Mick Foley did some hard time in the world of pro wrestling, as is the norm for most prospective superstars trying to work their way up the ranks of the world's toughest sport. Before you fall off your chair laughing at this, pick up a copy of Foley's book and judge for yourself.
For starters, consider the case of Killer Kowalski and Yukon Eric years back. Cauliflowered ears are rock-like appendages hanging on the side of athlete's heads; Kowalski knocked one off Eric's head with a kneedrop years ago and became one of the most hated villains of all time. Foley discusses a similar mishap with the candor of a hockey player being fitted for a new set of teeth. Stitches are equally common to wrestlers and hockey players; Foley's daughter was nearly traumatized by watching her father slammed with metal chairs, thrown from the top of steel cages and peppered with head punches nightly in a career that has spanned nearly two decades.
Face it, people, guys don't get paid as well as pro football players to hit each other with papier-mache Hollywood props, and guys competing with each other for top billing don't weep and gnash their teeth when rivals are sidelined for a few weeks either. The growing number of wrestling casualties are reaching epidemic proportions, and steroid and substance abuse don't make things much better. The coliseum atmosphere of the mat world isn't conducive to any productive solutions either. A statesman once commented on bear-baiting in merrie olde England by pointing to the fact he was not as concerned as to the welfare of the bear as he was with the effect the sport had on the bloodthirsty spectators. Go figure.
Not that I'm opposed to wrestling as a sport or entertainment, though I wish they'd eliminate the anti-Christian innuendos and the blatant sexist themes. My only concern is for wrestlers less fortunate than Foley who are exploited by the WWF/WCW/ECW system and never see a dime for the blood, sweat and tears they devote to the game. The mat moguls have neatly sidestepped the controversy facing boxing and its need for reform by declaring themselves 'sports entertainment'. By reading the story of Foley and others like him, we wonder how Hollywood might have survived if their stars had been treated as poorly.
You can't tell a book by its cover, and that adage applies equally to the autobiographer. Foley is astute, personable, candid and witty, not at all like the madman we see drooling in our boob tube. "Have A Nice Day" is a heartfelt salute, written for his millions of fans who deserve to hear both sides of his chaotic yet poignant story.
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