What Would Kevin Do?
01-30-2006, 06:03 AM
http://www.wwe.com/superstars/raw/mickfoley/foleyisblog
Foley is blog
By Mick Foley
January 25, 2006
I hope everyone is doing well this week. It’s been a hectic one for me, as right now this journal is being written in the Philippines, where I’m doing a promotional tour for the upcoming Feb. 24 and 25 dates in Manila. These shows will mean a lot to me for personal reasons that I will get into in upcoming weeks.
You can expect this column to be a regular weekly deal from now on, although there will be no real format. I’ve pretty much been told to write about anything I want (as long as it deals in some way with WWE), so you can expect a variety of topics to be covered. Personal stories, pay-per-view critiques, storyline analysis, maybe even an in-depth exploration of my near-departure and the long-awaited rebuttal to the criticisms Ric Flair (http://www.wwe.com/superstars/raw/ricflair/) threw my way in his 2004 autobiography.
http://www.wwe.com/content/media/images/Superstars/stacy.jpgBut this week’s entry — inspired by her wonderful performances on ABC’s “Dancing With the Stars” — is all about Stacy. I still remember the first time I spoke to Stacy Kiebler. I’d said hello previously to this beautiful woman, but I could not honestly lay claim to have had a classic Mick Foley (http://www.wwe.com/superstars/raw/mickfoley/) conversation with her. “Catching a rap,” as we used to call it, in the old days, the early eighties, when disco do’s were fading out in favor of the first few poor, misguided mullet sporters. In due time, those mullets would inflict their ridiculous long-in-the-back, short-in-the-front mark on all of us — whether we actually sported them or not. For, in truth, the power of the mullet was so awesome, it’s reach so unrestricted, that even the most innocent of bystanders, those who had only glimpsed the hideous hairstyle for the briefest of moments, were never quite the same.
But, the first time, the real first time, the “create an impression on Mick that he’ll never forget” moment took place on the elevated platform of steel that lies right behind the blue curtains that serve as a performer’s last barrier between “us” and “them.” Back there, a nerve-wracked wrestler gets in his last deep breaths, stretches a few last muscles and strains to think of a few important moves. It can also be a place of celebration; a place where a wrestler who knows he’s just torn the house down can receive the instant accolades from the veteran wrestlers who man the TV monitors, microphones and timesheets making sure that everything is run like clockwork. It is known lovingly as “the Gorilla position,” or just “Gorilla,” in honor of WWE Hall of Farmer Gorilla Monsoon (http://www.wwe.com/superstars/halloffame/gorillamonsoon/), who before his death had spent a decent amount of his life behind that curtain.
The Gorilla position can be intimidating. It can be invigorating as well. It is not, however, a place where a beaten-up, broken-down wrestler (and a one-eared one at that) would expect to find himself engaged in conversation with one of the earth’s most beautiful creatures.
It was June of 2001. My book “Foley is Good,” had come out just a few months earlier. The book had done pretty well, but not so well; I thought that it would cross over from my wrestling fan base to the much smaller demographic of early-twenties, 6-foot supermodels. Yet there stood Stacy Kiebler, all 6-feet of her, suddenly 6-foot-4 with benefit of heels, looking at me eye-to-eye, laughing about my book. I will never forget the breath, Juicy Fruit, not a hint of garlic or onions — or any other odd smelling additive that tend to make the self conscious reach for their gum packs. Not Stacy, straight Juicy Fruit.
And the words that came forth through that perfect breath were completely unexpected: compliments. She was enjoying the book. She thought it was funny. And the best was yet to come. The proposition. No, not that type of proposition. No, it was a roller-coaster proposition. A “since I read that you love roller coasters, I thought that we might be able to go on a few rides together,” proposition.
To which I answered, in typical Foley fashion, “Um, um, okay.” I then heard the distinctive crash and three-cord guitar riffs of my enterance music, and I knew the talk was over. It was my return to WWE after a fairly lengthy absence, and the fans let me know that I’d been missed by letting out a pretty impressive pop. As I made my way down the ramp, acknowledging fans, reading signs, taking in the wonderful atmosphere that only comes in live WWE settings, I kept returning to the same thought: I wonder if Stacy heard that pop? <SCRIPT type=text/javascript>DisplayAd("LargeBody");</SCRIPT>
Let me get one thing out of the way first: I love the Divas. All of them. Well, almost all of them. Some I only like, and some I don’t know well enough to either like or love. But, on a whole, yes, I can honestly state that I love the Divas. And I think in some way — a purely platonic, “never-in-a-million-years-would-touch-that-guy-way,” they might just love me, too.
Trish Stratus (http://www.wwe.com/superstars/raw/trishstratus/) may have summed the feeling up best when she called me, “the safety valve,” meaning the girls felt comfortable around me because they didn’t perceive me as threatening in any way. They can cut loose around me; they can say things that might normally be seen as inappropriate in mixed company. And they don’t worry because I’m the safety net. The nice guy. Hell, if it weren’t for my wife, the four kids, my super heterosexual lifestyle, no make that “super-duper heterosexual” lifestyle, I might even be thought of as “the gay friend.” Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
I’ve yet to ride that coaster with Stacy, but from the moment of that first talk, she’s seemed like a true friend — always prepared with a hug and a wonderful smile.
The return to WWE that started in July 2001 actually turned a little ugly and ultimately led to me receiving an early release from my contract. I think J.R.’s words were: “We feel like if we make you stick out your contract that the relationship will be irreparably damaged, but if we part ways now, there will still be some hope for the future.”
I certainly had mixed feelings as I walked down the hallway of that building, the Meadowlands Arena, possibly for the last time. Possibly the last time I walked out of any WWE building. I said goodbye to a few of my fellow WWE wrestlers, who had no idea of the talk that had just gone down. They thought they were saying goodbye simply for the evening. The last person I saw was Stacy. I felt like I had something to tell her, something potentially delicate and wasn’t sure just how to approach the topic.
I decided to go for philosophical vagueness. “You know, Stacy,” I said. “Sometimes in our business, people think that just because people look a certain way, that everyone should look that same way.”
Pretty vague, huh? I mean how could Stacy decipher the meaning hidden deep inside that tangled briar patch of verbal wisdom.
“Are you talking about my breasts?” she said smiling as usual, not he least bit offended.
“Well, yeah,” I said. “I mean I know I don’t know you that well, but I think you’ve got a great natural look, and I’d hate to see you do some…”
“Don’t worry,” she laughed. “I’m not getting a boob job.”
“Good,” I said. I then told her I was taking off for a while and didn’t know when I’d be back. She hugged me so tight that if she’s had any boobs, I would have felt them pressing against me.
I returned to WWE a full 18 months after that New Jersey show, a time during which I often thought I’d never go back at all. The show was in Miami that night, a RAW (http://www.wwe.com/shows/raw/) broadcast that would lead to my special-referee gig in an upcoming pay-per-view.
I was nervous as hell that afternoon, waiting until the last possible minute to leave my hotel room and procrastinating for minutes at the back door I was thinking, I guess, that the life I had been so happy with for 18 months might be dramatically changed the moment I walked inside the building.
http://www.wwe.com/content/media/images/Superstars/test.jpgI opened the door, cautiously stepping inside. “Mick!” A woman’s voice. I looked up to see a woman indeed. But not just any woman, Stacy. On the run, arms open wide, well aware of my vaunted hugging skills. She flew into my arms, and I was no longer nervous. I was home. Behind her was a scowling Test, saying, “Hello, nice to see you,” (but not really meaning it). Back in those days, Test and Stacy were a real item; a long-lasting item too … maybe a year and a half. A year and a half, I’m sad to say, I may have actually played a role in perpetuating.
Keep in mind that throughout the pages of “Foley is Good,” I peppered Test consistently with some pretty decent zingers. Also, keep in mind that Stacy was reading the book when she first met both me and Test. To hear Stacy tell it, the laughs at Test’s expense made her feel sympathetic for the guy, and may well have tipped the scale of love in his favor. Damn, I wish I’d never even written that book. Of course, over the next several weeks a parade of WWE Superstars (and Al Snow) approached me about the possibility of making jokes about them in my next book.
Perhaps the highest compliment I received from Stacy was at the WrestleMania (http://www.wwe.com/shows/wrestlemania/) party in 2003. I’d just wrestled my first match in four years, and while I wasn’t completely happy with it, I was looking forward to the party, which is always a lot of fun. I met Stacy’s parents at that party. It wasn’t just a chance meeting either, as she’d told me earlier in the day that she wanted me to meet them. When the introduction took place, Stacy was beaming a “Mom, Dad, this is one of my good friends” beam. Her parents, both super-nice, proceeded to recite details of my life that Stacy had given then.
Unfortunately Test wasn’t aware of my “safety net” status, so therefore he came to view my friendship with Stacy with a slight degree of suspicion. I guess from a guy’s point of view, it’s is completely understandable. After all, I wouldn’t want Test anywhere near my wife … or kids, or parents for that matter.
It was at that WrestleMania party that I assured Test that he had me read all wrong. I said, “I swear Test, that the entire time I have known Stacy, I have not had one impure thought about her.”
“Get outta here,” Test said, completing one of the most intelligent sentences of his young career.
“I swear.”
“Get outta here,” he said.
“Listen Test,” I said, really hoping he’d accept my sincerity. “I think Stacy is one of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, but I have never — and I swear to you on this — never had a single thought that was anything but respectful and innocent.”
“Really?” he said.
“Really.”
“That’s cool, Mick.”
And after that, we were cool. I think he even bought me a drink, which I accepted. Because after all, it was the WrestleMania party, and I could use the alcohol to help me have some no-so-innocent thoughts about one of the other Divas. And no, I’m not telling you who it is … at least not in this column.
I was really proud of myself for the way I looked at Stacy. I mean, I felt like a hell of a guy about it. I’d had many female friends before, some really pretty ones, too. But, somewhere in the dim recourses of my mind, I secretly wanted to nail most of them. But Stacy was different. Or at least I thought so. Until that fateful day at the Baltimore Area, when that high opinion I had of myself crashed right smack dab into reality.
It should have been so easy. A Sunday afternoon show. I introduced Stacy, the hometown girl, then Ric Flair comes out. We duke it out verbally and gradually build to physicality. To tell you the truth, I was much more focused on the Flair part. Despite my not being one of his favorite people, I nonetheless have an enormous amount of respect for Ric’s abilities and remain a huge fan of his. I was so focused on the Flair stuff that when Stacy suggested I hold the ropes open so that she could do her entrance, I just said “sure,” not even taking the time to think about what exactly her entrance entailed. I truly was not prepared for what I was about to receive.
I came out first, accompanied of course by a truly thunderous ovation. Because this was a non-televised show, no one can truly debate the nature of the ovation. So, I guess you’ll just have to trust me; it was thunderous.
It was then my pleasure to introduce Stacy to her hometown fans, who showed her with admiration as she made her way to the ring. I still had no clue. Even as I held the ropes for her to step inside the ring, I had no idea that the fortification of self-assured moral decency I had constructed for myself was, in truth, crumbling down immediately when faced with the undeniable power of Stacy’s rear end.
The reaction purely instinctive. It was not like there was any thought process or rationalization involved, a conclusion drawn, or a theory reached. Just the sight of Stacy’s butt cheeks mere inches from my bulging eyeballs, followed by a telltale tightening in my trousers. Damn. My little guy, my truly faithful companion betrayed me. It moved! Maybe not a lot, but it was movement nonetheless. I was crushed! My “Hell of a Guy” status was suddenly shot to hell. Don’t get me wrong, I would probably crawl across a desert on thumbtacks just to see it again, but nonetheless I was crushed because I was guilty ;guilty of being just like every other living, breathing, red-blooded male.
This seems like as good a point as any to pause for the week, but don’t worry, there will be plenty more on tap next week as I conclude this two-part Stacy saga. Until then, keep those TVs tuned into “Dancing With the Stars,” (RAW and SmackDown (http://www.wwe.com/shows/smackdown/), too!) and light up those phone lines with your Stacy votes.
Foley is blog
By Mick Foley
January 25, 2006
I hope everyone is doing well this week. It’s been a hectic one for me, as right now this journal is being written in the Philippines, where I’m doing a promotional tour for the upcoming Feb. 24 and 25 dates in Manila. These shows will mean a lot to me for personal reasons that I will get into in upcoming weeks.
You can expect this column to be a regular weekly deal from now on, although there will be no real format. I’ve pretty much been told to write about anything I want (as long as it deals in some way with WWE), so you can expect a variety of topics to be covered. Personal stories, pay-per-view critiques, storyline analysis, maybe even an in-depth exploration of my near-departure and the long-awaited rebuttal to the criticisms Ric Flair (http://www.wwe.com/superstars/raw/ricflair/) threw my way in his 2004 autobiography.
http://www.wwe.com/content/media/images/Superstars/stacy.jpgBut this week’s entry — inspired by her wonderful performances on ABC’s “Dancing With the Stars” — is all about Stacy. I still remember the first time I spoke to Stacy Kiebler. I’d said hello previously to this beautiful woman, but I could not honestly lay claim to have had a classic Mick Foley (http://www.wwe.com/superstars/raw/mickfoley/) conversation with her. “Catching a rap,” as we used to call it, in the old days, the early eighties, when disco do’s were fading out in favor of the first few poor, misguided mullet sporters. In due time, those mullets would inflict their ridiculous long-in-the-back, short-in-the-front mark on all of us — whether we actually sported them or not. For, in truth, the power of the mullet was so awesome, it’s reach so unrestricted, that even the most innocent of bystanders, those who had only glimpsed the hideous hairstyle for the briefest of moments, were never quite the same.
But, the first time, the real first time, the “create an impression on Mick that he’ll never forget” moment took place on the elevated platform of steel that lies right behind the blue curtains that serve as a performer’s last barrier between “us” and “them.” Back there, a nerve-wracked wrestler gets in his last deep breaths, stretches a few last muscles and strains to think of a few important moves. It can also be a place of celebration; a place where a wrestler who knows he’s just torn the house down can receive the instant accolades from the veteran wrestlers who man the TV monitors, microphones and timesheets making sure that everything is run like clockwork. It is known lovingly as “the Gorilla position,” or just “Gorilla,” in honor of WWE Hall of Farmer Gorilla Monsoon (http://www.wwe.com/superstars/halloffame/gorillamonsoon/), who before his death had spent a decent amount of his life behind that curtain.
The Gorilla position can be intimidating. It can be invigorating as well. It is not, however, a place where a beaten-up, broken-down wrestler (and a one-eared one at that) would expect to find himself engaged in conversation with one of the earth’s most beautiful creatures.
It was June of 2001. My book “Foley is Good,” had come out just a few months earlier. The book had done pretty well, but not so well; I thought that it would cross over from my wrestling fan base to the much smaller demographic of early-twenties, 6-foot supermodels. Yet there stood Stacy Kiebler, all 6-feet of her, suddenly 6-foot-4 with benefit of heels, looking at me eye-to-eye, laughing about my book. I will never forget the breath, Juicy Fruit, not a hint of garlic or onions — or any other odd smelling additive that tend to make the self conscious reach for their gum packs. Not Stacy, straight Juicy Fruit.
And the words that came forth through that perfect breath were completely unexpected: compliments. She was enjoying the book. She thought it was funny. And the best was yet to come. The proposition. No, not that type of proposition. No, it was a roller-coaster proposition. A “since I read that you love roller coasters, I thought that we might be able to go on a few rides together,” proposition.
To which I answered, in typical Foley fashion, “Um, um, okay.” I then heard the distinctive crash and three-cord guitar riffs of my enterance music, and I knew the talk was over. It was my return to WWE after a fairly lengthy absence, and the fans let me know that I’d been missed by letting out a pretty impressive pop. As I made my way down the ramp, acknowledging fans, reading signs, taking in the wonderful atmosphere that only comes in live WWE settings, I kept returning to the same thought: I wonder if Stacy heard that pop? <SCRIPT type=text/javascript>DisplayAd("LargeBody");</SCRIPT>
Let me get one thing out of the way first: I love the Divas. All of them. Well, almost all of them. Some I only like, and some I don’t know well enough to either like or love. But, on a whole, yes, I can honestly state that I love the Divas. And I think in some way — a purely platonic, “never-in-a-million-years-would-touch-that-guy-way,” they might just love me, too.
Trish Stratus (http://www.wwe.com/superstars/raw/trishstratus/) may have summed the feeling up best when she called me, “the safety valve,” meaning the girls felt comfortable around me because they didn’t perceive me as threatening in any way. They can cut loose around me; they can say things that might normally be seen as inappropriate in mixed company. And they don’t worry because I’m the safety net. The nice guy. Hell, if it weren’t for my wife, the four kids, my super heterosexual lifestyle, no make that “super-duper heterosexual” lifestyle, I might even be thought of as “the gay friend.” Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
I’ve yet to ride that coaster with Stacy, but from the moment of that first talk, she’s seemed like a true friend — always prepared with a hug and a wonderful smile.
The return to WWE that started in July 2001 actually turned a little ugly and ultimately led to me receiving an early release from my contract. I think J.R.’s words were: “We feel like if we make you stick out your contract that the relationship will be irreparably damaged, but if we part ways now, there will still be some hope for the future.”
I certainly had mixed feelings as I walked down the hallway of that building, the Meadowlands Arena, possibly for the last time. Possibly the last time I walked out of any WWE building. I said goodbye to a few of my fellow WWE wrestlers, who had no idea of the talk that had just gone down. They thought they were saying goodbye simply for the evening. The last person I saw was Stacy. I felt like I had something to tell her, something potentially delicate and wasn’t sure just how to approach the topic.
I decided to go for philosophical vagueness. “You know, Stacy,” I said. “Sometimes in our business, people think that just because people look a certain way, that everyone should look that same way.”
Pretty vague, huh? I mean how could Stacy decipher the meaning hidden deep inside that tangled briar patch of verbal wisdom.
“Are you talking about my breasts?” she said smiling as usual, not he least bit offended.
“Well, yeah,” I said. “I mean I know I don’t know you that well, but I think you’ve got a great natural look, and I’d hate to see you do some…”
“Don’t worry,” she laughed. “I’m not getting a boob job.”
“Good,” I said. I then told her I was taking off for a while and didn’t know when I’d be back. She hugged me so tight that if she’s had any boobs, I would have felt them pressing against me.
I returned to WWE a full 18 months after that New Jersey show, a time during which I often thought I’d never go back at all. The show was in Miami that night, a RAW (http://www.wwe.com/shows/raw/) broadcast that would lead to my special-referee gig in an upcoming pay-per-view.
I was nervous as hell that afternoon, waiting until the last possible minute to leave my hotel room and procrastinating for minutes at the back door I was thinking, I guess, that the life I had been so happy with for 18 months might be dramatically changed the moment I walked inside the building.
http://www.wwe.com/content/media/images/Superstars/test.jpgI opened the door, cautiously stepping inside. “Mick!” A woman’s voice. I looked up to see a woman indeed. But not just any woman, Stacy. On the run, arms open wide, well aware of my vaunted hugging skills. She flew into my arms, and I was no longer nervous. I was home. Behind her was a scowling Test, saying, “Hello, nice to see you,” (but not really meaning it). Back in those days, Test and Stacy were a real item; a long-lasting item too … maybe a year and a half. A year and a half, I’m sad to say, I may have actually played a role in perpetuating.
Keep in mind that throughout the pages of “Foley is Good,” I peppered Test consistently with some pretty decent zingers. Also, keep in mind that Stacy was reading the book when she first met both me and Test. To hear Stacy tell it, the laughs at Test’s expense made her feel sympathetic for the guy, and may well have tipped the scale of love in his favor. Damn, I wish I’d never even written that book. Of course, over the next several weeks a parade of WWE Superstars (and Al Snow) approached me about the possibility of making jokes about them in my next book.
Perhaps the highest compliment I received from Stacy was at the WrestleMania (http://www.wwe.com/shows/wrestlemania/) party in 2003. I’d just wrestled my first match in four years, and while I wasn’t completely happy with it, I was looking forward to the party, which is always a lot of fun. I met Stacy’s parents at that party. It wasn’t just a chance meeting either, as she’d told me earlier in the day that she wanted me to meet them. When the introduction took place, Stacy was beaming a “Mom, Dad, this is one of my good friends” beam. Her parents, both super-nice, proceeded to recite details of my life that Stacy had given then.
Unfortunately Test wasn’t aware of my “safety net” status, so therefore he came to view my friendship with Stacy with a slight degree of suspicion. I guess from a guy’s point of view, it’s is completely understandable. After all, I wouldn’t want Test anywhere near my wife … or kids, or parents for that matter.
It was at that WrestleMania party that I assured Test that he had me read all wrong. I said, “I swear Test, that the entire time I have known Stacy, I have not had one impure thought about her.”
“Get outta here,” Test said, completing one of the most intelligent sentences of his young career.
“I swear.”
“Get outta here,” he said.
“Listen Test,” I said, really hoping he’d accept my sincerity. “I think Stacy is one of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, but I have never — and I swear to you on this — never had a single thought that was anything but respectful and innocent.”
“Really?” he said.
“Really.”
“That’s cool, Mick.”
And after that, we were cool. I think he even bought me a drink, which I accepted. Because after all, it was the WrestleMania party, and I could use the alcohol to help me have some no-so-innocent thoughts about one of the other Divas. And no, I’m not telling you who it is … at least not in this column.
I was really proud of myself for the way I looked at Stacy. I mean, I felt like a hell of a guy about it. I’d had many female friends before, some really pretty ones, too. But, somewhere in the dim recourses of my mind, I secretly wanted to nail most of them. But Stacy was different. Or at least I thought so. Until that fateful day at the Baltimore Area, when that high opinion I had of myself crashed right smack dab into reality.
It should have been so easy. A Sunday afternoon show. I introduced Stacy, the hometown girl, then Ric Flair comes out. We duke it out verbally and gradually build to physicality. To tell you the truth, I was much more focused on the Flair part. Despite my not being one of his favorite people, I nonetheless have an enormous amount of respect for Ric’s abilities and remain a huge fan of his. I was so focused on the Flair stuff that when Stacy suggested I hold the ropes open so that she could do her entrance, I just said “sure,” not even taking the time to think about what exactly her entrance entailed. I truly was not prepared for what I was about to receive.
I came out first, accompanied of course by a truly thunderous ovation. Because this was a non-televised show, no one can truly debate the nature of the ovation. So, I guess you’ll just have to trust me; it was thunderous.
It was then my pleasure to introduce Stacy to her hometown fans, who showed her with admiration as she made her way to the ring. I still had no clue. Even as I held the ropes for her to step inside the ring, I had no idea that the fortification of self-assured moral decency I had constructed for myself was, in truth, crumbling down immediately when faced with the undeniable power of Stacy’s rear end.
The reaction purely instinctive. It was not like there was any thought process or rationalization involved, a conclusion drawn, or a theory reached. Just the sight of Stacy’s butt cheeks mere inches from my bulging eyeballs, followed by a telltale tightening in my trousers. Damn. My little guy, my truly faithful companion betrayed me. It moved! Maybe not a lot, but it was movement nonetheless. I was crushed! My “Hell of a Guy” status was suddenly shot to hell. Don’t get me wrong, I would probably crawl across a desert on thumbtacks just to see it again, but nonetheless I was crushed because I was guilty ;guilty of being just like every other living, breathing, red-blooded male.
This seems like as good a point as any to pause for the week, but don’t worry, there will be plenty more on tap next week as I conclude this two-part Stacy saga. Until then, keep those TVs tuned into “Dancing With the Stars,” (RAW and SmackDown (http://www.wwe.com/shows/smackdown/), too!) and light up those phone lines with your Stacy votes.