No matter what mannerisms I “borrowed,” I knew that I would never throw a punch like Terry’s, which was truly a thing of beauty. Many people, including me, considered the Funker’s big left hand to be the nicest punch in the business. A few minutes into the big match, Terry took me into the corner, and I saw him rear back with the big left. This was going to be great. Here it comes. Thwack. I felt like I did when I was eight and my mother came clean about Santa Claus. I had just learned the hidden “secret” of the great Funk left hand. It was so simple — I’d been a fool for not knowing the whole time. Terry Funk had just punched me as hard as he could in the forehead.
"No wonder that punch looks so good," I later whined to Terry. "You hit me as hard as you could."
"Oh, Cactus Jack," Terry mumbled and laughed in his kindly old Uncle Terry way, which made it impossible to be angry with him, "all this time, you thought that I was just really good."
—Mick Foley, Have a Nice Day! A Tale of Blood and Sweatsocks