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“I’m going to have to fine you a thousand dollars,” Vince said sternly.

Fair enough. I’d missed a show (that I wasn’t even in the top two matches of) in exchange for being at my boy’s first birthday party. Seemed like a good trade-off and I was willing to accept my penance.

“All right, boss, I’ll pay the fine, but you might as well make it two thousand and keep the extra grand for next year, because no matter what I’ll be at his second party too.”

I was, and I’ve never missed any of my three children’s birthday parties yet.

(Another Quick Author’s Aside: I never did get fined for missing the Springfield show. And three weeks later when I got my check, I saw that I’d been paid $1,500 for the gig. I’m not sure what happened, but I suspect Vince respected my resolve and decided to forget about the fine and pay me anyway. Either that or somebody fucked up and I’ll get a bill as soon as they read this.)

We went back to Japan in February 2005 and taped Raw in Tokyo for the first time ever. The Japanese crowds were unique in that they made minimal noise when watching the matches (their reaction to my match with The Rock three years earlier being a notable exception), which was a direct contrast to the raucous North American crowds the WWE was used to.

But the apparent passiveness of the fans caused great concern to the WWE production team. Both Kevin Dunn and Vince asked me why the fans were so silent, and I responded, “Japanese fans appreciate the actual art form of wrestling—they study the matches instead of just watching them. They pay more attention to the nuances of the performance rather than just scream and yell.”

Both said they understood, but the silence was madness to them and they ended up adding canned crowd noise to the show, which in my opinion diminished the novel Tokyo atmosphere.

Because we were taping both shows in Tokyo, it was a rare tour that boasted both the Raw and Smackdown! rosters. The whole crew had gone out to Roppongi the night before and gotten totally shmammered. I don’t remember much about the whole evening, except for the fact that I spent a good portion of it trying to convince The Undertaker to let me kiss him on the lips. There was no way the Fonz was going to allow that to happen, but he did let me kiss him on the cheek, so it wasn’t a total wash.

I woke up the next day feeling like Mel Gibson’s publicist, and when I found out I had Benoit in a Submission match, I threw up. I’m not sure if it was alcohol or dread that caused it—but I’m guessing it was a combination of the two.

Working with Chris was always a battle, but combined with the submission rules and the feeling that my head was going to burst open and spew out a geyser of Crown Royal, you can see I had a frickin’ nuclear war on my hands.

We spent the majority of the contest exchanging a plethora of holds, and I almost submitted a few times—to vomit. I eventually tapped out to the Crippler Crossface and we shook hands to the delight of the Japanese fans, impressed with our work and our sportsmanship.

I was just impressed I hadn’t shit myself.

Afterwards, the legendary Dr. Death, Steve Williams (who was on tour with All-in Japan), congratulated us on the match and said it was the best he’d seen in years. WWE Magazine even voted it the Match of the Month.

Match of the Month? Hell, if they knew how hungover I was, I would’ve received Match of the Decade.

I’ve always been of the belief that the story leading to the match is more important than the match itself. It can make the difference between the ultimate battle of good and evil that entices millions to pay money to see it or just two half-naked guys slathered in oil rolling around on a mat in their underwear (I think I saw that once in the movie Rambone).

That adage was even more relevant when it came to WrestleMania, and I’d always had a hand in crafting interesting stories building to my Mania matches. Whether it was the basic story of froot guy vs. stuffed shirt