So for a while I tried to lie, not only to others, but to myself as well. I wasn't really a Britney Spears fan, was I? Of course not. Then, in my mind, I would hear that driving backbeat and would hear Britney's sweet but not that innocent voice sing "In my mind, I still believe," before assuming the role of the chorus and loudly belting out "still believe." I felt so guilty leading this double life, until I finally came clean inside a rented Lumina on a road trip with Al Snow and the Blue Meanie. "You like that song." Al laughed disbelievingly, before quickly adding, "Me too." The Meanie was even more supportive. "I love that song—it's my favorite." Then, as if by magic, the driving piano of the opening chords came charging forth from the Lumina's standard factory stereo system, and we fired that mother up. Dancing in the car seats and singing out loud, we barreled down Interstate 95 on the way to another sold-out show.
I arrived several hours early for a show at Philadelphia's First Union Center that May. These days, all the arenas have corporate names. The Summit in Houston is now the Compaq Center, the Meadowlands Arena in New Jersey is now the Continental Airlines Arena, and the Scranton Catholic Youth Center is now, well, I guess that one hasn't changed. Actually, the World Wrestling Federation doesn't go to the CYC anymore, and I'm pretty much the guy to either blame or thank for that, depending on how you look at things.
The CYC is a tiny, dingy building that the World Wrestling Federation had been coming to for decades. It was a great place for atmosphere, and a great place to have fun, but somehow the fun didn't seem quite so fun when we got our Scranton payoff. The Catholic community was getting concerned about the World Wrestling Federation's bad-boy image in 1998, and as a result, when we came to Scranton that year, we were urged by road agent Jack Lanza to watch our language during the show. At least Lanza urged most of us. Even DX, a renegade band of hoodlums who were phenomenally popular, toned down their act, so instead of yelling their trademark "suck it" in a tag match against me and Kane, DX members Road Dogg and Billy Gunn let the crowd yell the offensive and somewhat graphic tag line. Unfortunately, Lanza hadn't spoken to me, because as he later said, "You were the last guy I would ever think would be offensive." Apparently he misjudged me, because as soon as the crowd yelled the two naughty words, I went into a panic. This is back when Mankind was still a little dark, and I had Paul Bearer, or "Uncle Paul," as my manager. "Uncle Paul," I squealed into the mike, "I don't want to suck it, don't make me suck it, I'm not going to suck it!" When I returned from my match, I was told that the World Wrestling Federation would never be welcome in the building again.
Anyway, while I was hanging out in Philadelphia, I began talking to a security guard, who informed me that Britney Spears was playing that night at the Tower Theatre in Philadelphia. I was caught completely unaware, and with my defenses down, let an "oh my God" slip out. Not a Joey Styles, ECW "OH MY GOD" either, but more like a Moon Unit Zappa 1982 valley girl "Ohmigawd!" The guard was stunned to find out that the hardcore legend was in fact a fan of the current queen of bubblegum pop. His next question was a shocker: "Do you want to meet her?" I was shocked, but quickly regained my cool so that even while my mind was saying "Ohmigawd, can I? Really? For real," my mouth was saying, "Sure."
With visions of Britney's perfect choreography dancing in my head, I headed out to the parking lot with the guard (who knew a guard at the Tower) for what can only be described as a "pilgrimage." As I hopped into my car, I saw World Wrestling Federation star Edge getting out of his. Edge and I were pretty tight, and in fact our "white guy jumping high five" had put the frosting on many an "Al Snow joke" cake! Still, despite the bond that two men feel when they share a blind hatred for Al Snow, I debated asking Edge along on this journey. What if he laughed at me? I decided to go for broke. "Edgester," I yelled out jovially before proceeding somewhat less jovially, "want to meet Britney Spears?" In a flash, the Edgester was in the car, and after a similar encounter with Stevie Richards/Dancin' Stevie Richards/Big Stevie Cool, we were off to meet the Brizzard. Yeah, I know, that's a little weak.
As soon as we pulled into the Tower Theatre, we were met by throngs of yelling preteen and teenage girls, proving that being a Britney Spears fan and a World Wrestling Federation fan are not mutually exclusive. A few minutes later we were given our private audience with the singer, who . . . didn't know who the hell we were. She was polite and kind, but I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed. Up close, Britney looked suspiciously like any other eighteen-year-old. Granted, if she had suddenly broken into "Oh baybeh, baybeh, how was I supposed to know," I would have swooned like a hysterical chick at a 1964 Beatles concert, but we all felt a little let down as we headed for the door with our own Britney eight-by-ten autographed photos and three complimentary tickets to her show for our efforts.
This, however, was not the story that the puppy-love-struck Blue Meanie heard when we got back to the First Union Center. "Britney loved us," Stevie told the wide-eyed Meanie. "But especially Mick." Edge's next statement was brilliant. "Yeah, she nestled her head into his shoulder and gave him a big hug like he was a favorite uncle." A lesser man would have gone with a stupid "she nailed him right in front of us" line that would have ruined all credibility. Instead, by exercising wisdom and moderation, Edge had the Meanie believing every word.
That night, I wrestled "Bad Ass" Billy Gunn, who by now was a heel in the scheme of things. With my thimbleful of natural athletic ability further reduced by my problem knees, I had to resort to other means to entertain the fans. Like brown-nosing. Nothing is as gratuitous as wearing a Flyers hockey jersey for a match in Philadelphia, but then again, nothing is as cheaply effective. As had become my custom, I grabbed for the mike to try to cover up the lackluster performance that I was about to put on. "Billy Gunn, you call yourself a badass? Well why don't you take a look as I show all of Philadelphia what a real badass looks like." With that, I pulled my sweats down to my knees, and gave the City of Brotherly Love a look at my Fruit Of The Loom-covered buttocks. Even with white cotton covering my butt, the display elicited groans, followed by cheers. The fans in Philadelphia admired my guts, if not my ass.
Philadelphia has a long history for having the most heartless fans on the planet. The city's nickname was something of a misnomer, because in truth, there was not a whole lot of love there. With that in mind, I knew that I had to choose my next words very delicately. I could feel the knot tightening in my stomach, but dammit, I had to let my intentions be known. "I have a lot of history in this city. Whether I was Mankind, Dude Love, or Cactus Jack." The crowd cheered a little at the name of Cactus. "I have tried to put on the best matches that I possibly could, whether it was here in the World Wrestling Federation"—slight cheers—"WCW"— slight boos—"or in the ECW arena." A small but noticeable "ECW, ECW" chant began. "Over the years I have spilled a lot of blood, sweat, and even a few tears in this city." The crowd cheered appreciatively. I had indeed been in some wild contests in Philadelphia, and many of the fans remembered them fondly. I looked across the ring at Gunn, who seemed impressed by my heartfelt words. Actually my next words were the most heartfelt of all as I asked a favor of the crowd. "With that in mind, I hope you will all forgive me for tonight's match, because I have tickets to the Britney Spears concert, and I want to get the hell out of here as fast as I can!"
I looked back at Gunn, whose jaw had dropped in disbelief. Even with 18,000 fans booing, I could hear Referee Tim White's New England accent as he yelled, "Holy shit, I've never heard that one before." Yeah, the crowd was booing, but it wasn't a "boo Mitch 'Wild Thing' Williams so loud that he can't throw strikes anymore and has to retire" type of boo. This was a friendly boo. A "we admire your honesty" boo.
The bell rang, and while we didn't stink the place up, we didn't set it on fire either. After a few minutes of back-and-forth action, Billy had me from behind in a "rear chin lock," a position in which I could rest, but more important, a position from which Billy could flex his muscles for his own enjoyment. Then I saw him. Al. Walking down t
he aisle with something in his hand. When he got to ringside, I saw them. The Britney tickets. So close that I could almost touch them, but first I had Billy Gunn to dispose of. The crowd, sensing the urgency, and knowing that Britney, along with the Britney Spears Dancers, was already in full swing, started clapping in unison. Al started waving the tickets to the rhythm of the crowd. Strangler Lewis rolled over in his grave. With a superhuman effort, I fought back. It was almost as if I had channeled Britney's fresh-scrubbed, clean-living, teenage energy. I fired big lefts that had the "Bad Ass" reeling. He charged me with a clothesline, but I ducked it and caught him with a double-arm DDT. Now it was Socko time. I lifted my shirt and dramatically pointed to the front of my sweatpants. If I had pointed to the general vicinity of my genitalia even eight months earlier, the gesture would have been met with a combination of disinterest and nausea. Now, with "Sockomania" running wild, 18,000 people erupted. The eruption peaked when I pulled Mr. Socko out of my pants and slid him on my hand. Now, if I had pulled a flaccid, white object out of my pants eight months earlier . . . never mind. I clamped on the Socko Claw, and when the bell was rung, I threw Socko to the crowd, and hightailed it up the aisle with Al to take in a memorable last encore at the Tower Theatre.
Actually we never made it to the show, but what the hell—I've got creative license, right? The Britney Spears saga doesn't end there, however. Not with a dejected Blue Meanie to rib. With the help of Miss Kitty's (blond/black/red/blue-haired valet now named The Kat) little-girl, Southern-belle voice, I was able to continue this "favorite uncle" charade. A few days after Philadelphia, I made sure I stood near the Meanie when I was retrieving my messages on my cellular phone. I used to hate guys with cell phones, but as their popularity grew, I realized I would have to hate an awful lot of people. So using the old adage "If you can't beat them, join them," I became a stupid cellphone user.
After a few moments I let my eyes widen in mock surprise and said, "Meanie, listen to this." I played him the message, and he heard Kitty's tiny voice. "Hi, Mick, this is Britney Spears and I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed meeting you in Philadelphia. I really hope that I can see you again on my tour so I can give you a big hug. My cousin is a huge fan, and I was wondering if you could send him a picture. If you can, just mail it to the address I gave you. Okay, bye."
The Meanie was momentarily speechless. While he was regaining his composure, I took out Britney's address, which in reality had been written down by Miss Kitty as well. "Wow," the Meanie finally managed to get out, "that's really great!" He sounded a lot like the runner-up at the Miss America pageant, pretending to be happy for the winner.
I had an elaborate phone-message plan worked out that would include Britney gradually replacing her "favorite uncle" image of me for a somewhat less innocent relationship, culminating in a rendezvous in some romantic location. Unfortunately, at about that time my daughter Noelle became a big Britney fan, and I could no longer justify a sick, lust-filled affair with the teen pop sensation, even if it was make-believe.
A few nights later Test captured the Hardcore Title. A strange phenomenon occurred that night, the likes of which we may never experience again in our lifetimes. The moon was full on that spring night, but was almost completely blocked out by a huge cloud formation. When the formation passed, the moon disappeared. The wind began to howl, and the atmospheric conditions were such that even though the title bout had taken place in Connecticut, at the exact moment that Test's triumphant hand was raised ...all the way from Amarillo, Texas ...I could hear Terry Funk weeping.
12: The Kiddie Pool at Munchkin Land
I RECEIVED LARRY'S OPENING chapter on May 8, 1999. We had driven up and down the road during the previous week and had hit it off pretty well, and even though he still insisted on calling me Michael, I hoped for the best. I had convinced Larry that we needed to begin the book with something hard-hitting—something that would suck the readers in and leave them wanting more. A gripping account of losing two-thirds of my ear in Germany would be a perfect introduction to my life in the world of sports-entertainment. I couldn't wait to read how this seasoned literary veteran would capture every drop of blood, every ounce of emotion, and every thought in my mind in this opening chapter.
By the time I got to Larry's work, it was midnight following a grueling day of traveling and television taping. I began with the intention of just skimming a few chapters before nodding off. Instead, I woke up in a hurry, and stayed up for the next five hours, crossing out lines and making notes on every available space on the paper.
My life story was in big trouble. To say I was disappointed would be like saying the Battle of Gettysburg was a squabble. Everything about it was wrong. The first chapter was supposed to suck people in. In this respect, it was partly successful—it certainly did suck. I wanted people to know what it felt like to be me and feel the life being choked out of me—to actually feel like I was dying as the ring ropes held my neck in a viselike grip. I wanted the readers to know that the only way out was to use my remaining strength to squeeze out of ropes so tight that they literally pushed my ear off my head. I wanted the readers to hear every groan, to see the steady parade of blood droplets splattering the blue protective mats crimson. And I wanted Larry to explain how it felt to actually continue the match, only to find out later that I was without one auditory unit.
Instead, I got "the ropes were tight, and I could feel myself passing out. I pulled my head out, and saw that I was bleeding." I needed more.
My father came across in Larry's writing as a distant, coldhearted bastard. One line read, "My father was a man of few words. He liked to make his point and move on." My dad? A man of few words? My dad uses words like a needle uses thread. He loves to talk. He doesn't make points and move on. He makes points, explains them, elaborates on them, and then summarizes them. If I let this chapter stay as it was, I would be disowned.
Larry had explained the importance of telling readers what my favorite foods were. This came across as "for a while, ham was my favorite food, and I could eat Boston cream pie every day. Mom made the best spaghetti on the block. Dad would never miss a meal at home simply because Mom was such a good cook." This stuff had about as much depth to it as the kiddie pool at Munchkin Land. Worst of all, Larry wrote about wrestling matches as if they were real, an error that readers would find inexcusable in the current wrestling atmosphere.
I had a sinking feeling as I tried to go to sleep. The next day I would be seeing Larry, and I knew we needed to have a long talk.
"Michael, what do you think? I told you I was a writing fool," Larry opened our discussion the following day. This was going to be hard. Larry was such a nice guy and he took his writing seriously. "Larry, I think we'd better sit down." Our discussion was interesting.
"Larry, I don't really think you made people feel like I was in a whole lot of danger when I lost my ear."
"Well, were you?"
"Yes, I was, and not only that, but when I was waiting for medical help, you made me sound like a whiner, when you write, 'Where the hell is the ambulance? How long am I going to wait here looking at a pool of my own blood? Why the hell won't anyone help me?'"
"Well, what would you say?"
"I would say, 'Could somebody please help me. I really need some help, please.'"
"Michael, you just lost an ear—you're going to be upset. You're not going to say please.'"
"Larry, that's what I did say. I always say please."
"Okay, I'll put it in, then."
"Now, Larry, my dad will be crushed if we print any of this. This isn't anything like my dad."
"Okay, we'll work on that."
"Now, about the girl I met during my first week of school—instead of saying, 'Her big breasts really turned me on,' how about, 'Her combination of sexy voice, swinging sweater puppets, and morally casual attitude, had me smitten?'"
"If you say so."
"Now, where you write, 'My idol when I was ten was Fonzie—I wanted to be like
Fonzie'—maybe you should explain who Fonzie was."
"Who was he?"
"You never heard of the Fonz?"
"No."
"Okay, what if we said, 'My idol when I was ten was the Fonz of TV's seventies sitcom Happy Days. The Fonz was definitely the man. Fix a jukebox with a slap of his hand? No problem. And chicks—the Fonz had them lined up at the door.' And then at the end we'll add a 'Heyyy' with about three ys on the end."
"Michael, you can't do that."
"Why not?"
"Because 'hey' is not a sentence."
At this point I looked to Edge, tag-team daredevil brothers the Hardy Boyz, and Albert, a bald-headed hairy-backed 350-pound monster with thirty-three piercings on his body. "Hey, guys," I yelled, "what does the Fonz say?" Simultaneously they went, "Heyyy!" Grudgingly, Larry agreed to add it.
Next I brought up a story about my time in Nigeria, where I was shocked by the local custom of men holding hands. The quote itself was a good one, and Larry had printed it in its entirety. But after looking at the quote, I came up with a punch line to end it that I thought was pretty clever. Larry thought it was disgusting. I decided to read the passage, complete with new ending, to my esteemed panel of experts.
"I later came to see this gesture as the ultimate compliment, and was flattered to think that this middle-aged black man from Africa had embraced a young white man from another continent according to his local custom. It was a true gesture of friendship from a true gentleman." I then paused a second before delivering my last line. "Either that, or the guy wanted to hammer me." The wrestlers loved it, and their laughing seemed to hurt Larry's feelings. "All right, we'll keep it"—he shrugged—"but I don't think it's right."