) and Sarah.

Courtesy of the Foley family.

At last year’s event, I attempted something new, a brave and bold experiment in male bonding that met with mixed results. During the grand finale, a genuinely emotional number that saw the kids and athletes turn “The Impossible Dream” into “The Possible Dream,” I turned to former hockey tough guy Webb, whose face is every bit as scarred and beaten as mine, and said, “Watch this, during the chorus, I’m going to put my arm around every major-league baseball player on this stage.”

The experiment started off well enough—with a firm embrace of Harrelson, a great guy I’ve met at literally dozens of functions over the years. A Long Island radio personality once mentioned, “If you live on Long Island and you haven’t gotten Mick Foley or Bud Harrelson’s autograph, then you haven’t tried very hard.” I think there’s a compliment in there somewhere.

It was then on to Harrelson’s ’69 Met teammate, Ed Charles. Charles had been in an earlier skit with me (where I was, of course, dressed like a woman), so I felt that he’d be responsive to a hug from the hardcore legend. He was.

Now it was on to the Yankees. Jim Abbott once pitched a no-hitter for the Bronx Bombers, with the benefit of only one hand. The other one wasn’t just injured, it had been missing since birth. Abbott had seemed genuinely thrilled to serve as a role model for so many of the great kids at Abilities, so I didn’t think he’d have a problem with a friendly arm around his shoulders. He didn’t.

Only one man stood between failure and completion of this mission. Unfortunately, that one man was one of the most respected and feared pitchers to ever take to the hill—Hall of Fame fireballer Rich “Goose” Gossage. I remember Gossage beaning my idol, Yankee catcher Thurman Munson, only a year before becoming a Yankee himself. Man, he’d seemed pretty intimidating back then. Plus, he’d seemed a little hammered at the cocktail party an hour earlier.

I felt a wave of apprehension wash over me. The chorus was nearing its end. I had to make my move. I took a deep breath, gathering all the testicular fortitude I could muster. Would it be enough? Only seconds to go. Hey, I’d been through worse than this—Japanese Death matches with Terry Funk, Hell in a Cell with Undertaker, traveling with Al Snow. How bad could this be?

I made my move, shuffling over to Gossage, preparing for this record-breaking bit of human contact. I reached out and put my arm around “the Goose”—who quite honestly didn’t seem to care for the whole male bonding thing. If looks could kill, I’d have been history. If he’d had a couple baseballs in his hand, I’d have been served a healthy dose of chin music immediately. Not since the glory days of Fire Island’s Cherry Grove would a man have taken two balls to the chin with such velocity. (Well, so much for my PG-13 book.)

Yeah, I made it back to my spot by the time the chorus ended, but it was as a beaten man. “You did it,” Webb said, but deep down, I think he knew I’d failed. Aside from the kids on stage and the great supporters in the audience, the big winner of the night was Gossage. He’d done what had once been thought impossible—he’d taught the hardcore legend the meaning of the word
fear.

I think I’ll stick to the Hughes girls this year—at least I know they like me.

Okay, back to the Melina phone call. The media day went pretty much as I’d expected—lots of attention from the kids, none from the media. That’s usually the drill at these things, a little something I’ve learned from constant repetition.

I was at the Muscular Dystrophy Association’s Muscle Team event last year, the annual fund-raising extravaganza that brings together members of the Jets, Giants, Yankees, Mets, and Nets, when a reporter tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Well, I’ve been standing here watching you interact with the kids, and I was wondering why all the reporters ignore you when you seem to be the kids’ favorite?”

I said, “We all play a role here. The other athletes do a great job attracting the media and the sponsors. They bring in the money. My job is to spend time with the kids.”

Once upon a time, things like that used to bother me. It didn’t seem fair. But over time, I’ve learned to heed The Rock’s advice from long ago. I know my role, and I shut my mouth.

But wait, Katie Couric’s in the media, and she likes me, right? She even wrote it in a book. But damn, now that she’s jumping ship from
Today
to the
CBS Evening News,
I’d say my days as a guest of Couric’s are over. Yes, it’s sad to say, but I believe Katie Couric has touched my knee for the very last time.

At one point in the media day, the guest celebrities went into designated areas to teach the kids a little more about the skills of their respective sports. Ed Charles taught baseball basics. Steve Webb demonstrated stick-handling, even if his main skill as an Islander was beating people senseless. The Hughes sisters demonstrated Olympic skating skills, albeit on roller skates.

And as for me, I…Wait, what did I do? What
could
I do? Hit a kid with a chair? Get thrown off a tall structure? I mean, teaching physically challenged kids the basics of professional wrestling might not even be appropriate, and as a long list of WWE Superstars would be willing to verify, I don’t really know the basics all that well anyway.

So I decided to take some questions. At first I handled the usual ones. “Yes, it did hurt when Undertaker threw me off the cell. Yes, I did enjoy teaming with The Rock at
WrestleMania.
Yes, I do think the current administration misled the American public during the buildup to the war.” Then I heard another one, slightly different, a little more interesting. “Are you friends with the Divas?”