Forgiven: One Man's Journey from Self-Glorification to Sanctification (15 page)

— grab them. I realized that my chance of having a one-on-one with Vince that day was a million-to-one shot, but in my mind that didn’t matter. It was going to happen, I knew it in my heart . . . and it did.

The steroid symposium went off without a hitch. The wwf put on a very professional presentation, headed by McMahon and Dr. Mario DiPasquale, a licensed physician from Ontario, Canada. Dr. DiPasquale specialized in sports medicine and was hand-picked by Vince to set up and see through a drug testing program that McMahon himself would enforce. Was it a dog-and-pony show? Sure it was, but you had to give Vince and the wwf the benefit of the doubt. Vince admitted on various occasions that there was indeed a steroid problem in the wwf and that he was going to take responsibility for solving it. You had no reason to believe or not believe him, you just had to wait and see how it played out. I was there mainly to gather the facts for our listeners and readers, not to sway them in either direction. To ensure that I wouldn’t misquote anything that was said, I recorded the entire symposium on audiotape — a decision that would later pay huge dividends.

Oh, and just a
small
side note: that day, Steve Planamenta personally introduced me to Vince McMahon. Looking back now, 10 years later, it’s hysterical. I can remember how nervous I was. My mouth transformed into a giant cotton swab — it must have made for some interesting breath. I’m not going to kid you, I could barely talk to the guy. The one thing that stood out the most was his presence. From that first day, I could just feel Vince’s power. Everything and everybody changed the moment he walked into that room. By this point in my life, I’ve met many celebrities, but none of them carried themselves with the presence of Vince McMahon, not even my boyhood idol, Gene Simmons.

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Chapter 19

MY SHOWDOWN

WITH PHIL MUSHNICK

The day following the steroid symposium, it was business as usual at Will the Thrill’s Video, or so I thought. I arrived at work at around 10

a.m., ready to put in another 12-hour day. The routine was the same

— coffee from the bakery and the
New York Post
from the stationery store. I never really liked the guy who owned the stationery store. I think it was because he had a really bad wig. That, plus the fact that his wife was cheap. Man that gal would nickel-and-dime you to death. If you were a penny short, you weren’t getting the PayDay bar.

So anyway, I’m sitting behind the counter of my store digesting the sports section of the newspaper, when I come across Phil Mushnick’s column. I’d only gotten through a sentence or two before I couldn’t believe what I was reading.

Remember I told you earlier that Phil Mushnick was personally invited by Vince McMahon to attend the wwf steroid symposium, but for whatever reason, he passed? Well, here he was less than 24

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Vince Russo

hours later, in all his glory, reporting on the event as if he were front and center! I couldn’t believe it! This guy calls himself a journalist?

And now millions of people in New York were reading this as if Mushnick’s words were fact, not having a clue that the writer hadn’t even been in attendance. I was furious. How could Mushnick get away with this; he flat out “Johnny Cochraned” McMahon’s words, twisting them around in an effort to get
his
story across.

I immediately went to my jacket and pulled out the hand-held tape recorder I used to record the symposium a day earlier. Play, rewind, play, rewind. Everything Vince said, Mushnick had taken out of context. I finally saw — first-hand — how the media does it. I was embarrassed and ashamed at the same time. I had spent four years of my life studying to be a journalist, and now reality was smacking me across the face. It had nothing to do with knowledge, or education, all you had to do was bend the truth just a little to get your point across.

Be, as they say, sensational. And, this was no small-scale operation —

this was the
New York Post!

I felt I needed to do something, but what? Who was I? People were going to believe me over Phil Mushnick? I had to call somebody, and John Arezzi was my only choice. So I called John and lambasted him.

“How can you align yourself with a piece of !@#$% like Mushnick?” I screamed. “Did you read his column today? It was all !@#$%, every last word, and I have the tape to prove it!” John’s response? There wasn’t one. And even if he’d had a song to sing — my ears were set on mute. The story was now clear and I had the facts to back it up. A major smear campaign was in full-throttle, and showed no signs of letting up until Vince McMahon and the wwf were out of business. Man, was I furious at John! I can’t recall how the conversation ended, but knowing me and my Italian temper, I’m sure I hung up. As the hours passed, I just became more and more steamed while I waited on customers. Little did I know at the time that things were just beginning to simmer.

It was well into the afternoon when the smoke began to dissipate in my head. I had to put this behind me. Dwelling on it would only 100

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have made matters worse. All right, so I had made a bad decision.

Partnering with Arezzi didn’t turn out to be a Lucas-produced, Spielberg-directed project. So it was more like
Hell’s Gate
— so what?

It was over.

And then Arezzi walked in. The gall! The spaldings on this guy!

How dare he walk into my store, my place of business. What nerve, smoky-glass lenses and all.

“Are you !@#$% kidding me, or what?” I asked.

“Vince, we have to talk,” John said.

I knew what he wanted to talk about. I was dangerous to him and Mushnick now. Knowing what I knew, I could singlehandedly derail their whole plan. If only I’d known how. That was the problem — I just didn’t know where to go with this.

“Look, just let me make one phone call and you’ll understand all this,” said Arezzi.

Who is he going to call, I thought — his mother? But, you know what? I had to find out. This was the old watching-a-car-wreck theory — I didn’t want John near my phone, but on the other hand, I had to find out what he was up to.

“Use the phone,” I said. “Who are you going to call?”

“Just let me use it and you’ll find out,” he said as he walked around to my side of the counter, picked up the phone, and dialed.

“Hello. Yeah, hi, it’s me. Hold on — he’s right here.” Arezzi then handed me the phone and said, “Somebody wants to talk to you.” I took the phone cautiously.

“Hello.”

“Yeah, I hear you have a problem with me,” growled the voice on the other end.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“Phil Mushnick,” the voice answered.

Believe me, there was no hesitation on my part.

“Yeah, I’ve got a problem with you — you’re a !@#$% liar!” I screamed.

Silence on the other end.

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“I read your !@#$ column today — it’s all !@#$. You know it and I know it! I was there. I taped every word McMahon said. You twisted around every quote to make him look like a liar, and you, some kind of righteous hero. You’re full of !@#$, you piece of garbage!” I don’t even remember Mushnick’s comeback. I know he had one, but whatever it was it landed on Helen Keller ears. Within minutes, I’d hung up on him. I turned and faced Arezzi, John was as white as Casper . . . I didn’t need to say anything. Arezzi gathered his stuff from the office and left. I knew that it would be the last time I ever saw him.

The following day, Bob Raissman, a sports writer from the
New
York Daily News
, called me to get my side of the steroid symposium story, and to find out what had happened with Phil Mushnick. I explained everything, from Mushnick’s tainted story, to my audiotape with Vince’s real comments, to my phone conversation with Father Goose, yadda, yadda, yadda.

The following day, Raissman wrote a story in the
Daily News
outlining how Vince McMahon had “bought me out.” Yeah, Bobby, Vince McMahon is going to pay off Vince “Nobody” Russo in an effort to help clear his name. Yeah, and the
National Enquirer
really
does
have pictures of the alien that crashed in New Jersey. I would later find out that Mushnick and Raissman were good friends, with
The Post
getting an assist from
The News
. Journalism at its best.

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Chapter 20

GOING IT ON MY OWN

Looking back now, the situation was a joke. My plan was to use John Arezzi’s resources in order to establish myself in the wrestling business. But John’s connections did
zero
for me. The truth is, I made the biggest connection on my own — Steve Planamenta at the World Wrestling Federation, and he was my next call.

I was compelled to call Planamenta to confirm that there was indeed a smear campaign in place, a well-oiled machine led by both Arezzi and Mushnick. I wasn’t looking for anything — I just had to let someone know. I got Planamenta on the phone, filled him in on the last 24 hours — my thoughts concerning the symposium, Arezzi’s reaction to it and my phone call with Mushnick. Relaying that information on to Planamenta made me feel much better. Planamenta thanked me for the call, but just before hanging up he asked, “What about the radio show?”

Good question. In my fury I’d forgotten all about the show.

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Obviously, John and I weren’t going to do it together anymore, but John couldn’t afford to do it on his own and quite frankly I didn’t know whether I still wanted to do it. But remember, Will the Thrill’s was dying a slow death — I had to find another profession, and fast.

“The show? Quite frankly I hadn’t even thought about it,” I said to Planamenta.

“Well, look Vince, sit tight and I’ll call you right back — I have an idea.”

I hung up the phone, stumped. What could Planamenta possibly be talking about? I was both confused and excited. I was desperately looking for a break, and maybe this would be it!

Within minutes, Planamenta called back.

“Vince, I just spoke to my boss Basil DeVito and he suggested that you go on with the ‘Pro Wrestling Spotlight’ on your own — and we’ll pay for it.”

Wow! Talk about a break — this was the big daddy!

“What?” I answered.

“Do the show on your own — the wwf will pick up the tab,” he confirmed. “Go ahead — call the radio station before Arezzi beats you to the punch. Call me back after you talk to them.” Planamenta then hung up.

I stood in the office of my video store trying to believe what I had just heard. Nothing, and I mean
nothing
in life is this easy. There had to be a hitch, and I had to sit down for a few minutes to figure out what it was. Again, thinking with my head and not my heart, Steve Planamenta wasn’t just being Kris Kringle. He wasn’t just handing over the keys to the North Pole unless there was something in it for the wwf. And, there was — the opportunity to finally rid themselves of a thorn in their side by the name of John Arezzi. Now, don’t get me wrong, at his level John didn’t make much noise. But he made enough, and if the wwf could rid themselves of an enemy — then off with his head. The truth was Steve Planamenta didn’t care about Vince Russo, he was only using him. So they pay for the show this week — then what? Do I get cut off? I mean, who am I to the World 104

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Wrestling Federation? I’ll tell you who: just another mark trying to get into the business. This was strictly business, folks, and the business world is ruthless. It doesn’t care about you or your family, it only cares about its gain. I was a pawn in Planamenta’s game and I knew it. But what was my alternative?

Knowing the facts, I still had no choice, so I called the radio station and prepared to let the chips fall where they may. Unfortunately, they fell smack on the ground, because Arezzi had already beaten me to the punch. While I was talking to Planamenta, John was weaving his web of innocence to wevd. Of course, John painted a much different picture, making me out to look like the bad guy while painting himself as the righteous hero trying to take down the corrupt business owner. I couldn’t talk sense into the station manager. If John was good at anything — it was working people. The unknowing station manager bought his entire story hook, line and sinker and I was back at square one.

But remember, when you’re back at square one, there’s only one place to turn — within yourself.

Any wrestling fan who knows my history knows where I went from here. But, tell me, isn’t there something amazing here? The situation Planamenta presented was my golden opportunity to get into the World Wrestling Federation. He’d laid the yellow brick road right before my feet. But it didn’t happen. A huge opportunity was shut down with a resounding thud. Nine times out of ten, this would have been the end of the road . . . but not for me.

As the fairy tale continued, it took a detour and I found myself employed by the wwf after all. Think about how many times that happens.

Think about how many people get not one, but two opportunities. When something is not meant to be, that simply doesn’t happen. By my example, it is Saran Wrap clear that God himself had planned this for me. It was decided before I even had any say in it. That’s why you can never force God’s hand. You can’t push for circumstances that you want, because it simply isn’t up to you. It’s up to God, and it happens on his clock. All you can do is pray that he shows you the road that was intended for you.

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• • •

Last night was the Academy Awards, and I sit here first thing in the morning at my store, behind my computer and
totally
disgusted.

Man, at my age I’m starting to feel like that grumpy old man Dana Carvey used to portray on
Saturday Night Live
.