Undisputed_ How to Become the World Champion in 1,372 Easy Steps - Chris Jericho [57]
There was a distinct crack as the aluminum connected with the leather, and the ball flew above the crowd and over the fence that separated the band parking lot from the fan parking lot.
“It’s a home run! A fucking home run,” Zakk yelled with glee as he pumped his fists and stomped around. “I beat you, Jeri—”
“ZAAAAKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!”
He was interrupted by a screech that could’ve only come from a demon dwelling in the tortured depths of hell itself. When I saw the source of the scream, I realized that my initial assessment wasn’t too far off, because storming at us from out of nowhere was Sharon Osbourne.
And she was furious.
“What the fuck are you two idiots doing? You can’t be playing baseball in the fucking parking lot! Do you know what kind of a lawsuit we would have if that baseball lands on somebody’s head?!? We could lose the whole festival, you stupid twats!”
I’d never been called a twat before.
Sharon shoved her face only inches from Zakk’s and scolded him like he was a juvenile delinquent. “Zakk, how can you be so stupid? You should know better!”
Then she turned her death gaze on me.
“And who the fuck are you?”
I wasn’t quite sure who the fuck I was and kept staring at the ground, more terrified of her than any other female I’d encountered in my entire life (my wife and mom included). After a few tongue-tied terrifying seconds, I mumbled that I was nobody.
“You most certainly are a nobody, you wanker! Now get back on that bus before I throw you both out of here!”
“Yes, Mrs. Osbourne,” we said in unison and scampered back to the safety of the bus with our tails between our legs. Once the door slid shut, we burst out laughing like a couple of kids who had been caught stealing crabapples from the neighbor’s yard.
The word about Fozzy had made its way to Europe and we were offered a slot at the 2002 Bang Your Head Festival in Balingen, Germany. It’s hard to understand unless you’ve been there, but in Europe heavy metal is not just a style of music, it’s a way of life: long hair, leather jackets, leather pants all day, every day. It’s so popular that during the summer there are dozens of festivals all over the continent featuring bands that are huge in Europe but haven’t had a hit in the United States in years. We were still wearing wigs and playing mostly covers, but once again the powers that be figured the concept would go over huge and booked us on a bill that included Slayer, Rob Halford, Nightwish, and Overkill.
The headliners on the night we played were Saxon, a band from England who’d had minor success in the States fifteen years prior. But in Germany they were bigger than ever and 25,000 fans were abuzz because “Saxon is playing Crusader, complete with the entire castle stage set!” They said it the same way a movie buff might proclaim, “Spielberg is making another Jaws movie!”
When we got to the huge open field that was serving as the concert grounds, we found out that Fozzy was billed third from the top behind Saxon and Nightwish, not bad for a cover band that had only played a handful of gigs—a fact that wasn’t lost on some of our fellow musicians.
Gamma Ray, one of the biggest metal bands in Germany, was slotted to play right before us. Their leader was vocalist/guitarist Kai Hansen, who had formed the band after he left Helloween. I’d heard through the grapevine that Kai was furious that they were on before Fozzy, and since I’d met him in Hamburg ten years earlier, I decided to go try and smooth over the situation.
“Hey Kai, I’m Chris Jericho. We met at your house in Hamburg years ago.”
His eyes burned through me as if I was Michael Weikath and he said, “I know who you are.”
I didn’t dig his attitude, but I held my tongue.
“Kai, in my opinion, Fozzy should totally go on before Gamma Ray. If I could change it I would, but I have nothing to do with the order of the bands.” I meant every word. “I just want