|
  17/12/2010 15:24 | |
Visto che se ne parlava in un altro topic riporto qui l'intero racconto della vicenda tratto dal libro di Jericho "A Lion's Tale"
CHAPTER 50
DWARFBERG
My next program started as a joke and ended up sealing my fate in the company.
Bill Goldberg was an ex-NFL player who’d stumbled into WCW. But with unmatched charisma and
presence, he quickly became one the biggest stars of the 1990s. WCW booked him perfectly when he
entered on a tear and went on a huge winning streak. The Streak became more famous than the Ray
Stevens song (dated reference number three) and the fans followed it with bated breath.
However, Goldberg would have to have been wrestling a Mexico City ten-match-a-week schedule to
even come close to the number of matches they were claiming he’d won. One week he’d be 42-0 and
seven days later he’d be 58-0. Did stepping on bugs count?
Despite that, he was totally believable as a destroyer and his gimmick of tearing his opponents apart and
spitting them out in less than three minutes had the fans eating him up with a spoon. When he beat Hulk
Hogan in front of 50,000 fans at the Georgia Dome to become the new WCW champion, he became the
biggest star in the business.
That’s why I was surprised when I arrived at the Fall Brawl ’98 PPV show and Terry told me I was
going to be wrestling Goldberg. I was the TV champion and I thought it was strange that they would feed
me to Goldberg in a three-minute throwaway match.
But Terry explained that I wasn’t going to be facing the real Goldberg, but a midget version of him
instead. I asked him why and he said, “No reason. I just thought you’d have some fun with it.”
So I challenged Goldberg to a title vs. title match in my typical over-the-top Paragon of Virtue (that
should’ve been another T-shirt) fashion and out came a dwarf. He looked like a Goldberg who’d spent
the night in a trash compactor, right down to the famous tribal tattoo. I beat Dwarfberg in three minutes
to a chorus of boos and that was the end of it.
Except it was only the beginning.
The next day I showed up in Greenville, South Carolina, and saw Goldberg in the backstage area. He
came up to me with fire in his eyes and a defiant grin and said, “Well, Jericho, I hope it was worth it.”
Confused, I asked him what he meant.
“People have been calling me all day and laughing at me. Well I don’t do the comedy bullshit that you do
and I just want you to know you’re gonna pay the price for it.”
I was surprised at his reaction because I thought we were on good terms. We both loved hockey and
once went to a Boston Bruins game together. I thought he would’ve gotten a kick out of Dwarfberg. But
as popular and successful as Bill was he was still very green about the business. As a result the backstage
vultures were clouding his brain with manipulation, drooling at the thought of being the one to end his
winning streak.
“I just work here, Bill. I wish I had the power to book the matches, but I don’t.”
He grunted and as he walked away he repeated, “I hope it was worth it, Jericho.”
It really wasn’t, because the segment wasn’t very memorable. But someone must’ve liked it, because the
next night at Thunder I was told to go to the ring and challenge Goldberg to a fight even though he wasn’t
at the show.
I didn’t care that he was pissed about the previous night’s show and I was happy to have an angle. So I
went to the ring and bragged to the crowd about my won-loss record of Jericho 1, Goldberg 0. I
challenged him to a match and had the ref count to 10. When he didn’t show, I won the match by
count-out and now it was Jericho 2, Goldberg 0.
Then I cut a scathing promo about how I’d been the one to finally tarnish his name. He was no longer
Goldberg because I was renaming him Greenberg, a name that matched his experience in the business.
“Who’s your daddy, Greenberg? Who’s your daddy?”
The next week I went to a T-shirt shop and had a shirt made that said, “Jericho—2, Goldberg—0” and
wore it to the ring. I knew the feud was getting over because there were signs scattered throughout the
arena keeping score and saying “Goldberg Fears Jericho” and “Jericho’s Next.”
The angle that Terry Taylor booked to give me something to do on a Sunday afternoon had turned into
one of the hottest angles in the company and, like my last hot angle, my opponent wasn’t directly
involved with it. But I was involved 200 percent and had a ton of ideas to further the story.
One of my bits (directly ripped off fromSpinal Tap ) had me getting lost on my way to the ring for a
match against Wrath. I was planning to continue my mocking of Goldberg by coming to the ring led by a
security team, one of his trademarks. (Supremely Cool Author’s Note: If Goldberg was so tough, why
did he need a full security team to take him to the ring? Things that make you go hmmmm.)
I debated using the local wrestlers in the building as my security force, but I thought it would be funnier if
I came to the ring led by a crew of misfits instead. I had the perfect guy in mind to start off with.
I’d always see one of the company truck drivers hanging around and he had, shall we say, a very unique
look. His hairline receded to his neck and he sported a massive gut. He frequently flashed a friendly smile
that accentuated his missing front teeth and a pair of fanglike incisors that protruded out of each side of
his mouth. He had a face only a mother could love and Mother Jericho wanted him for a bodyguard.
I approached him and asked him if he wanted to be on TV.
“Sure,” he said with a punji stick grin. “Whaddya want me ta do?”
I patted him on the chest (cutting my hand on his teeth in the process) and handed him a cut-off
wifebeater that caused his gut to hang over the belt of his dress pants. Then I took a marker and wrote
on the front:
JERICHO
PERSONAL
SECURITY
The JPS was born.
My new bodyguard needed a name and I’d just seen the 1970s horror movieBlood Sucking Freaks .
The flick featured a maniacal Oates (as in Hall and...) looking dwarf named Ralphus. The rest is
Jeric-History.
Ralphus knocked on my dressing room door and we began our walk to the ring. But we weren’t quite
sure where it was. I opened one door and found a broom closet. Another led me into catering. I shouted
“Hello Cleveland!” in tribute. Then I tried a third door and unwittingly walked outside into the parking lot
as the door slammed shut behind me.
We’d rehearsed the bit earlier in the day and when the door shut behind me it had locked instantly. This
time when the door shut I scrambled to pull it open and the damn thing opened easily. We were live, so I
slammed my shoulder against the door and shut it again as if by mistake. The comedy continued when a
curious security guard heard the noise and opened the door again to see what was going on.
Meanwhile Wrath was in the ring watching the entire spectacle on the ’Tron, and decided to come get
me himself. He charged through the door and I ran from him as fast as I could until I reached my given
mark. The mark guaranteed that I was out of the camera’s sightline, and I stopped as Wrath ran past me
as a joke. But the joke was on me because the mark was wrong and Wrath running past me while we
both burst out laughing was caught on live TV.
What had started as a homage toSpinal Tap had turned into the real thing.
I ran into Goldberg in the airport the next day and he demanded that I stop doing the angle because he
didn’t do comedy.
I tried to explain to him that he wasn’t doing the comedy, I was. Besides, the fans were digging it and at
every show the Jericho–Goldberg signs multiplied while the reactions got stronger. But he still didn’t
understand that the more I mocked him, the more people wanted to see him destroy me.
Besides, I was having a blast with my comedy. My security force was increasing faster than the nWo:
I’d sworn the Jerichoholic Ninja and Viva Las Jericho (I don’t know what the hell it means either) into
active duty.
The next week Greenberg finally got involved when he hit the ring and pulverized the new members of
my valiant security force. But Ralphus and I escaped, making the score Jericho—3, Goldberg—0. To
keep up with the tally, I put a piece of tape over the 2 on my sweet custom-made shirt and wrote a 3 in
its place. People were really getting sick of my bullshit and the fans were itching to see him tear me apart.
The next week when I showed up forNitro in Phoenix, Eric told me I was going to be wrestling
Goldberg that night. I asked Eric what the story of the match was going to be.
“Story? The same story Goldberg always tells. He beats you up and pins you with the Jackhammer in
three minutes.”
I thought I’d entered the Twilight Zone, because he was talking to me like the previous six weeks of
angles hadn’t happened.
“What about our angle? The fans are really into it.”
“There never was an angle. If there was, it ends tonight.”
That was enough for me. Before my match with Dwarfberg, if I’d been booked to be the next victim of
Goldberg’s streak I would’ve done it, no questions asked. But the bookers got me into this and I’d made
the angle work. I didn’t expect to beat Goldberg and I didn’t want to. But the Goldberg–Jericho angle
was giving both of us an extra dimension and there was no way I was going to allow them to piss away
all of my hard work.
“I’ve done some really strong work with this, Eric, even if it was just a throwaway. I don’t want to
waste it on a three-minute squash. I really think people will pay money to see him kill me. Let me have
the best squash match of all time with him on PPV. He can give me ten Jackhammers if you want. I’m not
saying I don’t want him to beat me, I’m just saying that we’ve got something special here.”
I don’t know if Eric understood my point or if he just didn’t want to put up with my bullshit, but he
canceled the match.
I’d avoided one monster even though I’d created another one.
Ralphus became my full-time sidekick and was absolutely hilarious in his ineptitude. He understood
escorted me to the ring I’d tell him to get mad and threaten the people who accosted me along the way,
but instead he would wag his finger at them like a granny telling a five-year-old not to touch her flowers.
He tried to look menacing but with his half shirt and summer teeth he just looked comical. But the ladies
loved him and he was enjoying his newfound fame. I showed up at the arena one day to see Ralphus
dirty-dancing for his female fans behind the arena. The girls weighed in at about three bills apiece, but
Ralphus didn’t care...however, I was scarred for life.
I’d become Dr. Chrisenstein and I tried to reel in his ballooning ego by always referring to him by his
real name of John Riker. I wanted him to understand that he wasn’t really Ralphus. But he was too far
gone and, quite frankly, who could blame him? He’d gone from a truck driver hauling lighting rigs to a
nationally famous TV star in the space of a month all because of the space between his teeth.
“John, get these girls out of the backstage area,” I said to him sternly.
“But they like me.”
“I don’t care. You can’t bring girls backstage.”
“But they want to hang out with me—look, they gave me flowers.”
“Wow, those are nice. Can I see them?” He handed me the tulips and I beat them over his bald head.
When the Ralphus Rats started sitting in the front row, I was sickened to know that he had more
groupies than I did. Even worse, he would spend all his time talking to the girls and not paying any
attention to the match. The monster was loose.
His head got bigger than the gap between his teeth and he started putting baby oil on his arms and
stomach before he went to the ring. He began talking about hiring a lawyer to negotiate his new contract.
New contract? The moron didn’t have an old contract! I had to go to bat to get him paid 500 bucks an
appearance as it was.
Then he started showing up at house shows, “in case he was needed.” The first night, he was cheered so
huge that it killed my heel heat and I had to tell him to stop coming. Sadly, Ralphus was over more than
most of the babyfaces.
Meanwhile Goldberg, who was the biggest babyface in the company, had a lot of pull and decided our
program would end for good in Uniondale, New York. I found out from Sullivan that I was losing to
Goldberg and there would be no debate whatsoever. Of course I had zero intention of following his
orders.
I tracked down Eric and before I could say a word he told me, “You’re going to lose to Goldberg and
that’s it.”
I didn’t give a shit at that point because no matter what anybody else thought, the angle was a
moneymaker and I was determined to live or die with it. If WCW didn’t take it as far as it could go, I
might as well quit anyway. If they didn’t see this feud as a draw, then nothing I would ever do in the
future would be either.
“I’m not losing tonight.”
“Go in my office right now,” Eric said angrily.
He must’ve suspected that I was going to question the match because Goldberg was already in Eric’s
office along with a pissed-off Hulk Hogan. Some serious shit was about to go down.
“This has gone on too long. We’ve accommodated you long enough. Tonight you’re losing to Bill,” Eric
explained.
The three of them waited for my response.
“I want to lose to Bill. I just want to do it right. People want to see him kick my ass and I believe they’ll
pay to see it.”
Then I pled my case to Hogan using language I knew he’d understand.
“I thought this business was about making money. You’ve done it better than anyone, Hulk. This match
will make money.”
Hogan didn’t disagree, but said, “It’s never bad to lose to the champion.”
“I’m sick of doing this comedy shit,” Goldberg jumped in. “You could never last with me in the ring. I’m
the guy who stands in fire for my ring entrance. I’m the guy who beat Hulk Hogan for the title.”
“You’re the guy who would go down right now if I kicked you in the nuts,” I jackhammered back.
“Okay, okay, let’s not get carried away,” Judge Bischoff interjected. This was becomingThe People’s
Court in tights.
“Well, what do you want to do?” Eric demanded. “What’s your idea?”
“First of all, let us work this match at the next PPV (which was thirteen days away). Bill can squash the
living hell out of me then.”
“Okay, what are we going to do tonight then?”
Before arriving at the Nassau Coliseum that day, I’d come up with a plan.
“I’ll go to the ring and call out Goldberg. Mean Gene can tell me that everyone knows he’s not in the
building, including me. I’ll proceed to rip Bill a new asshole with insults. While I’m doing this, we’ll show
Bill arriving at the arena on the ’Tron. I’ll be too wrapped up in my promo to notice him walking through
the halls and into his dressing room, where he’ll see me on the monitor. I’ll finish my insults and leave the
ring but when I’m walking down the aisle soaking up the adulation of the fans as if it’s for me, Bill walks
out of the entrance and stands behind me. When I turn around, he spears the hell out of me halfway
down the aisle. Then we wrestle at World War 3 and he destroys me in the most entertaining squash
match of all time.”
Nobody said a thing and as the logic of my idea sank in both Bischoff and Hogan looked intrigued. But
when Eric said he liked the idea, Hogan didn’t agree.
“I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this, but if you think you can make it work, then
of it.”
Everyone seemed happy until Goldberg said, “That’s all fine and dandy, but I’m supposed to have the
next PPV off.”
Did anyone in this company give even a tiny squirt of a shit about the product?
With my plan approved, I went to the ring and buried Bill until Okerlund cut me off.
“Surely you don’t think you can beat Goldberg.”
“I do think I can beat Goldberg...and don’t call me Shirley.”
Airplanerepresent yo.
The crowd exploded when Goldberg showed up on the ’Tron. I left the ring waving and smiling like an
idiot, only to turn around into the face of a pissed-off mountain of a man who’d had enough of the past
two months of Jericho bullshit.
He fired up and speared the beBuddha out of me. On my twenty-eighth birthday no less.
I must’ve flown ten feet down the aisle and, to be honest, I deserved it. Goldberg had never dealt with
someone so persistent and stubborn in the wrestling business before and I’m sure he was sick of looking
at me. He took out his aggressions and completely annihilated me—and it wasawesome.
Later in the night Hogan came looking for me in an area he usually dared not tread. The common locker
room. It was the first time I’d seen him with the rest of us plebeians, but to his credit he came to give me
props.
“Listen, brother, I just want to tell you that I was wrong and you were right. That was a great idea and it
was great TV. I admire you for standing your ground.” I was pleasantly surprised; he didn’t have to say
that. I’d spoken to him more in that one night than I had the prior two years combined and now he was
apologizing to me. After that, we got along quite well. Told you I was friends with the Hulkster!
That week I came up with a plan for our squash match where I would wrestle in untied amateur shoes.
When Goldberg speared me, I was going to kick them off and give people the illusion that he’d speared
me clean out of my sneakers. Time for me to step off!
Of course when I showed up for TV the next week, the whole angle had been dropped and I started a
one-week feud with Bobby Duncam Jr. I decided that day that my WCW career was officially over. |