A Lion's Tale_ Around the World in Spandex - Chris Jericho [162]
Had he called me back anytime before the Goldberg angle was kiboshed, I would’ve signed. But the moment I found out that the angle had been shit-canned, I wasn’t interested in being a part of WCW no mo’. Of course the day I found the angle had been dropped like a baby was the day Eric showed up with a contract for me to sign. He took it out of his little knapsack and told me to sign it on the spot. I hemmed and hawed and told him I needed a lawyer to look it over first. Jimmy Smits always said to do that on L.A. Law and if you can’t trust Jim Smits, who can you trust?
Once I made up my mind not to sign the deal, I called Vince Russo. I told him that I wanted out and he suggested a meeting with Vince McMahon himself. So he made the arrangements for me to fly to Connecticut for a top secret meeting at Vince’s house.
In the weeks leading up to the meeting, I avoided Bischoff like he had leprosy...or was a cruiserweight. If he was walking down the hall, I’d duck, dip, dive, and dodge into a nearby dressing room. He wasn’t stupid and I’m sure he must’ve suspected that something was amiss. Finally he caught up with me in the United Center in Chicago and the first words out of his mouth were, “Have you signed that contract yet?”
“Well, my lawyer still hasn’t—”
He interrupted me saying, “Get it back from your lawyer and get it signed for next week.”
He was on to me and the jig was up.
The next day, I went to the airport and picked up my ticket to La Guardia. I was surprised that it wasn’t first-class, but that was wishful thinking on my part. When I landed, McMahon’s limo driver was waiting for me with “Robinson” written on a placard, the secret code name that Russo had given me to ward off any curious fans.
Why couldn’t I have been Mr. Pink?
We drove through the dense woods of Connecticut, finally arriving at Vince’s mansion. I’d chosen my clothes carefully, knowing Vince’s propensity for big guys. I wore a tight black shirt that showed off my arms and a pair of hiking boots to make me taller. Before I rang the doorbell, I did a few isometrics to make the veins in my arms pop out.
My heart was pounding when the door was opened by Vince’s son. “Hey Chris, I’m Shane McMahon, come on in,” he said with a big grin.
(Marking Out Author’s Note: The following memories of Vince’s house may be correct or they may not. I was so nervous that I don’t really remember for sure what I saw, so cut me some slack, junior!)
Shane led me through the kitchen into a sunken living room. I saw a big oil painting of Vince on the wall and there was a long oak table in the center. Seated at it was the inner circle of the WWF. Jim Ross, Vince Russo, Ed Ferrara, and Bruce Pritchard were all gathered around and sitting at the head of the table like Don Corleone was Vincent Kennedy McMahon himself.
They all stopped talking and turned their heads when I walked in. A big smile spread across Vince’s face as he stood up and said, “Chris, how are you doing, pal? Thank you so much for coming!”
Once again there wasn’t a hair out of place and the clothes were immaculate even inside the comfort of his own home. I noticed how much presence Vince had in comparison to Eric. It was like comparing a king to a court jester.
I was expecting a secret meeting between Vince, Russo, and myself, but instead I was sitting in the middle of a WWF booking meeting. In retrospect, I can see that Vince was giving me the huge sell to come work for him, because a wrestler from another company would never be allowed in such a sacred inner sanctum meeting now.
Vince and his boys took a break from the meeting and after ordering in lunch from a deli, Vince took me aside for a talk. When he asked me how things were going in WCW, partially out of nervousness and partially out of frustration,