Kevin, meet Cactus. Cactus, Kevin.
I've been promising this update all weekend, so I'd better get to it while everything is fresh in my mind.
If you're not a wrestling fan, it may be tough to imagine why I have such wide-eyed admiration for Mick Foley. Allow me to make my best attempt to sum it up. Mick Foley is one of us - a wrestling geek who made good. He grew up in a stable, suburban home on Long Island. He was best known for his sense of humor, and wasn't exactly a hit with the ladies. He didn't get his first kiss until he was eighteen; it was his freshman year at college, she was the girl he was crushing on hard. Then she called him "Frank". Ouch. After such a devastating blow, it was clear that there was only one path for Mick to take: he would train to become a wrestler. Click below if you want the rest of his story and have a few minutes to kill.
Shortly thereafter, Foley began training with former tag team champion Dominic DeNucci in Pittsburgh. But he never gave up on college. He would drive from New York to Pittsburgh and back every weekend, sleeping in his old Ford Fairmont to save money. He worked from the bottom up, and waited seven years to get his break with a major company, WCW. Even then, he didn't have it made. He battled and struggled and moved from company to company, even wrestling death matches in Japan just to feed his family. He sustained countless injuries, the worst of which was having his right ear torn from his head after getting caught in the ring ropes during a tour of Germany. (So, is wrestling fake or real? The answer lies in between, of course. In this case, it was an unfortunate accident). It all paid off in 1999, when after fifteen years in the business, Mick Foley finally won the WWF World Heavyweight Title. That chubby, awkward guy from Long Island, the kid who wrestled as "Dude Love" in his backyard with his friends, had the top spot in the wrestling world.
Around the same time, WWF commissioned a professional writer to help Mick compile his life's story for publication. After his initial excitement, Foley was disappointed to see the early results. The pages he read sounded nothing like him. It was so flat and sterile. For God's sake, this ghostwriter didn't even know who the Fonz was. How could he give readers insight to the real Mick Foley? So Mick took action. He told Vince McMahon and his cohorts that he wanted to take a shot at writing the book himself. After producing several handwritten chapters, the company agreed. So Mick kept writing...and writing...and writing. About seven hundred handwritten pages later (don't quote me on that), he had his first New York Times bestseller. "Have a Nice Day!" was a huge success, and shattered the popular legend that wrestling fans can't or don't or won't read. It was heartfelt, it was funny, and most important of all, it was impossible to put down. The book created a world of opportunity for Mick. He was able to write a follow-up, "Foley is Good", which was just as popular. Since then, he has also written a handful of children's books and two novels: "Tietam Brown" and the newly published "Scooter".
More importantly, Mick was able to find life after wrestling. Most grapplers never do - they spend their entire lives traveling from show to show, taking hundred dollar paydays in podunk towns like Kearney, Nebraska in hopes that they'll get another break, or that they'll just feel something. With his all-out, risk taking style of wrestling, Mick knew that he was putting himself in serious danger the longer he wrestled a full schedule. Now that he has made his mark in the literary world, he is practically retired. Since 2000, he has wrestled a few dates a year, but he mostly just makes public appearances. This gives him much more time to spend with his beautiful wife and four children.
So what can I say? I grew to love him by watching him wrestle in the guise of a wide range of characters: from cheesy hipster Dude Love to tortured, mangled freak-turned-lovable, sock-puppet wearing goofball Mankind to bloodthirsty maniac Cactus Jack, I've been rolling my eyes or laughing or gaping in awe all along the way. Once I read "Have a Nice Day", I felt like I knew the man behind those masks, and he wasn't very different from you or me, give or take an ear and some front teeth. My favorite match of all time is still his no-holds-barred street fight against Triple H, a bloody marathon of a bout that unfolds like a story. To me and my friends, it is known simply as The Street Fight. I rejoiced when I was able to track down a rare Cactus Jack t-shirt on eBay, and in fact, I was once accosted in a Suncoast Video by a fan who offered to buy it right off of my back. (It was too small for him, and I wouldn't have done it anyway.) I dressed up as Cactus for Halloween. I adapted parts of "Have a Nice Day" for a Playwriting II project, which meant foisting the book upon TM for a period of time. I wonder how much he read. When I thought about who I would actually *want* to be my commencement speaker, rather than the crackpot governor of Maryland, it couldn't have been anyone but Mick Foley. As lukewarm as my interest in the current wrestling scene has become, I'll still flick on the TV any time I hear that he's making an appearance. (The next is October 3, by the way.)
So, okay, even if you don't think Mick Foley's wonderful, you can understand why I was so whacked out over the looming prospect of meeting him face to face. Mostly, I was worried that I would blow it. I so desperately wanted to say something witty, or honest, or original, something I'd want to remember, and maybe he would too. I spent hours debating what I should say, how I should act. Should I tell him that I'm a huge fan? Bleah. He's never heard that before, I'm sure. Do I tell him that I dedicated multiple college assignments to him? Sure, THAT's not at all creepy. So yeah, I was worried that in the heat of the moment, I would turn into a quivering, sweat soaked mass of awkward stammering and wide-eyed confusion. But, there was a more latent fear, no matter how impossible it seemed to me. As another one of my personal icons, Bill "The Sports Guy" Simmons has said, there is nothing worse than meeting one of your heroes and finding out that he is a jerk. With all of this swimming around in my head, I left my parents' house at 9:30 AM Saturday morning...
...And got to the convention center at 11 AM. For the uninitiated, I (or my parents, I guess) live no more than 40 minutes away from downtown Baltimore. This part of the story is not terribly interesting and it just makes me angry, so I'll keep it short. Construction RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE TOLLS on I-95. No one was moving. Brilliant. Had to turn around and take Eastern Avenue to the Harbor, which meant sitting at a traffic light every twelve seconds. Spent ten-fifteen minutes downtown in an amusing search for a parking lot that had an attendant, since I didn't have exact change and driving in the city is an impossible discipline. Found a place on Pratt Street that offered me parking and a car wash for twelve bucks. My car is dirty and I was too frazzled to keep looking for something better, so I acquiesced. Walked several blocks to the convention center. Okay, we're caught up.
So now I'm sweating profusely, I'm sure. At least I fit in better that way. Okay, that's unfair. Several of the conventioneers seemed rather well-groomed, and only a select few were in costume. Besides, I have no right poking fun at anyone when I was wandering around in a Cactus Jack "Wanted: Dead" shirt holding a Mick Foley novel. I wonder who I came to see, hmm? Anyway, I entered the convention area to find a sea of tables and booths. Comic books and action figures and whatever else have you, as far as the eye could see. I set about to find Mick, afraid that I could miss him. After all, he was only there until 1 PM and I had no idea what kind of line there would be. But as I wandered down the main aisle, I saw a familiar banner and yes, some familiar faces.
Their names are Mike and Jerry, I hear, but I know them only as Tycho and Gabe, the creators of Penny Arcade, the gold standard among video game-themed webcomics. There was nobody (!) at their table, so I wandered up and struck up a conversation. I told them that I loved the comic, even though I was a casual gamer. They expressed surprise that I still understood and enjoyed it, so I assured them that theme matter such as giant scorpions was universal. They agreed. I also rambled on for a bit about how great it is that they run the Child's Play charity at Christmas, which started off as a gesture of goodwill and an opportunity for gamers to prove to an ignorant, litigious society that we're not all degenerates. Tycho explained that he knew that people would be willing to give just as long as they made it as easy as possible. So they did all the grunt work in contacting the hospitals and setting up a means of distribution and a wish list through Amazon and PayPal, and the results have been staggering. (Over half a million dollars worth of toys, books, and money collected in just two seasons!) I also congratulated them on a recent eBay auction of one of Gabe's art prints, which raised $8700 for Hurricane Katrina relief. Gabe pointed out that it was the winning bidder who did all the work. Finally, I decided that I should probably stop being a deadbeat and buy something from them. I asked about the poster and t-shirt prices, and was informed of some enticing package deal. They assured me that their partner Robert would accept my "filthy human money", which at the very least made it clear that they talk just like they write. Tycho noticed that I was seriously mulling it over, so I quoted the ancient prophet Homer J. Simpson: "Your ideas intrigue me, and I wish to subscribe to your newsletter." He laughed, and as a line was forming, I rededicated myself to finding Mick Foley. Eventually, I came back and bought a Fruit Fucker t-shirt. As I told Gabe and Tycho, "You just can't say no to the Fruit Fucker."
I probably didn't spend more than five minutes searching, but it seemed much longer. While I was conversing with the Penny Arcade guys, I heard a PA announcement about Mick Foley. I didn't want to seem rude, so I didn't abruptly stop and find out what it was. Was he leaving early? Was he in a secret, cordoned-off room? In my impatience and insecurity, I considered stopping to ask someone where he could be found, but who among them would know? I imagined a haughty X-Men fan heaping scorn upon me, the oddball who comes to a comic convention to seek out a dirty pro wrestler. Finally, something caught my eye in the far corner of the room: a telltale black shirt with a yellow print. This was it. No turning back.
As I approached, there he was, in the flesh. The shaggy long hair, the wild goatee, the burly frame...in a Bruce Springsteen shirt, but no matter. He sat with an assistant, who collected the money. There was a stack of brand-new "Scooter" novels, a pile of 8x10 photos, and a smaller stack of copies of "Foley is Good". Behind him there were "Wanted:Dead" shirts, but they weren't the originals. This was a newer model, that read "Wanted: Dead or Alive", and said "Mick Foley" rather than "Cactus Jack". No thank you. The line wasn't deep at all, maybe five people. I took my place at the back, and noted the prices. $20 for a shirt, $15 for a photo, $10 to get your own item signed. Ouch. So I was definitely just getting my novel signed. Or was I? When I was next in line, I picked up a copy of "Scooter". I'm going to read it some time anyway, I might as well get it straight from the source. His assistant told me it was $28. Ouch. Maybe not. Mick looked up from the book he was signing and told me that he'd sign my copy of "Tietam Brown" for free if I got the new one, too...if I wanted. But even the prospect of Mick Foley bargaining with me didn't overwhelm my grip on the purse strings. Not that I have a purse, of course. It's just a figure of speech, I swear. So I put down my $10 and handed "Tietam Brown" to Mick. He asked me if I had enjoyed it, and I started gushing. I don't think I was too mawkish, but I did make it a point to tell him that I loved it, loved all of his books...not that I had read "Scooter" yet, but I plan to...my favorite match of all time is the Street Fight...
"With Triple H?" he asked.
Of course. It had never occurred to me that everyone didn't speak in the same code as my friends and I, and that after twenty years in the wrestling business, he had probably had more than his share of such matches. Oh well. Working overtime to cram in as much content as I could, I tossed him the story about someone trying to buy my Cactus Jack shirt right off of my back in the mall. He offered some sort of cursory response, probably "Yeah?". I don't remember, because I was concentrating very hard on not wetting my pants. So I told him that I dodged a bullet, as it wouldn't have fit the guy anyway. Before I could ask for a picture, the next guy in line walked up and handed Mick a handful of fliers for his buddy's wrestling show or something. They talked for a minute, and I patiently waited until they were done so I could get my picture, the picture that will hang from my baby's crib someday. Okay, maybe not, but you get the idea. Part of my insane pre-comicon deliberations involved this moment. What pose would I assume for the picture? I wanted to go with the Cactus Jack "Bang Bang" fingers, but it seemed way too over-the-top and chances were that I would find a way to screw it up. I finally settled on the cheesy Mick Foley thumbs up, which he had assumed as part of his on-air persona late in his career. As I leaned in for the picture, I caught Mick in my peripheral vision giving the thumbs up. Well, that settled it, then. Camera and novel in hand, I thanked him and went on with the rest of my life. Observe.
The time was 11:30 AM. I had done everything I had come to do, at a price tag of $37 for admission, parking, and an autograph, and it had only been half an hour. So I shuffled around the convention for a while longer, stopping to gaze idly at a Family Guy figure or a rack of comics. I was out of my element. I took a return trip by Mick Foley's table, on the off chance that he would be free to talk and I could say something more substantial. He actually happened to be standing in front of the table, and as I came nearer, he walked right past me to buy an action figure from a nearby merchant. I didn't get a chance to get his attention, but I noticed that he wasn't much taller than me, maybe an inch or two. He was HUGE, however, a bear of a man. He turned and left, and I have no idea where he went. In the course of another thirty minutes of wandering, I didn't see him again. I don't know if he grabbed lunch or what, but it seemed odd that he would disappear ninety minutes into a three-hour session.
The more I think about it, he really didn't seem to be in a good mood. Maybe he was missing his family, or maybe he was tired. Perhaps he was discouraged by a low turnout at his table and a lack of buyers for his newest novel. Way to go, Kevin, you insulted Mick Foley and made him cry. Okay, not really. But no matter what it was, he didn't take it out on the people who had come to see him. He was very polite and patient with me, as well as the folks ahead of me in line that I observed. Small children, women, dorky young guys like myself, it didn't matter. I guess you could get pretty sick of the song-and-dance after a while. But all that matters to me is that I met Mick Foley, and I have a picture to commemorate it. Oh, and the book! I almost forgot. The inscription read, "To Kevin - glad you liked Tietam. Mick Foley and Socko."
If you're not a wrestling fan, it may be tough to imagine why I have such wide-eyed admiration for Mick Foley. Allow me to make my best attempt to sum it up. Mick Foley is one of us - a wrestling geek who made good. He grew up in a stable, suburban home on Long Island. He was best known for his sense of humor, and wasn't exactly a hit with the ladies. He didn't get his first kiss until he was eighteen; it was his freshman year at college, she was the girl he was crushing on hard. Then she called him "Frank". Ouch. After such a devastating blow, it was clear that there was only one path for Mick to take: he would train to become a wrestler. Click below if you want the rest of his story and have a few minutes to kill.
Shortly thereafter, Foley began training with former tag team champion Dominic DeNucci in Pittsburgh. But he never gave up on college. He would drive from New York to Pittsburgh and back every weekend, sleeping in his old Ford Fairmont to save money. He worked from the bottom up, and waited seven years to get his break with a major company, WCW. Even then, he didn't have it made. He battled and struggled and moved from company to company, even wrestling death matches in Japan just to feed his family. He sustained countless injuries, the worst of which was having his right ear torn from his head after getting caught in the ring ropes during a tour of Germany. (So, is wrestling fake or real? The answer lies in between, of course. In this case, it was an unfortunate accident). It all paid off in 1999, when after fifteen years in the business, Mick Foley finally won the WWF World Heavyweight Title. That chubby, awkward guy from Long Island, the kid who wrestled as "Dude Love" in his backyard with his friends, had the top spot in the wrestling world.
Around the same time, WWF commissioned a professional writer to help Mick compile his life's story for publication. After his initial excitement, Foley was disappointed to see the early results. The pages he read sounded nothing like him. It was so flat and sterile. For God's sake, this ghostwriter didn't even know who the Fonz was. How could he give readers insight to the real Mick Foley? So Mick took action. He told Vince McMahon and his cohorts that he wanted to take a shot at writing the book himself. After producing several handwritten chapters, the company agreed. So Mick kept writing...and writing...and writing. About seven hundred handwritten pages later (don't quote me on that), he had his first New York Times bestseller. "Have a Nice Day!" was a huge success, and shattered the popular legend that wrestling fans can't or don't or won't read. It was heartfelt, it was funny, and most important of all, it was impossible to put down. The book created a world of opportunity for Mick. He was able to write a follow-up, "Foley is Good", which was just as popular. Since then, he has also written a handful of children's books and two novels: "Tietam Brown" and the newly published "Scooter".
More importantly, Mick was able to find life after wrestling. Most grapplers never do - they spend their entire lives traveling from show to show, taking hundred dollar paydays in podunk towns like Kearney, Nebraska in hopes that they'll get another break, or that they'll just feel something. With his all-out, risk taking style of wrestling, Mick knew that he was putting himself in serious danger the longer he wrestled a full schedule. Now that he has made his mark in the literary world, he is practically retired. Since 2000, he has wrestled a few dates a year, but he mostly just makes public appearances. This gives him much more time to spend with his beautiful wife and four children.
So what can I say? I grew to love him by watching him wrestle in the guise of a wide range of characters: from cheesy hipster Dude Love to tortured, mangled freak-turned-lovable, sock-puppet wearing goofball Mankind to bloodthirsty maniac Cactus Jack, I've been rolling my eyes or laughing or gaping in awe all along the way. Once I read "Have a Nice Day", I felt like I knew the man behind those masks, and he wasn't very different from you or me, give or take an ear and some front teeth. My favorite match of all time is still his no-holds-barred street fight against Triple H, a bloody marathon of a bout that unfolds like a story. To me and my friends, it is known simply as The Street Fight. I rejoiced when I was able to track down a rare Cactus Jack t-shirt on eBay, and in fact, I was once accosted in a Suncoast Video by a fan who offered to buy it right off of my back. (It was too small for him, and I wouldn't have done it anyway.) I dressed up as Cactus for Halloween. I adapted parts of "Have a Nice Day" for a Playwriting II project, which meant foisting the book upon TM for a period of time. I wonder how much he read. When I thought about who I would actually *want* to be my commencement speaker, rather than the crackpot governor of Maryland, it couldn't have been anyone but Mick Foley. As lukewarm as my interest in the current wrestling scene has become, I'll still flick on the TV any time I hear that he's making an appearance. (The next is October 3, by the way.)
So, okay, even if you don't think Mick Foley's wonderful, you can understand why I was so whacked out over the looming prospect of meeting him face to face. Mostly, I was worried that I would blow it. I so desperately wanted to say something witty, or honest, or original, something I'd want to remember, and maybe he would too. I spent hours debating what I should say, how I should act. Should I tell him that I'm a huge fan? Bleah. He's never heard that before, I'm sure. Do I tell him that I dedicated multiple college assignments to him? Sure, THAT's not at all creepy. So yeah, I was worried that in the heat of the moment, I would turn into a quivering, sweat soaked mass of awkward stammering and wide-eyed confusion. But, there was a more latent fear, no matter how impossible it seemed to me. As another one of my personal icons, Bill "The Sports Guy" Simmons has said, there is nothing worse than meeting one of your heroes and finding out that he is a jerk. With all of this swimming around in my head, I left my parents' house at 9:30 AM Saturday morning...
...And got to the convention center at 11 AM. For the uninitiated, I (or my parents, I guess) live no more than 40 minutes away from downtown Baltimore. This part of the story is not terribly interesting and it just makes me angry, so I'll keep it short. Construction RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE TOLLS on I-95. No one was moving. Brilliant. Had to turn around and take Eastern Avenue to the Harbor, which meant sitting at a traffic light every twelve seconds. Spent ten-fifteen minutes downtown in an amusing search for a parking lot that had an attendant, since I didn't have exact change and driving in the city is an impossible discipline. Found a place on Pratt Street that offered me parking and a car wash for twelve bucks. My car is dirty and I was too frazzled to keep looking for something better, so I acquiesced. Walked several blocks to the convention center. Okay, we're caught up.
So now I'm sweating profusely, I'm sure. At least I fit in better that way. Okay, that's unfair. Several of the conventioneers seemed rather well-groomed, and only a select few were in costume. Besides, I have no right poking fun at anyone when I was wandering around in a Cactus Jack "Wanted: Dead" shirt holding a Mick Foley novel. I wonder who I came to see, hmm? Anyway, I entered the convention area to find a sea of tables and booths. Comic books and action figures and whatever else have you, as far as the eye could see. I set about to find Mick, afraid that I could miss him. After all, he was only there until 1 PM and I had no idea what kind of line there would be. But as I wandered down the main aisle, I saw a familiar banner and yes, some familiar faces.
Their names are Mike and Jerry, I hear, but I know them only as Tycho and Gabe, the creators of Penny Arcade, the gold standard among video game-themed webcomics. There was nobody (!) at their table, so I wandered up and struck up a conversation. I told them that I loved the comic, even though I was a casual gamer. They expressed surprise that I still understood and enjoyed it, so I assured them that theme matter such as giant scorpions was universal. They agreed. I also rambled on for a bit about how great it is that they run the Child's Play charity at Christmas, which started off as a gesture of goodwill and an opportunity for gamers to prove to an ignorant, litigious society that we're not all degenerates. Tycho explained that he knew that people would be willing to give just as long as they made it as easy as possible. So they did all the grunt work in contacting the hospitals and setting up a means of distribution and a wish list through Amazon and PayPal, and the results have been staggering. (Over half a million dollars worth of toys, books, and money collected in just two seasons!) I also congratulated them on a recent eBay auction of one of Gabe's art prints, which raised $8700 for Hurricane Katrina relief. Gabe pointed out that it was the winning bidder who did all the work. Finally, I decided that I should probably stop being a deadbeat and buy something from them. I asked about the poster and t-shirt prices, and was informed of some enticing package deal. They assured me that their partner Robert would accept my "filthy human money", which at the very least made it clear that they talk just like they write. Tycho noticed that I was seriously mulling it over, so I quoted the ancient prophet Homer J. Simpson: "Your ideas intrigue me, and I wish to subscribe to your newsletter." He laughed, and as a line was forming, I rededicated myself to finding Mick Foley. Eventually, I came back and bought a Fruit Fucker t-shirt. As I told Gabe and Tycho, "You just can't say no to the Fruit Fucker."
I probably didn't spend more than five minutes searching, but it seemed much longer. While I was conversing with the Penny Arcade guys, I heard a PA announcement about Mick Foley. I didn't want to seem rude, so I didn't abruptly stop and find out what it was. Was he leaving early? Was he in a secret, cordoned-off room? In my impatience and insecurity, I considered stopping to ask someone where he could be found, but who among them would know? I imagined a haughty X-Men fan heaping scorn upon me, the oddball who comes to a comic convention to seek out a dirty pro wrestler. Finally, something caught my eye in the far corner of the room: a telltale black shirt with a yellow print. This was it. No turning back.
As I approached, there he was, in the flesh. The shaggy long hair, the wild goatee, the burly frame...in a Bruce Springsteen shirt, but no matter. He sat with an assistant, who collected the money. There was a stack of brand-new "Scooter" novels, a pile of 8x10 photos, and a smaller stack of copies of "Foley is Good". Behind him there were "Wanted:Dead" shirts, but they weren't the originals. This was a newer model, that read "Wanted: Dead or Alive", and said "Mick Foley" rather than "Cactus Jack". No thank you. The line wasn't deep at all, maybe five people. I took my place at the back, and noted the prices. $20 for a shirt, $15 for a photo, $10 to get your own item signed. Ouch. So I was definitely just getting my novel signed. Or was I? When I was next in line, I picked up a copy of "Scooter". I'm going to read it some time anyway, I might as well get it straight from the source. His assistant told me it was $28. Ouch. Maybe not. Mick looked up from the book he was signing and told me that he'd sign my copy of "Tietam Brown" for free if I got the new one, too...if I wanted. But even the prospect of Mick Foley bargaining with me didn't overwhelm my grip on the purse strings. Not that I have a purse, of course. It's just a figure of speech, I swear. So I put down my $10 and handed "Tietam Brown" to Mick. He asked me if I had enjoyed it, and I started gushing. I don't think I was too mawkish, but I did make it a point to tell him that I loved it, loved all of his books...not that I had read "Scooter" yet, but I plan to...my favorite match of all time is the Street Fight...
"With Triple H?" he asked.
Of course. It had never occurred to me that everyone didn't speak in the same code as my friends and I, and that after twenty years in the wrestling business, he had probably had more than his share of such matches. Oh well. Working overtime to cram in as much content as I could, I tossed him the story about someone trying to buy my Cactus Jack shirt right off of my back in the mall. He offered some sort of cursory response, probably "Yeah?". I don't remember, because I was concentrating very hard on not wetting my pants. So I told him that I dodged a bullet, as it wouldn't have fit the guy anyway. Before I could ask for a picture, the next guy in line walked up and handed Mick a handful of fliers for his buddy's wrestling show or something. They talked for a minute, and I patiently waited until they were done so I could get my picture, the picture that will hang from my baby's crib someday. Okay, maybe not, but you get the idea. Part of my insane pre-comicon deliberations involved this moment. What pose would I assume for the picture? I wanted to go with the Cactus Jack "Bang Bang" fingers, but it seemed way too over-the-top and chances were that I would find a way to screw it up. I finally settled on the cheesy Mick Foley thumbs up, which he had assumed as part of his on-air persona late in his career. As I leaned in for the picture, I caught Mick in my peripheral vision giving the thumbs up. Well, that settled it, then. Camera and novel in hand, I thanked him and went on with the rest of my life. Observe.
The time was 11:30 AM. I had done everything I had come to do, at a price tag of $37 for admission, parking, and an autograph, and it had only been half an hour. So I shuffled around the convention for a while longer, stopping to gaze idly at a Family Guy figure or a rack of comics. I was out of my element. I took a return trip by Mick Foley's table, on the off chance that he would be free to talk and I could say something more substantial. He actually happened to be standing in front of the table, and as I came nearer, he walked right past me to buy an action figure from a nearby merchant. I didn't get a chance to get his attention, but I noticed that he wasn't much taller than me, maybe an inch or two. He was HUGE, however, a bear of a man. He turned and left, and I have no idea where he went. In the course of another thirty minutes of wandering, I didn't see him again. I don't know if he grabbed lunch or what, but it seemed odd that he would disappear ninety minutes into a three-hour session.
The more I think about it, he really didn't seem to be in a good mood. Maybe he was missing his family, or maybe he was tired. Perhaps he was discouraged by a low turnout at his table and a lack of buyers for his newest novel. Way to go, Kevin, you insulted Mick Foley and made him cry. Okay, not really. But no matter what it was, he didn't take it out on the people who had come to see him. He was very polite and patient with me, as well as the folks ahead of me in line that I observed. Small children, women, dorky young guys like myself, it didn't matter. I guess you could get pretty sick of the song-and-dance after a while. But all that matters to me is that I met Mick Foley, and I have a picture to commemorate it. Oh, and the book! I almost forgot. The inscription read, "To Kevin - glad you liked Tietam. Mick Foley and Socko."