Our Date With The Rock PART ONE

I write this in February 2006 so my writing style may have changed a little.  I've wrote this particualr story about five times, trying to trim it, make it more interesting to the reader.  This is a re-posting from my old blog, I didn't re-read it, I didn't check for spelling.  I am simply just copying and pasting here due to laziness and the fact that I have a cold coming on.  After taking Mucinex, I am officially coughing up a yellowish-greenish gift from my lungs.  Enjoy.

I promise to you that story is true. Every time I’ve told it I get a well deserved “Yeah, right.” But it happened and it’s one of my most favorite stories because it is so unbelievable.
While my would be husband, Shawn and I were dating in high school, we were wrestling fanatics. We were more particular towards the WWF, or as it’s now called, the WWE. Sure, we’d always known it was fake and somewhat scripted but we still loved it.

On February 17, 1998, Shawn and his older brother, Tim and I had floor seat tickets to the live filming of Monday Night Raw in Waco, Texas. Shawn and I had worked our way up to the metal railing just behind the bell ringer. As I remember, WWF had removed the flimsy railing for a more sturdy, solid half-wall that was padded. And for that, you’ll find out why as you read on. Before the taping of Monday night Raw began, we were entertained by new comers, followed by the taping of Shotgun Saturday Night, which unfortunately didn’t air in our area. Ever.

I’d spotted some guys from my school on the first level up of seating. They hopped the short wall and joined us on the floor. I was annoyed at first that they should use me to get closer to the ring, but I rather grateful later as these acquaintances would prove as witnesses to my story the next day at school. Shawn bought two Stonecold Steve Austin t-shirts for he and I and we eagerly awaited the main event. The last match of the night consisted of a three-on-three tag match. “Road Dog” Jesse James, “Bad Ass” Billy Gunn and The Rock were poised as “heels”, or the bad guys. “Stonecold” Steve Austin, Mick Foley, (a.k.a. Dude Love, Mankind, Cactus Jack) and Chainsaw Charlie (a.k.a. Terry Funk) held the role of the “baby faces” or good guys.

Of course, at the time, everyone’s favorite marketing tool was Steve Austin. And everyone’s you-love-to-hate-him-guy was Rocky, as he was called then. However, I’ve always held a special place for Mick Foley and Terry Funk. This especially became true after reading Foley’s book, Have a Nice Day. Go get yourself a copy and find out how tough the “sport” can really be when cutting your teeth. I mean, this dude lost an ear for Pete’s sake!

For several months, The Rock had been spitting into the crowd upon being announced and arriving into the famed squared circle. It was quite common to see him do so on TV since he was the biggest heel The three bad guys were announced one by one and entered the arena. The Rock glared into the crowd as he always did and was booed and hissed at. Somewhere from behind our place of standing a wet blob was spat into the air toward Rock’s direction. Someone had spit at The Rock! Well, he in turn spat back! Out of no where, not yet realizing what had taken place, I felt this mass of goo land right on my face. The vein on Shawn’s forehead leapt out and throbbed. Shawn perched his feet along the bottom rail and reared back. His upper body thrust forward over the railing and an enormous wad of spit was sent flying into the ring and landed…
Right on Rock’s jaw. Good aim. But now Rock’s eye bulged and bugged out. We screamed obscenities. Two hundred and seventy pounds of six foot, five inch tall muscle came thundering our way. He screamed at Shawn as he wiped the mess from his face. Shawn, 6’4” and weighing in at a small 135 pounds, reached for Rock, scrambling to get at him from behind the rail. Rock wrapped a large hand around Shawn’s throat; Shawn wrapped his own leg around a vertical rail to keep from being pulled away.

In mere seconds four security guards and roughly fifty fans were all on top of Shawn. They were Pushing, pulling, screaming. I’d gotten shoved slightly to the side of Shawn. I heard Mick Foley’s entrance music and couldn’t help but look away from the turmoil. The chubby wrestler bounded down the ramp and head for the ring. He stopped suddenly and appeared confused, as though no one had told him this would be going on. If the words, “This wasn’t in the script” weren’t written on his face, his expression couldn’t be more clear.

Just as The Rock had grabbed Shawn’s throat, someone from behind hollered, “Hit him with this chair, dude!” A metal folding chair waved in the air as two of the guards wrapped their arms underneath Shawn’s armpits, preventing him from swinging. (Who exactly are they protecting here? The Rock from someone half his size?) Somebody had one of Shawn’s legs while his other leg remained tightly wrapped around the rail. He held on with everything he had and turned to the pair of arms waving the chair. “You hit him!” Shawn hollered. He was a bit tied up at the moment, as you can see.
Of course you must also realize that all this happened within a matter of mere seconds and as quickly as The Rock grabbed Shawn’s throat and Shawn’s arms were taken hostage by the guards, he’d freed an arm and swung at Rock, hard.

I heard a flat popping noise as I watched my boyfriend connect his hard, skinny fist with that of the cheekbone belonging to The Rock, a professional wrestler! Rock was immediately pulled off and placed in the corner furthest from us. He slumped in the corner and glared in our direction. I jumped on the rail and screamed at him, when suddenly, Steve Austin’s entrance music blared over the speakers and all was forgotten by the crowd. Thousands of people screamed and cheered as Shawn walked away from our spot.

Now, all night long we’d been fighting elbows and shoulders. You didn’t have an inch to yourself and everywhere was the scent of beer and body odor. All night long we fought against strangers to keep our coveted spot and were happily bruised for it. Imagine a huge concert where one dude tries to protect his five foot tall girl from being pushed out of the mosh pit. This is the sort of event where you better not even head to the restroom. Just hold it and forget it. Otherwise, you’ll never find your way back to your original spot, and you’ll probably not see your friends till the end of the show. However, as Shawn turned and started to walk away in a fit of rage, a very strange event had occurred. A path had opened for him as if Moses himself had parted the sea of people.
Shawn walked in the direction of the exit and the hole had closed up. He turned, started back toward me, and ironically, the sea of people had parted again, allowing at least one foot of space on either side of Shawn. The sea of humanity began to pat Shawn on the back as he passed saying such things, “You got some big ones!” and the like.

Shawn’s new twenty-five dollar t-shirt was torn at the collar and he bore bright red scratches across his neck, nearly bleeding, but not quite yet. Howard Finkle, the WWF announcer was seated next to the bell ringer. Shawn trumped right on through the sea of people and tapped Finkle right on top of his bald head. Shawn screamed over the noise that he’s just bought shirt and Rock ripped it and he wanted another! He paid twenty-five dollars for this shirt and he wanted another! For a moment, I thought Finkle might wet himself. How often does the announcer get tapped on his bald head from a deranged fan?

An assistant, or stage hand or some kind of gopher was summoned from backstage and came running with a generic WWF Attitude t-shirt in hand. Shawn screamed about how he’d bought this shirt, tugging at his Austin Shirt and “you bring me this shirt.” “No!” he hollered. “I didn’t pay twenty-five dollars for that dinky shirt! I bought this one!” The young man retreated and returned with a shirt identical to the one Shawn was wearing. I seriously cannot recall a time when I’ve seen Shawn’s face so red or the vein on his forehead so close to bursting.

Obviously, we’d missed most of the match. At the end of the match and as planned, I assume, Austin had beaten Rock. As Austin delivered several of his signature move, The Stunner, to Rock, we howled. It was as though Austin was delivering real blows to The Rock just for us.
Austin straddled the ropes, poked his fists into the air (as he always did to get the crowd riled up) and looked right at us. Of course, not that I think about it, today, he was probably thinking something along the lines of, “Stupid punk kids!”

We were elated either way. Austin had beaten Rock and that’s all that mattered at the time. Everything seemed right in the world. Or at least our little worlds. On our way out of the arena, people hollered and shouted at Shawn, they honked their car horns. “Mini-Stonecold clocked The Rock!” they’d shout.

Shawn’s brother had wanted to leave right away to beat the traffic but it’s something I often regret. Perhaps if we’d hung around we could’ve gotten backstage? Maybe get some free stuff as an apology and hung out with the Stars? I often wonder “what if?”