We were making progress, but one thing was becoming readily apparent. Larry had told me that his talent was making his words sound like those of the person he was writing about. I had no doubt that he had made his words sound like Don Shula's in the mid-seventies. He was at that time a forty-five-year-old man trying to sound like a forty-five-year-old-man. I didn't read Larry's book on Shula and I'm not a betting man, but I would be willing to bet that Shula never said, "Man, every time Csonka bent over, I wanted to put some yardage in his back-field."
Larry had actually been a wrestling journalist decades earlier. Some people told me that he was the preeminent wrestling writer of his day. But in Larry's day, wrestling was covered as if the contests were real. This had to be changed, or else the readers would fart on Have a Nice Day! so loud it would sound like the bombing of Baghdad. This last subject really hurt Larry. He had gone from being wrestling's foremost journalist to being told that his style was all wrong.
When we parted ways, Larry agreed to make the changes I had proposed. He told me that in all his years of ghostwriting autobiographies, no one had ever taken such a hands-on approach. This statement struck me as being odd—after all, an autobiography should be a completely hands-on experience. In addition to the changes, Larry agreed to let me have a shot at writing the opening chapter, as well as the chapter on my dad. We agreed to speak a few days later.
I visited my aunt Ginny the next day in Daytona, Florida. She had been recently released from the hospital after a hundred-day stay, the result of a grading truck backing up over her as she waited behind it on her bicycle. The truck driver then panicked, and accidentally ran back over her in the forward direction. The accident should have killed her, but even at the age of seventy, she had battled back from critical condition and had begun walking several miles daily as a form of therapy.
She showed me the scars on her back, and I got weak in my stomach. All of a sudden my barbed-wire reminders didn't look all that impressive. Many people might consider me to be "the toughest SOB in the World Wrestling Federation," and given the video evidence that my career offers, there may be some truth in that statement. But after visiting my aunt Ginny and seeing the hell she'd been through and the positive attitude with which she had bounced back, I can't even lay claim to being the toughest SOB on my own family tree.
The next night in Orlando saw the return of Cactus Jack. Cactus had been my wrestling persona from my wrestling inception in 1985 until Vince McMahon put an end to the character upon my entry into the World Wrestling Federation in 1996. Cactus had been given a one-night revival in Madison Square Garden in September 1997, which had been incredibly successful, and a three-month stint, from January through March 1998, which had been somewhat less so. Still, with the World Wrestling Federation's ability to promote Cactus Jack as a somehow tougher, wilder version of Mick Foley, and with my ability to shift gears and cut some pretty believable heel promos, it was felt that Cactus Jack could draw big money in a feud with either Austin or the newly turned Rock. This show in Orlando was a way of refreshing the public's memory.
One opponent would just not do for Cactus Jack—he was just too damn tough—so I was put in a handicap situation. My opponents for the night were Mideon, the bizarre, tattooed tough guy who did an amazing Mankind imitation and knew all the words to "Forever in Blue Jeans" by Neil Diamond, and Viscera, a 450-pound black man with a blond Mohawk. In keeping with Cactus Jack's reputation, this was booked as a "hardcore" match.
Backstage before the show, I was introduced to tennis star Monica Seles. I told her of my former exploits on the tennis court, which included diving, yelling, and throwing my racket, and I think I detected the slightest sign of interest on her face. When the show began, the camera cut to a shot of an applauding Monica in the front row, and I came up with an idea. I grabbed Mideon, and together we formed a plan. I would get knocked down outside the ring, right in front of a concerned Monica. I would get up slowly and turn to Mideon, who would proceed to do a Mark McGwire impression with a steel chair as a bat, and my face as home-run-ball number sixty-two. The camera would then show Monica, who would no doubt be either disgusted or impressed, depending upon her personal tastes. Either way, I knew it would make for a tremendous reaction shot.
Yes, I know that Colette had put me on double-secret chairshot probation, but I felt that this occasion was important enough to override her decision. Besides, it was my theory that a steel chair to the side of the face did much less potential brain damage than a shot to the head, although this theory has never been proven by the medical community.
Cactus came out to a tremendous ovation, and in truth, I may have been too harsh when assessing my abilities earlier, because this match was actually pretty good. I went down from a double-team move right in front of the spot where Monica had been shown earlier in the evening. This plan was brilliant. Mideon had the chair. I turned slowly, and crack, he laid into me like he was a cop at the 1968 Democratic Convention. I went down to the collective "ooh" of the audience, including, I thought, an "ooh" with a slightly Yugoslavian accent to it. A moment later I pulled myself up to get a close-up look at Monica, only to find she was . ..gone! All that planning, all that sacrifice—for nothing. Oh yeah, I won the match.
That night I began to write about my dad. I had always been a decent creative writer, and at one point in my youth my mom had urged me to write a book, but I had lost interest when she said I couldn't use curses. I think I was ten at the time. A year later, when Jaws mania was sweeping the nation, I wrote about my exploits as a shark hunter, during which I referred to "that sonofabitch shark." My story came back with an F with the comment "this is not creative writing" written on top. That sonofabitch teacher! In my high school English class, each student was instructed to analyze a poem or song. I was so enthused about the project that I voluntarily wrote analyses for three other students. The results were interesting—3 As and a C-plus. Guess who got the bad grade? As a college freshman, I actually had points taken away from my grade because a quote from a Dolly Parton song I used, "One is only poor only if they choose to be," contained improper grammar. In a quote! That teacher single-handedly ruined my love for writing—a love that I didn't rediscover until sixteen years later, with the writing of Have a Nice Day!
I'll be the first to admit that my grammar and punctuation is a little weak. As a seventh-grader in Norris Marshak's English class, I knew all my grammar and punctuation. Now, as a bestselling writer, I'll be the first to admit that I don't know a semicolon from my colon. Thank goodness I have an editor who is paid to put all the doohickeys, thing-amabobs, and whatchamacallits in the right places.
I know teaching is a demanding, often unappreciated job, but I believe that a teacher's job shouldn't end with the curriculum. Teachers need to instill a love for learning in their kids. Granted, some kids simply don't want to learn, but others simply don't have the inspiration. I never dreamed that so many wrestling fans who purchased my book would be reading voluntarily for the first time in their lives. But inspiration comes from strange places. I became interested in the Civil War a few years ago, based solely on a Steve Earle song entitled "Ben McCul-loch." I read seventeen books on the Civil War because of that song. Bret Hart and I shared many a historical conversation because of Earle's song. And in a roundabout way, that song helped me live out a dream.
A few months ago I sought refuge from the crowded Atlanta airport by slipping into the Delta Crowne Club room, which is reserved for Delta's most frequent fliers. Frequent fliers don't frequently look like me, which is part of the reason I like going in there. On this particular afternoon, the Crowne Room was quite crowded, so I sat in a chair that was next to a table at which two distinguished gentlemen were engaged in a detailed strategical discussion about the Battle of Gettysburg. No matter how much I read, I can never remember the strategies of the individual generals at distinct battles. These guys knew their stuff. For a moment I thought I was listening to a Kerwin Silfies' PBS production. Then I
heard it. A question that neither had an answer for. "Lee's second-in-command never was in favor of pursuing the offensive," one man said, before wondering, "What was his name?" The other man drew a blank. Believe it or not, I had visualized this scenario more times than I had ever envisioned becoming World Wrestling Federation champion. Not only did I know who it was, I had read the general in question's 640-page memoir, From Manassas to Appomattox. I could stay silent no longer. "Excuse me," I chimed in, "I believe the man whose name you're looking for is General James Longstreet." "That's it," one man exclaimed, and then asked me to join them, which I did for an hour of engaging Civil War talk. While we were chatting, a very wealthy-looking Wall Street type stopped by our table. "I just want you to know," he said, "that you coming up with that answer was the strangest thing I have ever seen."
Alrighty, then—I'm back from another tangent. Let's get back to my dad. I went to work on my writing. I wanted to convey how hard a worker my dad was, while showing how he always made time for his kids, while still showing his idiosyncrasies— such as collecting twenty-five years' worth of newspapers in our garage.
I churned out about 2,500 loving but somewhat humorous words on my dad in that one evening. For a guy who hadn't written anything larger than an autograph in fifteen years, this was no small feat. I was not computer literate, and my old Sears typewriter had bitten the dust years earlier. So I did it the old-fashioned, Thomas Jefferson "Declaration of Independence" way. I wrote it longhand. Which is actually how this book is being written as well.
I called up my brother John the next day to get his feedback on the idea of me writing my own autobiography. He laughed like hell, but brought up the possibility that my dad might not get quite as big a kick out of it as he would. I hadn't thought of that. Remember, I had asked for this assignment so as not to be disowned. My own writing would accomplish nothing if I was disowned anyway. In reality, my dad would never disown me, but if my writing hurt him in any way, I would regret it.
I hoped he would like it, or at least wouldn't mind, but nonetheless, this experience had proved one thing to me—I could write this book myself. Now I had to convince the World Wrestling Federation. I called Stamford, Connecticut, on May 12, 1999, and asked to speak to Jim Bell, the head of World Wrestling Federation marketing and the liaison between the Federation and ReganBooks. "Jim, I have a feeling that Larry's not going to work out," I explained. "Fine," Jim said, "we'll just get you another writer." This was going to be tricky. "Uh, Jim, I was thinking that I could write this book myself."
What followed was the type of silence usually reserved for a Pete Gas match. Finally, after what seemed like minutes, Jim spoke. "Maybe we could get Russo and Ferrara [another World Wrestling Federation writer] to help you." Was the thought of a guy who had suffered numerous concussions writing his own book really so strange? Of course it was. It was ludicrous. I finally spoke up with what seemed like a rational idea. "What if I write a few chapters and send them to you? Then you can tell me what you think." "Sure," Jim replied, while probably thanking his lucky stars for having bought himself a few days' time before having to crush my literary ambitions.
So there, in the stands of the Tallahassee Civic Center, which, for you trivia buffs, is the only town I ever ate lunch with Ole Anderson in, I began the graphic depiction of my ear loss, complete with what is, in my opinion, the greatest opening line this side of Melville's "Call me Ishmael." The next day I FedExed copies of the ear-and-dad chapters and waited anxiously for a reply.
Two days later the phone rang. "Mick, this is Jim Bell—we like it—we're going to go with it." With that one call, and with Jim's sensitive heartfelt words, I was going to be an author. Or at least half of one. The book was supposed to be 60,000 words. Larry had already written half of that, and covered my life up to 1991. I intended to simply insert my two chapters into the beginning and pick up where Larry had left off.
I knew I had my work cut out for me. I had 30,000 words to write and a July 1 deadline—which gave me exactly fifty days to finish. But first I had to speak with my father.
When I told him of my plan, he wanted a little more information. "What are you going to write about?" he asked. "Oh, just general stuff," I said, "like how you used to take us to Yankee games, and how many hours you worked—and maybe a few stories too." My dad grew defensive immediately. "Stories—what stories?" Now he was becoming the Jack Foley who had intimidated Ward Melville High School students for decades. The Jack Foley who, as the school's athletic director, could silence a crowd of unruly basketball fans with one Jack Foley stare.
I tried my best to shrug off these stories like they were nothing. "Oh, you know, Dad, just little things like how you save all your newspapers, and how you used to curse a lot when you were working on your doctorate." These didn't seem like little things to my dad, who immediately reacted with, "Oh, Mick, I don't know—I don't want to be in the book—just leave me out of it, okay?" "Dad," I pleaded, "I don't think they make you look bad, they're just kind of funny." My dad cut me off in mid-sentence. "Let me think about it, Mick, I'll get back to you."
My dad did get back to me, about six hours later. He no longer sounded like the intimidating Dr. Foley of local legend; he now sounded like a mischievous kid. "Mick, I was thinking," he whispered as if he was trying to hide his bad-boy exploits from my mother, "I've got a bunch of great stories for your book. Like the time that Dick Dawe put new siding up on his house and I called up pretending to be the Three Village Historical Society ..." The lure of immortalization in literature had been too much for my dad to turn down. He wanted in.
13: Owen
I BEGAN WRITING LIKE A MADMAN (no, not the wrestler). I wrote on planes, in dressing rooms, in hotels, at my kitchen table—anywhere I could find. I didn't read a paper or watch television for the next fifty days. My much-vaunted lovemaking skills, which usually combined a marathon aerobic workout with the secrets of the Kama Sutra, became merely perfunctory. During one trip back from England, including layovers and connecting flights, I wrote for eighteen hours. Thankfully, I had surgery scheduled for the end of the month, at which time I could concentrate on writing full-time while still having time to play Superdad at home.
I had come to two realizations as I worked on the book. One was that I was going to write the whole thing. As much as I liked Larry, I really wanted this book to be all mine. Our styles of writing were so different that to do the combined Foley/Nahani project would make Have a Nice Day! seem like two separate books. So in a somewhat backward way of doing things, I would finish the book first, and then write the first half.
My second realization was that this book was going to be way, way longer than 60,000 words. In truth, I had already written almost 50,000 and had only covered the period from 1991 to 1995. I had covered everything up until my first trip to Japan for the IWA, which would be a key chapter, due to the strange working conditions and inhuman suffering I had endured over there.
The May 29 Over the Edge Pay-Per-View from Kansas City, Missouri, would be my first PPV in ages that I would not play a major role in. I was mired somewhere in the middle of an eight-man tag team, a match that my performance was not going to make or break either way. Usually, I am full of ideas, and even take on a leadership role in these matches. But, hell, I was on a deadline, and I had barbed-wire matches with Terry Funk to write about. I decided to dedicate my day in Kansas City to writing and let the other seven guys worry about the match.
I was very happy with the way the day's writing was going as the Pay-Per-View went on the air. I was writing in an empty production office that had its own television monitor, which, due to my work, I glanced at only occasionally. In one of these glances, I happened to see an interview with Owen Hart in his Blue Blazer guise. Owen played the Blue Blazer as a bumbling superhero type, who claimed in this interview that The Godfather "makes my blue blood boil." Many people felt that this portrayal was forced upon Owen as a swipe at stereotypical 1980s babyfaces, and at his brother Bret as
well, but I saw it simply as a harmless entertaining gimmick. The Blazer was a heel at the moment, but I felt sure that within months he would have a huge babyface run. I watched the interview (there was no audio) and smiled, as I usually did when watching Owen, before going back to work.
When I looked at the screen again, the camera was focused on a shot of the crowd for an extended time. I guessed that they were having technical problems, and resumed writing. Minutes later I looked at the screen again, and the crowd was still on-camera. As I wondered what was wrong, wrestling great Pat Patterson walked in. He was almost nonchalant as he asked, "Did you see what happened?" I replied that I had no idea. "Owen fell off the catwalk into the ring," he said, but still seemed somewhat calm. I had no idea what to think, but hoped that Pat, who liked to joke with the boys, was making a bad joke here. "Pat, are you ribbing?" Suddenly Pat burst into tears. "He's been lying in the ring for ten minutes. They don't know if he's alive or dead."
My whole body felt cold as I ran out of the room while Pat sobbed uncontrollably. I raced down the hall and crossed myself as I prayed for Owen. The backstage area was a collection of wrestlers either standing in stunned silence or crying openly. As I reached the entranceway, the gurney carrying Owen was wheeled to the waiting ambulance. An EMT stood atop the moving gurney and performed CPR as we all hoped against hope that Owen was still alive.
Francois Petit came through the curtain, and I rushed to meet him. "He's gone," Francois sadly said, "he's all gone."
I had no idea what to do. Nothing in my life had prepared me to deal with a situation like this. I realized that Colette and the kids had ordered the Pay-Per-View, and thought of how they were dealing with the tragedy. Dewey loved Owen, and I knew that he would be very upset. At this point I had no idea that most of the home audience had not seen the fall. Owen was supposed to descend from the catwalk via a harness, which had somehow become disengaged, and caused Owen to plummet nearly sixty feet into the ring. Even while falling to his death, Owen had warned the referee and a ring technician to move out of the way, and quite possibly saved their lives by doing so.