The Hardcore Diaries (7 page)

May 7, 2006

Dear Hardcore Diary,

My weight could pose a problem. I weighed in at 315 about ten days ago, when I started training in earnest for the ECW show. I realized that I’d dodged a bullet at
WrestleMania,
as my weight and conditioning wasn’t much of a factor. But that match had incorporated several strategic moments of rest following brutal action, which allowed me to catch my breath. I didn’t want to take any chances on this Pay-Per-View. I know the lead-up (unless the execution will be extremely screwed up) will be captivating, but unlike
WrestleMania,
this matchup is not just an “intangible”—it will be the foundation of the whole show.

Sure, the title match (at this point looking to be John Cena vs. Rob Van Dam), will have great heat, and other matches will shock and awe, but I firmly believe our match will be the one on which success hinges.

In all likelihood, I could get away with being 315. I mean with all the bells and whistles that the match will certainly entail, and with a tremendous partner like Edge to carry our team’s workload, I will probably be okay. I am still capable of short bursts of great energy, and as a guy who took Clint Eastwood’s
Magnum Force
advice—“A man’s got to know his limitations”—to heart a long time ago, I do have a knack for working to my strengths and avoiding my weaknesses.

All the same, I’d really like to put “endurance” on the “strengths” list, which will require a couple of definite sacrifices. I need to work my ass off (or at least a good portion of it) in the gym, and I have to learn to just say no to all the candy, cakes, pies, chips, and especially ice cream that have been the staples of the Mick Foley diet for quite a while.

Actually, I eat a sensible, balanced diet for about twenty-three and a half hours a day. That other thirty minutes, however, can get a little ugly. That refrigerator (or freezer) door opens, and common sense just seems to disappear. I’ve made some pretty startling rationalizations while assuming that late-night/early-morning refrigerator stance. I have convinced myself that the rice in rice pudding is a mainstay of many Asian diets, and that the milk in the pudding is helpful in building strong bones. I have also noted that a portion of the proceeds from Ben & Jerry’s Rain Forest Crunch is used to protect the environment. Hey, what more reason do I need? I’m a tree hugger of sorts. Two thousand late-night calories down the hatch.

But I’ve been fairly good these last ten days. Sure, I’ve authorized the consumption of some questionable items that most WWE performers wouldn’t touch, but at least I’ve hit the gym on about eight of those days. Surely I would be able to chart my progress on the Gold’s Gym scale. I’m mentioning their name because they comp me a membership, and I plan to point to this book, upon its publication, as reason they should continue to do so.

I stepped up on that scale and watched those numbers fly north: 297, 307, 312, and rising. Oh, no, 317. I’d actually gained two pounds. And something told me it wasn’t muscle tissue.

I think back to 2004, when I was able to drop sixty pounds in six months, and I remember how stubborn my body seemed to be about giving up any more weight once I hit this 315 territory. I just had to blast through it. Train harder, eat smarter, avoid those late-night sojourns to the fridge.

I was in the middle of a sensible eating day when I foolishly said yes to the in-flight meal en route from New York to Los Angeles. So now I’m counting on my hardcore diary to take my mind off the guilt I feel on account of my decision.

This is my first time writing on a plane in several years. Wait, that’s not exactly true. It’s not even mostly true. I did quite a bit of writing on our trip home from Afghanistan this past December. This is, however, the first time I’ve worked on an actual book while flying in about five years. I actually did about ten hours of writing on that trip, about a young Afghan child who had been severely burned in a kerosene fire, whose image wouldn’t allow my body or conscience to rest. I’ll include that writing a little later in the book, but I don’t think the time is quite right for something so heavy.

Because if I’m right, you are so caught up in my creative struggles, weight battles, and deep-rooted psychological issues that heavy talk about a sad child ten thousand miles away might throw us all off course.

I also wrote some letters on that trip, one of them to Candice Michelle. I know I’ve teased her name before, so I’m going ahead and giving you a little taste of Candice. No, this is not my “dream come true” story, but a cute little anecdote about a very kind, charming young lady, who also happens to have big boobs. And knowing Candice, I don’t think she’ll find that last comment insulting.

We were several hours into a flight that took forever, onboard an Air Force transport plane, not designed for asses like mine. Unlike other wiser wrestlers and crew members, I did not have the foresight to pack a DVD player, nor do I have the technological prowess to operate a computer. So it was basically me and a yellow legal pad with which to pass the time.

So, I withdrew my Pilot rolling ball pen like an ancient warrior’s mighty broadsword and set about catching up with kids I sponsor around the world. I’ll talk in greater detail about one of these children in particular a little later, but for now I’ll just mention that sponsoring kids through Christian Children’s Fund over the last fourteen years has come to be one of the most important parts of my life.

Let’s see, how do I segue from sponsoring children to Candice Michelle? How about casually dropping the name of John Irving, possibly America’s greatest novelist.

I had written to Irving, along with eight or nine other authors whose work I enjoyed, before the publication of
Scooter,
my latest novel, hoping to get a treasured “blurb,” words of praise from fellow authors to slap on the cover of the upcoming book.

My editor at Alfred A. Knopf, Victoria Wilson, had sent out several letters to critically acclaimed authors prior to the publication of my first novel,
Tietam Brown,
and had gotten exactly zero responses in return. I figured I would send out handwritten letters to authors that I personally enjoyed, figuring that they might actually enjoy my stuff, as well. So I was basically asking complete strangers to take ten or twelve hours our of their lives to peruse the literary ramblings of a one-eared pro wrestler and then say something nice about it—for free. Ms. Wilson let me know that my prospects were fairly bleak. “I’ve read your letters,” she said. “And they’re very charming, but don’t expect anything to happen.” I didn’t.

But, to my surprise, I received a call from esteemed novelist Richard Price about a week later. Price has been nominated for both an Academy Award and a National Book Award, and is universally respected in the literary world. Cinematic adaptations of Price novels include
The Wanderers,
the Spike Lee film
Clockers,
and
Freedomland,
starring Samuel L. Jackson, Julianne Moore, and Edie Falco.

“I’m really enjoying the book,” Price said. “I’m going to give you a quote after I’m done.”

“Wow, thanks, Mr. Price,” I said in meek, non-hardcore fashion. This was kind of like a Little Leaguer receiving a phone call from Roger Clemens, saying, “You got some good heat on that fastball, kid.”

“It really brought back memories,” said Price, a born and raised Bronxite, who apparently found my depiction of the borough in its mid-1960s upheaval to be fairly authentic. “Maybe we could get together sometime and trade stories.”

“Sure,” I said, a little puzzled. “Stories about what?”

“About growing up in the Bronx.”

I let out a little laugh. “I didn’t grow up in the Bronx.”

“You didn’t?” Price said, surprised. “Wow, you must have really done your homework.” It was the greatest compliment of my literary life.

A week later Price called me up and read me his quote, which was better written then anything appearing in any of my books.

In turns ashcan realist and operatic, lurid and heartfelt, sentimental and hard-nosed,
Scooter
is an absorbing tale of one kid’s growth into young manhood via sports; sports as an instrument of love, of revenge, of celebration and of destruction. It also, most compellingly, offers an athlete’s contemplation of pain, and the unique brand of salvation that can come of its forbearance.

—RICHARD PRICE

To my editor’s great surprise, the blurbs kept coming—well, at least two of them did. Jonathan Kellerman, my favorite crime novelist, e-mailed me a good quote (which of course my son Dewey had to retrieve for me), and I also received a humorous one from Dave Barry, the beloved and hilarious columnist, memoirist, and novelist.

Most surprising of all was a call I received from my publicist at Knopf, Gabrielle Brooks, wanting to know if I had a problem with her giving John Irving my address. Problem? No, I didn’t have any problem with that.

A few weeks later,
it
arrived in the Foley mailbox. The letter. Now I know how it felt when that kid received that bedside visit from Babe Ruth so many years ago. Or how Charlie felt when he got Willie Wonka’s last golden ticket. Or how Test felt just about every night of his unfathomable relationship with Stacy Keibler.

He hadn’t been able to read the book. He thought the first few pages were convoluted, poorly written, and unrealistic and then threw the damn thing out. No, he didn’t say that, but he had been working on both a novel and screenplay and just couldn’t find the time for
Scooter
. He did say, however, that he had read
Tietam Brown
and enjoyed it immensely. All right, I added that one word, “immensely.” But the fact that he read it, liked it, and took the time to write (a full-page letter, no less) meant a great deal to me.

So, of course, out of respect, I wrote him back, thanking him. Now, how many people can say they got a letter from American’s greatest novelist? Well, I guess anyone could
say
it, but how many had the proof in hand? I sure was thankful for the one John Irving letter.

Except Irving wasn’t done with me. A week later, there was another one in the mailbox, encouraging me to keep writing, telling me not to worry about the opinions of critics.

It was while writing back to Irving, onboard that Air Force transport plane, that Candice asked her innocent question. “What are you writing?”

Candice had been seated in the row in front of me, so that the possibility of conversation required her to turn around in her seat to face me. I guess she also felt it required her to lean over slightly, allowing her two greatest assets to acquire a position of prominence in the general vicinity of my really wide-open eyes. Again, I could attempt to use my Knopf-honed writing skills to paint a portrait of Ms. Michelle, but will instead turn that responsibility over to our WWE photographers.

At that point in the letter-writing process, I had only written a paragraph or two, starting out with the words, “Somewhere in New York, Katie Couric is breathing a deep sigh of relief.”

I once told Katie Couric that she had changed my life. She seemed quite surprised, maybe even a little scared. “Really?” she said.

“Yes, before I met you, I wasn’t a name-dropper.”

I was in the process of telling Irving that after a long run on top, Katie Couric had been supplanted on my name-dropping list, when Candice made her inquiry.

Here’s Candice in all her glory. I’m sure my wife will love this photo.

I thought about giving Candice the longest answer possible, so as to ensure maximum viewing pleasure. Kind of like a voyeur’s version of a Senate filibuster. Just keep on talking. Instead I gave her a short, bumbling answer, the type that had been my trademark throughout high school, college, and well into my mid-twenties.

“Um, I’m, you know, writing some letters.”

“Oh, really,” she said, seemingly oblivious to the precarious predicament her two assets had worked me into. “Who are you writing to?”

Yes! Yes! This was going to be awesome! I was going to look really smart in front of an absolutely gorgeous woman. I was going to drop my new favorite name, and impress the hell out a very impressive young lady. “Excuse me,” I said. “What did you say?” Although obviously I had heard quite well the first time. I guess I was just prolonging my boasting time, as once I mentioned my correspondence with Irving, Candice would be all over me for more info on the origins of our acquaintance.

“Who are you writing to?”

“Oh, just a few kids I sponsor overseas.” Good start. Candice smiled and let out a small sympathetic sigh. Obviously, she was impressed with my sensitivity. “And…John Irving.” Yes, sensitivity and intelligence. I was indeed the total package. No, not the “total package,” the wrestler who went to jail for nonsupport and blew the fortune he’d made in the ring.

I waited for her reply. Probably disbelief at first, followed by acceptance, joy, and finally, a long discussion about our favorite Irving novels.