Mick Foley
The Hardcore Martyr with a Sock in His Hand
Three faces, one body, a sock full of hope.
I didn’t choose wrestling — wrestling chose me, and it carved its story into my bones. I wore a mask, lived in sewers, and kissed goats for the love of this sport. I’ve had teeth knocked loose, ribs broken, and more stitches than a tailor. But I still smile. I still tell the tale. And I still carry Mr. Socko, because even in the darkest cell, there’s room for a little laughter.
What I'm Into: Hell in a Cell, Mr. Socko, writing the next chapter, barbed wire, the Undertaker’s silence
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