In-brain background music: “Real American” (Rick Derringer)
Can check: Extra-strength NyQuil
Free legal advice: Inadvisable baseball card purchases through a sham LLC are not grounds for divorce. (I have no idea if that’s true.)
. . .
Hulk Hogan died today. To begin, let’s separate a couple of things.
There was Terry Bollea, a guy from Tampa. Anyone who has something bad to say about today’s news is talking about Bollea. None of it is very interesting. Bollea was complicated, at best. Frequently full of shit. Get over it: the world is full of complicated people who are full of shit.
The world is not, though, full of Hulk Hogans. There was only one.
In the grand scheme of things, few things are as inconsequential as professional wrestling. But really feeling something, deep down inside — that’s the most consequential thing that life can offer. And nobody could make you feel something like Hulk Hogan. Ninety-nine percent of the time, you knew how his matches were going to end: adversity, determination, triumph, repeat. It never mattered. As a babyface, you lived and died with every punch. As a villain, you wanted to run him over with an 18-wheeler. But by God, you felt something every time.
Plenty of people have spent the past 40 years shitting on Hogan’s in-ring athleticism — which, on most nights, was forgettable at best. That’s missing the point. The point is that Hulk Hogan made you care.
The first time I can remember watching Hogan wrestle was February 1988, when he fought Andre the Giant on a Friday night on NBC. I was about to turn 7 years old. When the Million Dollar Man’s chicanery cheated Hogan out of the world championship, I gnashed my teeth and denounced our toothless justice system. Fifteen years later, with Hogan on the verge of upsetting the Rock at WrestleMania X8 in a genuinely amazing match, I was out of my seat, shouting at the TV when he kicked out of the Rock Bottom. Hogan was supposed to be the villain in that match, and the crowd wouldn’t go for it: they cheered their asses off for him and booed the Rock (the industry’s biggest star at that moment) into the ground.
Choreographed? Predetermined outcomes? I could give two shits. Hulk Hogan made you give a damn. And he made you believe that if you gave a damn too, you could do anything, just like him.
Even after Hogan retired from in-ring work, Hulkamania remained timeless. If you need proof of that, consider that my kids are gonna be devastated — and they never saw him work a single match. They love watching his old matches on YouTube. (I’m sure they would recommend his Saturdays Night’s Main Event match against the Big Boss Man in 1989.) When my younger boy plays WWE 2K25, he alternates between Hogan and Cody Rhodes (who is basically 2025’s Hulk Hogan). I’ve never thought to ask him why.
Inevitably, critics will roast Hogan for his myriad poor decisions over the past 20 years. Not me. Remember: there’s Terry Bollea, and then there’s Hulk Hogan.
Maybe that’s sticking my head in the sand. So be it. I choose to keep believing that giving a shit matters.
. . .