In 1970, he'd had a really good season with the Rangers, so he went to renegotiate his contract with the team's general manager, Emile Francis.

"You know, Emile, I had a good season and I think I showed my value to the team. I'd like to ask you for a raise to $27,000 a year." He'd been making $25,000.

Emile offered him $30,000 instead.

My dad walked out of Emile's office with a smile. A few minutes later, he began feeling like he'd made a mistake because Francis had given him more than what he asked for. A good negotiator asks for more than he thinks he can get and settles for less. If my dad had asked for $35,000, maybe he would've gotten it.

I'd fallen into the same trap. Had I asked for $200,000, maybe I would've gotten it but I didn't know any better. I had Constanza-d myself and negotiated for less money.

But I was still ecstatic with Eric's offer, even though I found out that with all the taxes and road expenses taken out, $165,000 wasn't the small fortune I originally thought it was.

Bischoff mentioned that he wanted me to start with WCW as soon as I could finish up my previous commitments with ECW and WAR. My life was about to get busier than ever.

So while I still had a few free days, I drove from Calgary to Winnipeg to visit my mom.

It was the end of the summer and her health had improved enough that she was able to spend a lot of time outside. She navigated the neighborhood in her motorized wheelchair and we were able to take a walk to our favorite restaurant, D-Jay's, for dinner. I was proud to accompany her.

She was adjusting to her injury and dealing with it. The next year, she even flew three hours to Calgary to attend my cousin Chad's wedding. She had used her iron will to rise to the challenge that God had given her.

One beautiful Indian summer evening she asked me if I could give her a ride in my Mustang convertible with the top down. It was unusual for her to want to leave the safety of her house, but I was too busy hanging out with my friends (or something equally stupid) and told her I'd take her for a ride the next day.

Then I got a call from WCW a few hours later telling me that I was needed for a TV taping the next day in Dalton, Georgia. I never did get the chance to give her a ride in the convertible and I kick myself for it every day. I've often wondered what she would've looked like with the top down and the wind whipping through her hair. I imagine she would've had a big smile on her face, but now I'll never know for sure.

I'd put her off when she was able and the chance had passed me by forever. It's the other major regret of my life.

Regrets are a terrible burden and even though I only have a few, they're a few too many.

The next day I flew to Atlanta and drove to Dalton with instructions to be at the arena at 1 P.M P.M. I was on Japan time and arrived at the building at 12:45. When I got there, the place was deserted; no TV truck, no ring crew, and only two other wrestlers...Scott Hall and Kevin Nash.

They were sitting side by side in the corner like wallflowers, so I went over and introduced myself. We exchanged pleasantries and Hall knew my name because he'd met my dad in an airport once. My dad was always my biggest fan and had put me over huge to Hall.

The three of us sat around laughing at how stupid we felt for being the only ones at work on time. But we were all new to WCW and since I had the Japanese mind-set and they had the similar WWF mind-set, we had been taught to get to work on time with no exceptions. It seemed the rules were a tad bit looser in WCW-land.

Hall and Nash hadn't yet adopted the bad attitudes they would later become infamous for and on that day we were at the same level. But it was the last day that would be the case.

Everyone else finally showed up and I was booked to wrestle my first match against Jerry Lynn. The office had recently given him a gimmick change and were portraying him as a masked superhero. They'd outfitted him with a cool purple and yellow costume and the clever yet cryptic moniker of Mr. J.L. I still haven't solved the mystery of what the initials of J Jerry L Lynn's masked identity stood for.

But I had other problems to solve. Mr. J.L. and I were given seven minutes for our match, including ring entrances, which worked out to roughly five minutes of action. In Japan, I was used to working twenty-minute matches on a nightly basis...but I wasn't in Kanagawa anymore.

When Terry Taylor, the assistant booker, told me that the company had decided I was going to be a babyface, I didn't think it was the best decision. The good-looking, blond-haired, muscular young babyface would have been a no-brainer a few years earlier, but in 1996 the world was changing.

Society as a whole was starting to accept the bad guy as the new good guy and the good guy as the new bad guy. WCW was behind the curve in that respect and I was doomed from the start when I was booked as a nameless faceless babyface. I'd just come off a very successful heel run in Japan and in ECW everyone was a heel anyway, so turning into an instant babyface was a tough transition. I was in the heel mode of wanting to make my opponent look good, so I gave Mr. J.L. most of the match and stole a quick win from him at the end. I did my best to have a good match but an old friend still came a-calling.

Knock knock.

Who's there?

It's the Jericho Curse bitch!

The match went over like a dump in church. It was a horrible, red reels debut and everyone knew it. Except me.

The chastising began the moment I walked through the curtain where Paul Orndorff was waiting for me. "Dammit boy, you need a fancy ring robe with gems and sequins sewn on it!"

Then I saw Terry Taylor, who was famous for being blunt, maybe too much so. "Wow did that ever suck. Was that your first match ever? It was terrible. What were you trying to accomplish?"

"Since I was winning the match, I wanted to make J.L. look good in the process," I said defensively.

"That match wasn't for him. It was for you to show what you can do and from the looks of things, you can't do much. I don't even know if we can even show it on TV."

Ouch!

Terry was furious and I'd fumbled the ball badly. In my defense, the booking committee knew it was my first match in the company and that I'd been working Japanese-style, but they still sent me out to sink or swim on my own with no tips or advice.

It was typical of a larger problem that existed in WCW-nobody was on the same page. Terry Taylor was one booker, Kevin Sullivan was another, and others like Hulk Hogan (who ended up being the mystery third member of the nWo), Hall, and Nash did whatever they wanted to do no matter what the bookers said. Bischoff was supposed to be in charge of it all, but he was a marionette that did whatever Hogan and his lackeys puppeteered him to do. It was hard to tell who the boss really was.

The disorganization continued when Terry decided that he wanted me to go to Orlando the next day for the TV tapings the company did at Universal Studios. I'd flown from Winnipeg to Dalton for one day, so I only had one change of clothes and one pair of tights. Since the Orlando tapings lasted for two weeks, I was unprepared for such a long stay.

Terry decided it was best for me to fly back to Winnipeg, grab my stuff, and come back to Florida. But the comedy of errors continued when I told him that I didn't live in Winnipeg and my stuff was actually in Calgary.

So I flew from Atlanta to Winnipeg, arriving at twelve noon, kissed my mom goodbye, drove fourteen hours back to Calgary, arriving at 3 A.M A.M., turned down the only official booty call I've ever been offered, grabbed my stuff, and got back on a plane to Orlando at 7 A.M A.M. All because they decided they needed me in Orlando with one day's notice, even though I'd been with the company for a month and they could have booked me weeks in advance.

YaskY.

CHAPTER 44.

BASKETBALL HIGHLIGHTS #12.

The tapings in Orlando were for the syndicated World Wide Wrestling World Wide Wrestling program that ran in smaller markets around the world. The show was at the bottom of the totem pole for the company and was devoid of all the top stars. program that ran in smaller markets around the world. The show was at the bottom of the totem pole for the company and was devoid of all the top stars.

But WCW boasted a huge roster so there were still over 100 contracted wrestlers hanging around the backstage area of the Universal Studios lot. It looked like a casting call for One Flew Over the Cookoo's Nest 2-Electric Boogaloo. One Flew Over the Cookoo's Nest 2-Electric Boogaloo.

There were a lot of familiar faces in the mass of misfits, including Tonga/Haku (who had now become Meng), Eddy Guerrero, Horace Boulder, and Chris Benoit. When I saw Benoit I could tell he wasn't happy. He pulled me into a corner and said, "What the fuck happened in Dalton? Terry told me that you stunk the joint out. The word is already going around that you aren't any good."

I didn't think my performance was that that bad and I was surprised to hear such a harsh opinion had developed after only one match. I thought I'd be given the chance to acclimate to the new style, but WCW employed far too many wrestlers to spoon-feed a nonheadliner like me. bad and I was surprised to hear such a harsh opinion had developed after only one match. I thought I'd be given the chance to acclimate to the new style, but WCW employed far too many wrestlers to spoon-feed a nonheadliner like me.

The browbeating continued: "You have to dress nicer too. You're wearing shorts and a tank top; you look like a slob. This is the big leagues, act like it." He was wearing dress pants and a nice shirt. Chris adhered to the dress code ten years before it was officially instituted.

His words freaked me out and my confidence was shot. I don't know if I felt worse about possibly getting fired or letting Benoit down.

My first World Wide World Wide match was going to be against the Gambler, a journeyman wrestler that I'd never seen before (or since). His gimmick was he was a Kenny Rogers impersonator. match was going to be against the Gambler, a journeyman wrestler that I'd never seen before (or since). His gimmick was he was a Kenny Rogers impersonator.

Even though that gimmick would rule, his actual gimmick was of a Maverick-style riverboat gambler. It was a horrible feeling knowing that my future was in the hands of a man who did card tricks on his way to the ring. I didn't know if he was good or if he sucked, but my self-esteem was at such a low that I was going to leave the match up to him. I was gambling on the Gambler.

Having confidence is a huge part of being successful. When you have it, you can do no wrong. When you don't, all you can do is wrong. At that point all of my previous accomplishments didn't mean a damn thing.

This was my last chance.

The Gambler led the match and I followed him. He was a meat-and-potatoes wrestler so it was nothing fancy, but it was exactly what I needed. It was the type of basic match that I would've had in wrestling camp. No bells or whistles, just a good story and solid execution.

Lo and behold, we had a good little match and within five minutes I regained my confidence and once again became Chris Jericho-World Beater.

As ricockulous as it sounds, the KISS rule always works. I'm not saying to go put on Demon makeup and spit blood, I'm saying Keep It Simple Stupid. We kept the match simple and I was no longer stupid.

Since we filmed four shows a day in Universal, there was a possibility of wrestling four times a day. But the matches were a piece of goozleberry pie. The audience was always loud and excited because the matches were one of the park's attractions. People would go on the Back to the Future ride, get cotton candy, go to the wrestling matches, take a ride on the Diggler, whatever.

The tourists would file in while a guy dressed in a dog costume explained, "When that big sign over there lights up, put your thumbs in the air and cheer! When that sign tells you to boo, put your thumbs down and boo."

If you watched the show, you would see a bunch of people who had no idea what they were reacting to, putting their thumbs up and cheering, only to turn on a dime and instantly start booing when the next guy came out. They were the exact opposite of ECW fans and I was now a part of Turner Broadcasting Corporate Wrestling.

But I was also still a part of the wrestling fraternity and some things never change. Riddle me this: What happens when you take 120 cooped-up wrestlers and unleash them into the adult playground known as Downtown Disney?

The answer: complete chaos and debauchery on a nightly basis. It seemed the entire roster ended up at the disco 8 Trax, drinking, partying, and dancing until three in the morning. After that, the party would continue in one of the dozen nearby hotels that housed us. Many a time we'd go straight from the party back to Universal Studios for the tapings, hoping and praying that we wouldn't be booked on the 9 A.M A.M. show.

Here's a secret. If you were a fan of the World Wide World Wide show, you watched many matches performed by severely hungover or still slightly loaded wrestlers. show, you watched many matches performed by severely hungover or still slightly loaded wrestlers.

I'm talking from experience.

One night I had a dream that I threw up in the sink. When I woke up I found out it was no dream. That day I was booked on the 9 A.M A.M., 11:30 A.M A.M., 2 P.M P.M., and 4:30 P.M P.M. tapings. Six bucks and my right nut says that one of the bookers saw me doing the hustle to "Disco Duck" in a drunken stupor at three in the morning and thought it would be funny to have me wrestle four times the next day. It wasn't.

But it was a great gig and the World Wide World Wide shows helped me to get into the groove of having fast-paced, exciting matches against guys like Benoit, Eddy, and Dean Malenko. shows helped me to get into the groove of having fast-paced, exciting matches against guys like Benoit, Eddy, and Dean Malenko.

I was a little concerned with my entrance music though. After meticulously choosing such heavy songs as "Over the Mountain" by Ozzy, "Electric Head Pt. 2" by White Zombie, and "Silent Jealousy" by X, my new music was a synthesizer-drenched, castrated rip-off of "Only the Young" by Journey.

I've always put major thought into my intro music, as it sets the tone for my attitude and character in the ring. This song failed miserably in both cases. It might've been okay if used for a montage in a 1980s teen comedy but it was awful for a rocker wrestler with big energy. Even worse, I was watching basketball highlights on TBS one night and heard my ring music playing in the background. My oh-so-important intro song was actually a generic track from the TBS music library.

"Jericho needs ring music? Okay, give him Basketball Highlights #12."

In a way the intro song choice was perfect, because it was just as boring as my character was. I was a generic good guy with no discernible charisma, who won some and lost some. It was a dangerous place to be.

I'd been sheltered by the canned World Wide World Wide crowds but when I wrestled on my first Monday crowds but when I wrestled on my first Monday Nitro Nitro in front of actual paying fans, I didn't fare as well. in front of actual paying fans, I didn't fare as well.

Nitro was Bischoff's answer to the WWF's was Bischoff's answer to the WWF's Monday Night Raw Monday Night Raw and his idea to air it head-to-head against and his idea to air it head-to-head against Raw Raw in the same time slot sparked one of the biggest boom periods in wrestling history. It was an exciting time for fans and wrestlers alike and was one of the reasons why Eric had hired me in the first place. He wanted to scarf up as much available talent as possible and worry about how to use them afterward. in the same time slot sparked one of the biggest boom periods in wrestling history. It was an exciting time for fans and wrestlers alike and was one of the reasons why Eric had hired me in the first place. He wanted to scarf up as much available talent as possible and worry about how to use them afterward.

It hit me just how much talent he'd signed when I went into the arena in Palmetto, Florida, for my first Nitro. Nitro. Unlike the Unlike the World Wide World Wide tapings, all the big stars were there. tapings, all the big stars were there.

I walked into one dressing room and saw Ric Flair, Sting, and Lex Luger playing cards. I went into another dressing room and saw Randy Savage talking to Scott Steiner. I turned the corner and saw Hulk Hogan walking out of his private dressing room with Jimmy Hart.

I took a moment for myself and completely marked out. I'd followed Flair in my mom's car, waited in the Polo Park Inn for Hogan's autograph, jumped out of my chair when Savage won the WWF title.

Now I was working in the same company!

I took a deep breath of professional and exhaled the mark. The heroes from my childhood were now my peers and I was going to act accordingly.

At Chris's suggestion, I'd gone out and bought some nice clothes, or at least I thought I had. I couldn't find proper dress pants, so I purchased a pair of ill-fitting tan jeans and a wrinkled, black button-up shirt. I looked like a five-year-old kid who'd dressed himself for Sunday school and the shorts and tank top were probably a better look.

I made a point of introducing myself to as many people in the locker room as possible, as I'd been taught in wrestling school. Most of the guys were cordial, but had no idea who I was. I approached Lex Luger and figured that talking to him about the gym he owned in Atlanta where I worked out would be a great icebreaker.

"Hey Lex, I'm Chris Jericho and I just wanted to say that I think you've got a kick-ass gym. How long have you had it?"

He looked at me with an annoyed face and said, "Who are you again?"

It didn't take long to find out that his pompous attitude was shared by most of the big names in the locker room.

My first Nitro Nitro match was against Alex Wright, a young high-flyer from Germany. We were given eight minutes for the match (including entrances), and since it was my live prime-time national TV debut, my mind was racing with all of the cool spots and moves I wanted to do. match was against Alex Wright, a young high-flyer from Germany. We were given eight minutes for the match (including entrances), and since it was my live prime-time national TV debut, my mind was racing with all of the cool spots and moves I wanted to do.

I gave Alex all of my awesome ideas and he nodded.

"Out of those ten things you want to do, pick your best three because that's all we're gonna have time for." He was now Dick Murdoch and I was the Japanese young boy. He wasn't being a jerk, just a realist.

By the way the match was booked it wouldn't have mattered what I did, I was still screwed.

Kevin Sullivan gave me the absolute worst finish that a debuting 1996 babyface could not have asked for. He wanted us to have a back-and-forth match, culminating with Alex jumping off the top rope at me on the floor. I would move out of the way and he would land on the barricade, leaving himself incapacitated. But instead of standing over my injured opponent screaming in victory, I was supposed to roll out of the ring and help him up help him up.

The guy who once wrestled with a broken arm and beat a man with a punch to the face was going to make sure his opponent was okay.

The match would end with the both of us getting counted out because I refused to accept such a cheap win.

Bobby Heenan was on commentary and said, "What a stupid move Jericho just made. You've got to take the wins any way you can in the big leagues. Why didn't he want the victory?" He wasn't wrong.

Bischoff was also announcing, but he defended my decision.

"Chris Jericho is a stand-up human being. He plays by the rules and he wouldn't dream of taking a victory that way. He's a good kid."

Sickening I know. Each one of his words buried me deeper.

Even Heenan realized how shamelessly Eric was putting me over.

"Did you co-sign a loan for this kid?"

The squeaky-clean babyface might've worked a decade earlier, but it was now the wrestling version of rat poison: sure to induce vomiting.

To make matters worse, I did an interview with Mean Gene Okerlund directly after the match to explain my actions.

"I didn't want to win the match that way, Mean Gene. Hulk Hogan and the nWo would take a win like that, but not me."

Instead of focusing on myself, I had to talk about how the nWo were a bunch of meanies. Another total self-burial. In eight minutes, I'd portrayed myself as a goody-two-shoes who would rather talk about Hulk Hogan than himself. Who in their right mind would get behind a loser like that?

Not the WCW office, that's fer damn sure.