Have a Nice Day (41 page)

I was not prepared for Sabu, but I knew that many fans would drive hundreds of miles for a Sabu-Cactus Jack showdown. I was always determined not to let them down, and I tried my best to make this match a great one-even with the extenuating circumstances involved. I didn’t mention these circumstances to Sabu-for some reason, I didn’t think the “homicidal, suicidal, maniac,” as he was known, would be all that sensitive to my paternal problems.

Instead, we went at it full tilt. I knocked the Indian madman to the corners, and picked up a wooden ringside chair to crown him with. Sabu moved, and the force of my swing ricocheted off the middle rope and propelled the chair backward into my own waiting head. I stumbled in my old faithful 360-degree angle-or the watusi as some call it-while Sabu stepped to the second rope on the outside ring. He was ready to attempt a moonsault, and under perfect conditions, would make chest-to-chest contact. Not too difficult, except for the fact that his body would be upside down and in mid-air when the desired contact would be made. In this case, however, our chests never connected. Nothing did. I reached my hands up to try in vain to intercept him, as this 210-pound missile flew high overhead. Now, in fifteen years of wrestling, I’ve heard plenty of sickening sounds-many of them from my own body-but this was among the worst. Sabu’s body impaled itself on the steel guard rail, and I grimaced as I heard the one-two combination of ribs breaking on steel, and guttural, animal-like screams welling up from deep inside Sabu’s lungs. The crowd sensed in an instant that something was wrong, and actually cleared out of the way to allow him room to breathe.

I stalled for time, but returned shortly to see if he could go on. “Gimme time, gimme time,” he yelled, and I commenced to throwing chairs into the ring and using whatever else was available to allow him some recuperation time.

When I came back, he was still gasping for air, but was struggling bravely to get to his feet. We then continued, and actually had a hell of a match. We fought down the aisle to the dressing room, and before heading back to the ring, I reached into a garbage can and pulled out an empty Coors Light bottle. “Use this,” I said.

“To do what?” came the reply.

“To hit me with,” I insisted. I crawled into the ring, again using the dependable watusi, as I waited for the crashing sound of glass and the oohs and ahhs from the Hamburg crowd that would lead to the end of the match. Well, I got the oohs and ahhs, but not the crashing sound I was anticipating. Instead, there was a loud thunk as the glass bottle literally bounced off my head and spun clumsily on the canvas.

In my beer-bottle-battered haze, I looked at the spinning Coors container, and thought back fondly to Spin the Bottle on our sixth grade camping trip, and how excited I was when the bottle pointed to Sue Cirisano. The memory of Sue running for the door instead of honoring the strict and time-honored tradition of giving me a good one on the smacker finally brought me back to my senses, and I said the only words I could think of-“Hit me again.” Again the bottle came down, and again it thunked off my skull. “Again,” I said. Another thunk. By this time, even the bloodthirsty ECW fans were starting to feel a little bad about this whole scenario, but dammit, we had a match to finish, and I wasn’t about to do a job for the bottle. One more swing and one more thunk. Then another swing, and finally the satisfaction of shattering glass showering around me.

I went to the dressing room, where my recovered son was waiting with a two-and-a-half-year-old hug that only a father can truly appreciate. “Did you win, Daddy?” he asked innocently.

“No, buddy, but it was a good match anyway-would you like to see Grandma and Grandpa now?” So, with five lumps on my head and glass in my hair, we hopped into my rented Lumina, and off to Grandmother’s house we went.

It was during this time that I began working for Jim Cornette’s Smoky Mountain promotion. Without a doubt, Corny had more energy than anyone I’ve ever met. Even while working as a manager in the World Wrestling Federation, he somehow found the time to book and star in his own promotion. Smoky and ECW were like night and day. Instead of hardcore, bloodthirsty fans, Smoky had old-time fans. These were fans who still believed in good guys and bad guys, and to whom cheating was still reason to become upset.

As Cactus Jack, I was instantly embraced as a fan favorite, but more importantly, as a guy whose shirts they wanted to buy. I was embroiled in a feud with Chris Candido that was actually a lot of fun, and I was making money courtesy of the generous fans of Kentucky, Tennessee, and North Carolina. Corny gave me free rein over my interviews, which for some reason were laced with double entendres and bad poetry. During one promo I compared my quest to free the simpleminded Boo Bradley from the evil clutches of Chris Candido to that of a missionary. I then stated that I was to going to really enjoy the “missionary position.” The feud with Candido also inspired these thoughtful verses.

Candido, oh Candido, Ill beat you up,

Ill make you bleed-o

Like Rocky did Apollo Creed-o Oh Candido

Ill scare you stiff, oh yes indeed-o,

Youll leave a skid inside your Speedo

Oh Candido

Pretty serious stuff. I was able to work quite a few shows for Cornette, highlighted by the traditional Thanksgiving and Christmas shows, but I was most happy to be able to spend some time with my old friend Brian Hildebrand.

While I had been busy traveling up and down the roads for the past several years, Brian had been stuck on the independent circuit. While guys without an ounce of his talent had made it big, Brian had continued managing at whatever shows he could find, and would even wrestle as a Ninja Turtle or some other creation that was geared to the kids. When Corny opened up the territory, Brian was among the first guys he called, and when I got there, he was firmly entrenched as not only a referee, but the head of merchandise, and a dozen other jobs as well. “This place would shut down if it weren’t for Gerbil,” was a common comment from veteran grappler Tracy Smothers, referring to Brian’s new nickname.

When Smoky began an interpromotional feud with the USWA, Brian had finally gotten a chance to wrestle, and as a vicious heel referee turned wrestler, was finally able to truly showcase his talents. I feel bad for any wrestler who never gets his big shot, but my heart had gone out for years to Brian, because he was so damn good and no one seemed to notice. I was genuinely glad for him that, by the time I got to Smoky, his skills had been recognized. During my time in the area, I had met his lovely wife, Pam, and had the pleasure of watching more wrestling, eating more pasta, and seeing more mountain views than at any other time of my life.

I saw Brian a few days ago at the Brian Pillman show. Even at ninety-eight pounds (due to a long battle with stomach cancer) he had the determination to referee two matches, and he even looked good doing it. I was also able to read him some of this book, and it was gratifying to see how much he enjoyed it. He later told me that the story of the gay beach in Fort Lauderdale had caused him to laugh harder than he had in months. Hang in there, Brian-you’re a credit not only to this business, but to the better angels of our nature. [Editor’s note: Brian passed away after the writing of this book on September 8, 1999.]

In late November, I received word that Terry Funk had signed a contract to wrestle for the IWA in Japan. I picked up the phone and called Victor Quinones. It was the only time in my eighteen months as an independent that I asked for work. I was booked to leave on New Year’s Eve for a ten-day tour. My body would never be quite the same.

I flew to Tokyo in style. Seat 38E was far enough away from the movie screen as to make viewing difficult, but close enough to both the toilet and the smoking section to ensure a pleasant sensory experience. Northwest Airlines’ cold soba noodle breakfast is an especially disagreeable one, and when we landed, I was exhausted, sick to my stomach, and smelled like a 290-pound cigarette. Tracy Smothers was on the flight as well, and we were met at the airport by one of the “young boys,” as the beginning Japanese wrestlers were commonly referred to.

I waited at baggage claim for my two travel bags and my twelve dozen “Wanted” shirts to arrive. Before my trip, my old partner Kevin Sullivan had spoken to me and advised me to take shirts to sell. I figured it would be a lot harder for the promotion to say no once I was there, so I never called for permission. As it turned out, I made more money in Japan as a seller ofT-shirts than I did as the King of the Death Match.

Tairi, the young boy who met us, spoke very little English. Apparently, his Japanese left something to be desired as well, as the cab dropped us off six blocks from our hotel-forcing us to walk with all our luggage. “Sorry, sorry” was all Tairi could say, as I shouldered two huge boxes, and wondered if maybe an apologetic phone call to Eric Bischoff might have been a better move than coming here. “What are we doing here?” I kept whining to Terry as, even in the winter weather, the sweat began trickling down my brow.

We finally checked into our hotel, where after dinner with a Japanese superfan named Masa-who still remembered me from my trip in 1991-1 tried to sleep. As a small promotion, IWA had to cut corners to survive. It flew all the wrestlers on coach, bused us for hours every day, and lodged us in some pretty crummy accommodations. At $300 a day, I was, with the exception of the Funker, the most highly paid gai-jin (foreign) wrestler by far. As a true Japanese icon, Terry had a deal that was pretty lucrative, but some of the South American wrestlers were working for seventy-five a day. The next day, we headed for the venerable Japanese venue, Korekeun Hall. Korekeun was a 2,200-seat auditorium on the fifth floor of a Japanese office building, which was used by several different promotions. It was not unusual for three different promoters to use the hall on the same day, and as I walked in the dressing room, a few women wrestlers were still in the process of packing up.

When the doors opened up, I was waiting anxiously with stacks of Cactus shirts in front of me and a jumbo marker in my hand. I was already dressed for my match, which would be a no rope-barbed wire death match, pitting Terry Funk and Japanese daredevil Shoji Nakamaki against me and Tracy Smothers. Interestingly, four years before the invention of Mr. Socko, I was wearing a long tube sock on my right arm, as I was planning on doing the Cactus clothesline over the top of the barbed wire. I knew the possibility was strong of catching my arm on the wire as I went over, a possibility that could do massive amounts of injury to my skin, veins, and tendons as well. The sock, as it would later in my life, would protect me.

The fans streamed in, and actually made a beeline for my table. Apparently, Cactus Jack had become a pretty big name in Japan, due to the Japanese media presence at many American shows. Even with a twenty-five percent cut going to the office, I knew my payoff was expanding rapidly.

I came out during intermission, when the young boys took down the ring ropes and replaced them with spools of barbed wire, which they ran in lines and zigzags to resemble a set of four flesh-eating roman numeral tens. My music was playing as I unloaded my last shirt. I could hear IWA boss Mr. Asano calling my name, but, dammit, I had merchandise to sell. It didn’t matter that I was going to get literally torn up out there-shirts came first. I often imagined how ridiculous this would look if applied to a regular sporting event. “Frank, we’re waiting for Holyfield’s entrance, but he doesn’t seem to be ready-wait, I’ve just got word that he’s at the gimmick table pushing his Tshirts. Don’t worry, a few more Polaroids and the champ will be on his way.”

I came down to the ring and received a tremendous ovation. They were chanting my name in unison, which in reality sounded less like “Cactus, Cactus,” and more like “Cock-toos-uh, Cock-toos-uh.” It was flattering nonetheless. When Nakamaki and Terry made their way to the ring, they chanted even louder for Terry, which sounded a lot more like “Telly.” The hall was sold out, and the fans were primed for mayhem, which I began delivering. Funk and I climbed up the first level of the stands and began going punch for punch in front of the awestruck fans. The Funker picked up a chair and slammed it over my head. Japanese folding chairs were strange in that they were not as heavy as their American cousins, but were put together in such a way that a good shot could pop the seat straight up in the air.

Back in the ring, Tracy was putting the boots to Nakamaki. Tracy was a tremendous wrestler, who could just about do it all, but for some strange reason, he didn’t have the inclination to risk life and limb on the dangerous barbs. Nakamaki was a different story. Not talented in the least, Nakamaki was a forty-year-old, non-athletic, former journalist who had cult hero status as a guy willing to do anything. Wait … I think I just described myself. But unlike me, Nakamaki was not much of a ring general-he just kind of lay there screaming and bleeding. But his reputation as a daredevil was well earned-he was willing to do anything, and he was dying to try some of it with me. Actually, Nakamaki looked up to me, and although we didn’t speak each other’s language, we had a verbal exchange that we shared for the next fifteen months. “You danger man,” I would say, before a laughing Nakamaki fired back, “No-you danger man!”

I gave Nakamaki a couple of shots and set him up by the wire strands. I backed up and raised my sock-covered arm. The fans stood with anticipation as I charged the Japanese danger man. Even though videotaped evidence later showed me to be moving rather slowly, it was still a dramatic moment, as the two of us flew over the top-my arm dragging the wire down with it. I looked at my left arm, and saw two angry gashes that revealed the white cells underneath. I lay there recovering as a small amount of blood began to well up inside the gash. I don’t have a medical degree, but I find it strange how some gashes never bleed, and some small cuts seem to bleed forever. A month later, I would attempt this same move and wouldn’t be so lucky. The wire snapped on impact and I went hurtling forward-absorbing the fall on the top of my head. I could hear the Japanese reaction of “uhwahh,” but was temporarily unable to do anything but breathe. I eventually got up and won the match, but the move bothered my neck for several months.