I just recalled an interview I did several years ago that was deemed "too graphic" even for ECW television. Because it never aired, this, or my recollection of it, is being revealed for the first time. Keep in mind that this interview is being shot in extreme close-up fashion—with only my pained facial expression on the television screen of your imagination.
You used to be mine, didn't you? Mine and mine alone. I could use you, and that was fine, because no one else could. Now when I lie awake in bed, with you in my arms, I do so with the knowledge that you've been held by other men. Used by them. Four or five in a single night. And I've had to watch it all, you cheap whore, and pretend to like it when I see you go up and down, up and down, again and again, on their swollen throbbing heads. And you expect me not to care. When Tommy Dreamer spreads your legs and lowers himself on top of you for the whole dressing room to see? Well, I do care, because I love you, and I always will, and I will always return to the one I love.
Now zoom the camera out to reveal me cradling a steel chair, which I will then passionately make out with until the camera in your mind fades out or until your erection goes away, you little pervert!
Not bad, huh? Maybe now that I've conquered the New York Times bestseller list, I will attempt that last bastion of true creative writing—letters to Penthouse.
5: Backyard Wrestling
Wrestling has also come under fire recently for the proliferation of backyard wrestling leagues. This hits especially close to home for me, for indeed it was the leap off Danny Zucker's roof in my terrible home movie The Loved One that helped get my foot in the door to professional wrestling.
For anyone who thinks that diving off a roof or any similar action is going to get them noticed— forget it. When I did it, it was something new, and all it really did was put me in a position where I could drive a couple hundred miles to drag thousands of pounds of steel and wood out of an eight-story storage space in Brooklyn, load it into an elevator, unload it into a truck, drive the truck, set up the ring, work security, sell hot dogs, take the ring down, drive it back to Brooklyn, unload it into an elevator, then load it back into storage before driving another couple hundred miles back to school. Yes, my roof dive did help me get my start, but its importance, much like stories of my sexual prowess, has been exaggerated. The real keys to my success came from driving 800 miles round-trip to Dominic DeNucci's wrestling school in Pittsburgh every weekend for a year and a half. It came from sleeping in the backseat of my '78 Ford Fairmont on many of those trips, and from a steady diet of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches to save money. It also came from proper teaching, an emphasis on the basics, and a respect for my fellow wrestlers' bodies; not on wild, reckless moves, done without any appreciation for what truly is dangerous, just so some moron holding a camcorder can yell out "Oh my God" while he watches his two buddies risk permanent paralysis.
A few years ago fans started bringing signs to the arenas that proclaimed foley is god. On one hand, I appreciate the sentiment, but as I have always maintained, there should be an extra O in there to state foley is good, which would be a whole lot more accurate. But let's just for a second assume that I am God, and that all backyard wrestlers must do my bidding. Here are my Ten Commandments of backyard wrestling:
1. Thou shalt not use moves that can compress the vertebrae. I trust the Undertaker more than anybody I have ever been in the ring with, but I was legitimately scared every single time I was upside down for a tombstone piledriver. The repercussions of this move, as well as a regular piledriver, a pedigree, a brainbuster, a DDT, a double-arm DDT, a snowplow, a German suplex, a regular suplex, a backdrop, a body slam, a powerbomb, and many others, when done improperly, could be devastating or even fatal. Don't do them.
2. Thou shalt not hit each other with chairs. Please hold on to those brain cells. The real world is a competitive place—you'll need every one of them.
3. Thou shalt not jump off roofs, or any other surface higher than Mini-me's pelvis. And if you feel like you have to, for God's sake, and for mine (in this case they are the same), don't leave your buddy on the ground to absorb your awkward ass impact.
4. Thou shalt not use fire as a prop. I may not have volunteered this information in the lawsuit I was just a defendant in, but there have been a whole lot of people burned badly while using fire in a pro wrestling match. Terry Funk, Abdullah the Butcher, the Sheik, Wing Kanemoura, and I have all been burned while doing such a thing. I saw a nineteen-year-old girl get burned in Yokohama, Japan, while wearing a spandex singlet. The heat of the flame melted the fabric right onto her skin, and if it had not been for the quick action of the referee, who used his own body to put her out, she might have been engulfed by the flame. I saw her on the stretcher as she was whisked by me backstage. Sometimes I can still hear her screams in my mind.
5. Thou shalt not use extreme props such as barbed wire, thumbtacks, beds of nails, cheese graters, lightbulbs, and a variety of household objects never meant to be used as weapons by teenage boys. It's stupid.
6. Thou shalt not purposely cut thine own self with the intent to draw blood. This act is questionable when done in front of huge crowds. It was dumb when I did it for $25 in front of seventy-eight people in Evansville, Indiana, in the fall of '88. It is downright asinine when done in your mom and dad's backyard. Hey, I'm the hardcore legend, and in my backyard matches, I used a mixture of food coloring and corn syrup poured out of a Jif jar.
7. Thou shalt not throw real punches or kicks. There is a way to throw real punches and kicks and be somewhat safe about it. Until you attend a respectable wrestling school, forget about learning it. Instead, throw ridiculous punches, or do what pro wrestlers who never can learn the art do—use Asiatic thrusts, and tell your buddy to pretend it hurts.
8. Thou shalt not use the F word in wrestling-style interviews, or let your camcorder-holder announcer use it in his commentary. With apologies to Diamond Dallas Page, there are only three situations where I find the F word acceptable or enjoyable to use or hear: in traffic, in the bedroom, or on a telecast of The Sopranos.
9. Thou shalt not ruin your parents' backyard. It seems that every backyard wrestling tape I'm given (and I am given a lot, being the guru of sorts for these guys) involves "Cactus Jaque" or "Rock Hard Rick Austin" laying waste to Mom's prizewinning petunias or Dad's fence. Next time, guys, tape the ass-kicking that your dad gives you when he gets home—it will be more entertaining.
10. Thou shalt not (and this one could possibly be the most important of all) under absolutely any circumstances, when attempting to imitate your World Wrestling Federation heroes, pretend to be Test.
I have spoken. If you really want to be a pro wrestler, there are ways to go about it. I understand that with the phenomenal popularity of the World Wrestling Federation there are probably more kids dreaming about main eventing at WrestleMania than are dreaming about playing in the Super Bowl, and I happen to think that dream is a great one. If you are intent on getting involved in the world of sports-entertainment, I wish you luck. It can be the greatest job in the world, as well as the most frustrating. This isn't God talking anymore, just Mick, and here are a few helpful hints in your quest.
1. Participate in amateur wrestling. A higher and higher percentage of wrestlers being groomed by the World Wrestling Federation, WCW, and ECW have extensive amateur backgrounds. You might not become an Olympic champion like Kurt Angle, but you learn discipline, get in shape, and find out a hell of a lot about being a man.
2. Stay out of trouble. There are enough bone-heads in the world without you adding to the list. Wrestling has enough problems with "holier than thou, I know what's best for everyone else" groups, without giving them something or somebody to pinpoint.
3. Go to college. Don't just go there—stay there. Graduate from there. Get an education. The odds of making it in wrestling are low and the odds of getting hurt along the way are high. I don't feel bad for broken-down wrestlers. I do feel bad for broken-down uneducated ones. I star
ted going to DeNucci's school while I was a junior in college, but did so after Dominic laid down his one law: "Stay in school, or I won't train you."
4. Be realistic. There are thousands of wrestlers out there and about a hundred who make a good living doing it. The odds don't favor you, especially with Olympic champions, ultimate fighters, and professional football players as your competition. I'm not saying that wrestling in a high school gym or an armory can't be fun or rewarding. It is. It's just not profitable. Search the wrestling magazines for stories on reputable wrestling schools. Anybody can take three grand from you to teach you a couple of moves. Stay away from them. Look for schools with a proven track record for turning out quality guys. Study tapes of wrestlers who are good. Have fun, but be safe.
ABC's 20/20 ran a story on backyard wrestling a couple of years ago. While preparing for the piece, they found that a majority of these teenagers listed me as an influence, so 20/20 decided to interview me. I showed up at the Nassau Coliseum, hours early, for a Raw show, and only minutes after Vince McMahon had finished a very tense and confrontational interview of his own with correspondent Deborah Roberts for the same program, I was pulled into a private room by Jim Ross, where an attorney and a very angry Vince urgently waited to speak to me. Vince spoke first. "They blindsided us, Mick," he said. "The questions weren't fair, and if you don't want to talk to them, you don't have to. As a matter of fact, I'd be happy if you didn't." I had never seen Vince this mad, and thought about his suggestion to forget the whole thing. Then I got a rush of confidence, and a feeling that I wasn't afraid of Deborah Roberts or her questions, even if her husband was Al Roker. I told Vince I wanted to do it, and he replied that he trusted my judgment.
The attorney then spoke up. "Mick, in a worst-case scenario, we're afraid they're going to show you a tape of a paralyzed boy who says that you were his inspiration." I felt a chill in my blood, and in all honesty, felt that I needed a secret weapon. I had one in my bag. Slowly I left that office and went down the hall and into the same dressing room that Bubbles (as in "the Nets would have troubles if it wasn't for Bubbles") Hawkins had changed in when I was a kid. Off went the "Job Squad" shirt featuring the newborn giving the middle finger with the slogan on our backs since birth on it. In its place was my secret weapon. Slowly, I pulled it over the head, and let the cotton fibers expand to accommodate the grotesque development of my biceps. The secret weapon was intact. The Winnie-the-Pooh/Mick Foley tag team was about to make its mainstream media debut.
I have a theory about Pooh; people will subconsciously be nicer to you if you have him on your person. This theory has never been scientifically proven, but in truth, it's more about common sense than science anyway. Think about it; who could be confrontational or abusive when they see "that chubby little cub all stuffed with fluff"? Even if he and the gang at the Hundred Acre Wood are the ultimate dysfunctional family. Really, these guys would keep a team of therapists rolling in money for years. There is Rabbit, an anal-retentive rodent who once kept poor Pooh stuck halfway in his rabbit hole for four days because he was too damn selfish and concerned about his spotless home to dig him out. Then, there's Owl, a stuffy intellectual prick with a serious superiority complex. Piglet, a paranoid hypochondriac. Tigger, a hyperactive narcissist with a speech impediment. And Eeyore, a textbook example of depression, with a possible touch of homosexuality. Oh, come on, don't act so surprised—look at how he puts his tail on. The guy gets nailed in the butt in every episode. (Just Kidding.) Speaking of which, Christopher Robin always did appear to be walking a little light in those "socks pulled up to his kneecap" loafers, didn't he? Which brings us to Pooh, the poor guy. I don't fault him for his food obsession because I can relate, but after all this time you would think he would have put some pants on him. I also have to feel that deep down he must harbor some resentment toward his parents for naming him after a piece of shit. Finally, there's Roo, Kanga's boisterous little boy. I love that guy, he's adorable.
I'm not kidding about the Pooh shirt, however. I wore it on every mainstream show that I was interviewed for. Check out the A&E Biography on me— you better believe I was sporting that bad boy. Needless to say, Deborah Roberts was no match for the Foley/Pooh tandem. She asked the questions very nicely, and I believe I handled them very well. Things were going very well—I even told an Al Snow joke that elicited a genuine laugh from Ms. Roberts, although it never made the show. Then came the words that I had been dreading: "We'd like you to look at a videotape and get your comments."
"Sure," I said, as cheerily as I could, while bracing myself for the worst. The tape rolled, and ...it wasn't bad at all. With the exception of a kid being hit with a fluorescent lightbulb, the stuff was downright tame. Just a bunch of kids jumping around, dropping elbows and legs on each other. Actually, it was too tame. I'd seen what these lunatics do to each other, and if ABC was actually doing a story on the rather obscure cult of backyard wrestling (although I'm sure the coverage they gave to it ensured its growth), I was sure they had seen it too. When the minute or so was finished, Ms. Roberts spoke again. "So, Mr. Foley, having seen that footage, what do you think?" I sensed a trap. It was almost as if I was Spider-Man with love handles, and my Spidey senses were tingling.
I looked to my left and saw that the World Wrestling Federation had its own camera crew filming the entire interview so as not to have one of its guys misquoted. Still, I knew that news magazines had a tendency to hunt down sound bites that would "fit" into the story they planned, so I thought about my words and spoke them deliberately. "I've seen kids do things a lot worse than that," I began. "And I have a feeling that you're going to show me a tape of that next...aren't you?" Roberts nodded. "I wasn't so crazy about that lightbulb over the head, but other than that, that stuff looks like fun. It looks like a bunch of friends having a lot of fun together."
Ms. Roberts nodded, then spoke again. "Mr. Foley, we're now going to show you another videotape." Sure enough, she rolled the tape, and the nonsensical backyard bloodletting began. Barbed wire was featured, as was a cheese grater, and a lightbulb that caused a massive head wound. I felt like George C. Scott watching his daughter earn a buck the hard way in Hardcore, but before I could holler "stop the tape" she stopped the tape. "What did you think of that, Mr. Foley?" she said for the second time. This time I had to neither think about my words nor say them deliberately. I just calmly said that it was ridiculous behavior, and even made a plea for the kids to stop.
Three nights later I watched the show. The piece came on, and after a few minutes I was happy with its progress, despite the network's decision not to go with the Al Snow joke, which would have been huge and forever cemented my reputation as Sergeant Hulka to Al's John Winger. Then she said the magic words—"we'd like you to look at a videotape"— and I felt my body tense. Then the screw job went into effect. They showed a tape, all right, but it was the excessively violent tape, complete with barbed wire, cheese graters, and large head wounds. They showed my response as well, but guess what? If you said, "They showed your response to tape number one," you are correct, sir. They sure did, and not only did they show it, but through the magic of editing they erased the "I wasn't so crazy about the lightbulb over the head, but other than that," and kept the "that looks like fun" part. Yes, indeed, there I was on national television, looking like I had a brain the size of a pea, and conscience to match.
I was livid. How could they do this? Obviously, there has to be some law that prevents a huge media conglomerate like ABC from blatantly taking quotes out of context and making innocent people look like uncaring scumbags by doing so. The next day I called the World Wrestling Federation and voiced my concern. We had our own videotape—surely we could use it to get an apology. "Sorry," I was told, "there's nothing we can do. That is an acceptable form of reporting."
Acceptable, my ass. If you break down the word "acceptable" it literally means "able" to "accept," and that is one thing I refuse to do. I am not "able" to "accept" the fact that incorrect and mis
leading statements are passed off as news. I am not "able" to "accept" the reality that if it was done to me, a guy who knew to look for traps, it has undoubtedly been done many times before. And, above all else, I am not able to accept the fact that network newsmagazines (or at least 20/20), long considered a reliable source of news gathering, are in truth faker than professional wrestling.
6: Just Blame Vince
PEOPLE DO GET HURT imitating professional wrestling. That is a fact. Critics of wrestling would jump at the chance to show you that. The number of people hurt is somewhat minimal, especially when the huge popularity of wrestling is considered, but you don't hear the critics offering that information. In no program that I know of has a doctor come forward to claim that there has been a proliferation of wrestling-related injuries. Certainly, if there was that kind of evidence, my friends at 20/20 would have been glad to serve it up to the public. Does the number of children suffering from wrestling-related injuries compare to that of baseball? No way. Does it compare to basketball? No. Does it even approach the number of football-related injuries, which research resoundingly shows is far and away the number one sport, year in and year out, for serious injury to its participants? Not even close. Nothing approaches football for broken bones, head and neck injury, paralysis, and even death. Hell, deaths used to be caused by sadistic coaches, who refused to give water breaks to fully uniformed, out-of-shape students, in the scorching heat of summer afternoons. Death by stupidity. High school and college wrestlers used to die while trying to "suck" weight, because until recently, there were no restrictions on the weight-sucking process.