Say Your Prayers, Eat Your Vitamins, and Watch Hulk Hogan Ride Off Into The Sunset, Brother

On January 23, 1984, a 4-year-old boy padded downstairs in his pajamas to say goodnight to his Daddy. He stopped, mid-step, transfixed by the television. There, on the screen, was a man who looked larger than life— blonde, mustachioed, and holding a golden belt high above his head. The boy’s Daddy patted the couch and said, “That’s Hulk Hogan and he just won the World Title. This is called wrestling.” And just like that, the boy was hooked.

I became a Hulkamaniac before I could spell “Hulkamania.” Together, Hulk Hogan and his Hulkamaniacs slammed Andre the Giant, toppled the Million Dollar Man, and rescued America from the nefarious Sergeant Slaughter. We slayed giants, vanquished villains, and flexed our way through adversity. Hogan made me feel like I could do anything. My hero made me feel like a hero.

My mother used to say I “ate, slept, and breathed wrestling.” She wasn’t wrong. My childhood bedroom looked like a Hulk Hogan gift shop exploded in it—shirts, coloring books, bed sheets, curtains, action figures in every conceivable pose, and a championship belt with a button that swapped out the faceplate for Hogan’s own mug. I had the Hulk Hogan workout set, several wrestling video tapes, video games, and even the two wrestling albums that were produced in the 1980s.

Thanks to my dad’s job at Timmer’s Chevrolet— a proud sponsor of Superstars of Wrestling with Joe Pedicino and Bonny Blackstone—I got to go backstage at the Omni before some of the wrestling shows. I met Hulk Hogan a few times and he was even larger in person.

I was at The Fox Theatre for WrestleMania III and V, and at the Omni for WrestleMania IV. And even to this day I can go on and on with an endless stream of wrestling facts and trivia. Ask anyone who’s ever worked with me, especially around Wrestlemania time.

But people age. Kids grow up. Childhood dreams fade. Hogan left the WWF, and I drifted toward other interests. My Hulkamania shirt got sewn into a quilt. The action figures went into a box in the attic. Life moved on.

Until college.

Hulk Hogan returned to the WWF.

He was going to fight The Rock. At WrestleMania. On my birthday. Suddenly, I was eight years old again, glued to the TV, ready to tear my shirt in half (but, you know, laundry isn’t cheap in college.)

For 40 years, I watched Hulk Hogan bounce back from defeat. I watched him, in the direst of straits, “hulk up” and come back stronger than ever. If you grew up in the ‘80s or ‘90s, you know what I mean. Hogan taught us that no matter how hopeless things looked, you could always dig deep, say your prayers, eat your vitamins, and make a comeback.

Of course, real life is messier than a wrestling storyline. There were scandals—steroids, racism, the reality show that revealed a redneck lifestyle best left on the cutting room floor. I never confused Terry Bollea, the man, with Hulk Hogan, the character. I didn’t idealize the person. But the hero he brought to life? That guy was my childhood north star.

Today, Terry Bollea is gone. But Hulk Hogan—the larger-than-life hero who taught a generation of kids to believe in themselves, to fight the good fight, to never give up— lives on. The world may have lost a man, but the legend, the hope, the “Hulkamania” spirit? That’s immortal.

Before I end this column, I’ve just got one thing to say…

What’cha gonna do, when the 24-inch pythons and Hulkamania run wild in Heaven, Brother!