I’m sitting at a high top table at a beach side bar in Clearwater, Florida. I have a 16oz pilsner, the special of the house still its frosty can, waiting to be poured into its adjoining glass. After ordering our pre-Monday night football meal, my buddy John had set out down Mandalay Ave. to check out the gift shop. In the quiet of the mostly empty bar, I take stock of how fortunate I am to experience all that I have in the past 4 days.
The trip started on Thursday when I flew into Atlanta, met John and went to the Patriots/Falcons Thursday Night game. The Patriots throttled Atlanta for their 6th win in a row and had us all believing in rookie Mac Jones. Post-game I wrote the Notebook on my phone with one hand while holding an Ultimate sub from Publix (not a sponsor then, not a sponsor now) in the other, while John navigated the highways of south Georgia after midnight. (There’s a country song in there somewhere that we were too tired to write. Or we ran out of sandwiches.) We arose early the next morning to continue out trek south, where we stopped off to play golf at TPC Sawgrass’ Dye’s Valley course with the great Todd Hickey. After a Saturday of rest and college football on the tube, we traveled back up to Northeast Florida to see the 49ers wallop the hapless Jacksonville Jaguars. Then to cap off what John and I have since called that “Southeastern Road Trip” the grand finale: Tom Brady/Rob Gronkowski and the Buccaneers hosting the New York Giants in Tampa.
As I’m sitting on a stool at Hogan’s Hangout, I’m thinking back to the dominance of the Patriots’ defense Thursday night, the 65-yard wedge shot I holed out on #8 on Friday at Sawgrass and that tonight I’m going to watch Brady and Gronk one more time. How could life get any better?
I had barely taken a first sip from my Hogan’s Hangout Pilsner when John sauntered back into the bar looking like the cat who had eaten the canary. (Or so I am lead to imagine what that would resemble.) Barely able to contain his glee for the information that he had obtained during his sojourn down the block, John coolly informed me that the proprietor of the very bar that we sat in and the Beach Shop that he had detoured to, was going to be on the very premises shortly: Hulk Hogan was going to be at his store very soon.
My jaw hit the table, I was going to meet my childhood hero. I was never into Batman, or Superman, who needed capes to fight crime when you could just rip off your shirt and body slam Andre the Giant. This was Hulk Hogan, this was the person who along with my wonderful parents taught me to train, say my prayers, take my vitamins and believe in myself.
This was who led to my only kindergarten meltdown, because when I had to pick a superlative to add to my name when it was my turn to be leader for the day, I didn’t want to pick “super” or “cool” or “great”, Mrs. Meldrum wouldn’t let me use “Hulk-a-maniac” as an identifier. (It probably didn’t work with the whole parts of speech lesson she was subtly teaching us, but 1. My name is already a superlative 2. I still identify as a Hulk-A-Maniac. Also funny is that in 1992, I was told I was wrong, now I’m pretty sure I could choose Hulk-A-Mania as my religious belief and my teacher couldn’t argue with me for a second.)
Christmas of 1990 was my Ralphie Parker-A Christmas Story year. Just as Ralphie would have given anything for a Daisy Red Ryder BB-Gun, I was in a similar mania for a Hulk Hogan Wrestling Buddy from Tonka. This was a pillow/stuffed animal that you could really wrestle. The commercial was incredible, I mean the kids had ring ropes in their bed for matches! (I broached the subject of adding turnbuckles and ropes to my bed with my mom but was quickly rebuffed that my new bunk beds would have to do. (I immediately took to scheming of how to land the Macho Man elbow off the top bunk. There wasn’t a lot of head clearance for which to leap, but I made it work!) The kicker was that as a pre-schooler that year, Mom took me to K-Mart (not a sponsor) in Skowhegan to have my school picture taken. There, in the glass enclosure at the front of the store, (which structurally is still there in the Tractor Supply (not a sponsor) that now inhabits the space) floor to ceiling, piled higher than I could imagine was Wrestling Buddies by Tonka. They looked amazing, there was the Million Dollar Man Ted DiBiase, the Macho King Randy Savage, the Ultimate Warrior and of course, the Immortal Hulk Hogan.
I made both subtle hints and outright pleas to my Mom during the photo shoot, or as subtle as a newly minted 5-year old can be. In the end my pleas were heard by Santa (big man came through!) Christmas morning, I unwrapped the Hulk. My mind was blown and further deteriorated later that afternoon when my brother Regan gave me the Macho King Randy Savage. Two wrestling buddies was too grand to fathom. (For the record, I still have both Buddies and actually for the last month Miss Elizabeth has been converting a guest room into a home office, so the Buddies have been residing in our bedroom. Not on the bed mind you, though one night Miss Elizabeth did come home to find the Mega Powers tucked in and laying on our pillows.)
And now here I am, November 22, 2021 about to be in the same place at the same time as my childhood idol. I remember nothing about our meal except that I wanted it to be over. John told me that the mozzarella sticks were good and the flatbread pizza was a 7.1, but you could have told that both were made with cauliflower and for once I wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. We hastily paid the check and tried to act casual as we meandered down the Avenue and into Hulk Hogan’s Beach Shop. There in the back of the store, as John had said, was Hulk Hogan. Mustachioed, tanned, bandannaed, larger than life, the Hulkster.
In the midst of a private autograph signing, John and I watched as he signed enough belts to cover the entire floor of the store. And stacks upon stacks of posters and pictures. I felt like a little kid peering through a knot hole in the fence of Shibe Park just trying to get a glimpse of Babe Ruth.
The signing finished, John and I approached the legend, John like they’d been friends for a decade, me like a 3-year old to meet Santa for the first time. Hulk couldn’t have been more friendly or welcoming (he called me Brother, so I want the record to show that Hulk and I are brothers, we both acknowledge this fact.) With nobody else there except store staff and the 3 of us, we had a relaxed chat with no rush. He signed pictures for us and thanks to John’s uncanny ability to capture the moment, we have a million pictures of the occasion. He knew what a life moment this was, for me to meet my childhood hero.
I was floating in the passenger seat as we traveled over the Courtney Campbell Causeway back to Tampa for the game. It was an embarrassment of riches to have the experience that I had that night and then to go watch Tom Brady play football. How do you top that?
The response to my Facebook post was overwhelming, people from all eras of my life reached out to congratulate me because they remembered me wearing a Hulk Hogan knit sweater to school or bringing my Hulk action figure to show and tell. They were genuinely happy for me.
In the almost 4 years since that chance meeting I have devoured all the old Hulkster content that is out there on Peacock, Youtube, etc. During work outs I’m way more likely to watch Summerslam ’88 than I am some new popular show of the moment. Severance? Never seen it, but have you watched the 1991 Royal Rumble lately? White Lotus? Haven’t started it, but I’ve seen the first 13 Wrestlemanias in order this calendar year.
That’s why this past Thursday hit me so hard. There had been rumors for a few months that Hulk’s health wasn’t good but this was the guy who always kicked out, Hulked up and came out on top. If Andre the Giant couldn’t put the Hulk down for the count, nothing could! When the news was indeed confirmed, my phone was once again inundated with well wishes, co-workers hugged me in the hallway and people called just to check on me. I had a long talk with my buddy Mully, himself a huge Hulkamaniac, neither of us could fathom the news. Mully and I text each other in a sort of all-caps, long form, and to others these messages wouldn’t make sense but if you’ve ever seen a Hulk Hogan or Randy Savage promo before, you get it. We communicate through the imagery of earthquakes, 24” pythons, slamming big nasty giants, riding Harley’s and always sign off with a “SO WHATCHA GONNA DOOOOO!?!?”
When I met Hulk in Clearwater, he was wearing a shirt that says “I’m here for a good time, not a long time.” In 2021, it just felt like very appropriate Florida attire and I was reminded of the George Strait song of similar sentiment. But this week it feels all the more prophetic. Hulk was just 71 when he passed away, but boy did he provide so many of us with a whole lot of good times. Hulk Hogan was known as the Immortal Hulk Hogan, because the sentiment driven home by announcers like Gorilla Monsoon was that Hulkamania would live forever. We’ve lost a lot of legends from that era of wrestling, Andre the Giant, Randy Savage, Ultimate Warrior, Mr. Perfect, Big Bossman, Rick Rude and sadly many more. With more ways to find old content than ever, I feel pretty certain in saying:
Hulkamania will live forever.
