The Best in the World by Chris Jericho

Author:Chris Jericho
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-09-22T16:00:00+00:00

Wallass and me crossing Abbey Road. Note that I’m wearing a suit and have bare feet just like Paul. All I needed was a cigarette between my fingers and a Volkswagen Beetle with the license plate LMW-28IF parked behind me.

I continued my magical mystery tour a few days later before our show at the Echo Arena in Liverpool, when Marty and I visited a tourist attraction called The Beatles Experience. It boasted such gems as the original Sgt. Pepper uniforms and the reassembled remnants of the actual Cavern Club. There was so much history there that I was shocked when Marty told me it was already six P.M. I was in the main event that night (there it is again), so I wasn’t late, but the doors had already opened and I had to walk across to the arena in plain sight of the thousands of wrestling fans who were now roaming the grounds. With no security, this could have turned into a real mob scene (or even worse, Victoria, British Columbia, Part 2—Electric Boogaloo). I needed a plan.

I told Marty to beeline it to the arena and not slow down no matter what. I would follow behind him with my head down, staring at his feet to guide me the whole way. We left the safety of The Beatles Experience into the walking live like Rick and Glen but without the benefit of zombie entrails hanging around our necks to camouflage ourselves. I stared down at Marty’s sneakers as he led the way and as a result saw all types of shoes out of my peripheral vision. Cowboy boots, Doc Martens, loafers, dress shoes, high heels, wooden clogs (WTF?). If the WWE ever needs to do a survey on what kind of footwear their fanbase wears, I’m bouty bouty and rowdy rowdy.

It was funny how many hundreds of people were walking past me with no idea that the guy they’d be booing the shit out of only a few hours later was right in their midst. With all the concerts I’d been to over the years, I wondered if I’d ever walked past Bruce Dickinson or Mick Jagger in the parking lot before a show. It reminded me of the time I cruised past a kid wearing a Y2J shirt outside of the arena in Memphis and yelled, “Nice shirt, dude!” The kid barely glanced up and missed his chance forever. Too bad, junior.

Our luck held as we weaved through the oblivious crowd and made it to the side door of the arena. Marty went inside as I lingered behind reveling in the fact that I’d hidden in plain sight and fooled everyone.

“Sorry, suckers,” I mumbled, and strolled like a boss through the sanctuary of the backstage door, ready to—

“Can I see your pass?” the security guard asked with arms crossed.

Pass? I vaguely remembered getting some sort of laminate on the first day of the tour but hadn’t seen it since. After assuring the guard (who looked old

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