Have a Nice Day by Mick Foley Read Free Book Online

that it wasn’t. So, as a result, I kept looking for a blood capsule, or that other ridiculous theory-the bottle of ketchup underneath the ring.
    Just as Snuka had things going his way, the thing was over. He sprang off the ropes and delivered a flying head butt that sent Muraco through the ropes and out the door. “That’s it,” I said out loud, “a twelve-hour trip for that?” Sure it had been a good match, but it wasn’t what I paid to see. Suddenly, I saw Snuka’s unmistakable display of rage inside the ring. When it came to displays of rage, no one was more animated than Snuka. Really, it’s pretty much the Ken Shamrock “snapping” routine-to put things into a modern perspective. I felt my heart rate pick up a little as the Fly went after his prey outside the ring. A moment later, both men were back in ring, and a Snuka suplex had the Magnificent One lying prone in the middle.
    Immediately, Snuka climbed to the top rope, and the Garden stood in unison. We were about to see the famed Superfly leap. This was back in 1983-before the day of moonsaults, saltos, planchas, and a lot of other foreign words that faceless Mexicans perform to little or no response. For my money, the impact has always been more important than the flips, and I would later learn just how much impact that splash had. That’s one of the “secrets” of professional wrestling; make it hurt for real. Then, with nothing but a glance, I realized my vision was about to come true.
    All it took was that one glance upward, at the steel mesh that surrounded him, and the Garden started to buzz. A loud buzz that grew with each upward step that Snuka made. After all these years, it’s still the most impressive sight I’ve ever seen-the muscular Snuka standing barefoot on top of the cage, his face a mask of crimson, while flashbulbs bathed him in light. In a moment it was over, but the memory will live with me. It was a defining moment in my life-it was the day I knew without a doubt what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be a wrestler, but even more, I wanted to make people feel the way I had just felt.
    I got back to school at 10 A.M.-twenty-eight hours after my departure. A week later, I talked to my parents. “How was the match?” my dad wanted to know.
    I started to lie, but realized it wasn’t worth it. “It was great, Dad, but how did you know?”
    My dad laughed and said, “Because your Mother and I watched the tape, and saw our son sitting in the third row with his red flannel shirt.” He had caught me red-handed, and now he wanted to play Columbo and figure out the events of the crime. “You seemed to be in an awfully big hurry for us to leave, so we felt like you must have hid somewhere and had a friend come get you. Were we right?”
    I proceeded to tell what might generously be called a half-truth. I was a future wrestler, dammit! “No, Dad, I definitely caught a bus to Cortland, and then I hitchhiked the next day.”

Chapter 4
    December 1983 I knew what I wanted to do with my life-I just didn’t know how to go about doing it. A snowy winter night shortly before Christmas break would serve as a strange catalyst for my professional wrestling career.
    I was in a bar called Toody & Muldoon’s on a Saturday night, courtesy of the fake ID I had purchased in New York City during my first Snuka-Muraco encounter back in June. The bar had two levels; one that played rock and roll, and one that played dance music. Somehow, against my better taste and judgment, I always ended up in the basement listening to “It’s Raining Men,” and trying to look cool. Probably failing at it, too. I was hanging with my buddies, John Hennessey and Steve McKiernan, who was now my roommate.
    Steve had started out as Scott Darragh’s roommate, but Nom had never quite been happy at C-State, and had let his grades fall to nearly unchartable levels. At one point, a mutual friend named Dan Hegerty (a.k.a. “Hags”) had shown up, and the two of them