#emotionally devastating me just in time to go look at some mosquitoes

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every february-into-march i get more insane about hadestown and right now it's hitting SO hard

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The Undertaker and The Undeniable Truth

The crowd booed loudly as The Undertaker walked down the entrance ramp of the Spectrum in Philadelphia in 1992. Led in the ring by the equally pale and slightly more unnerving Paul Bearer, Undertaker set his sights for the ring, ominously sizing up his opponent. I felt the warmth of the stadium dissipate, giving way to a cold that ran up my spine, or so I had thought I’d felt. I sat with my eyes wide open under the bent brim of my Seattle Mariners hat, mesmerized by this gigantic and, apparently undead, man walk slowly and methodically towards the ring. I had no idea what “kayfabe” meant as a squirmy seven year old. I just knew this thing was the scariest thing I’d ever seen, and that my attention was completely focused on him. I was so entranced in his entrance, I couldn’t hear the roar of the crowd as his opponent, Jake “the Snake” Roberts, entered the ring to begin their match. I was captivated by the energy, the pageantry, the excitement of a WWE (then WWF) live event, and The Undertaker captured all of that by himself.

That day at the Spectrum was a wonderful touchstone in a lifelong fanaticism with professional wrestling. My brothers and I spent hours acting out all of our favorite promos from the Ultimate Warrior, belting out the theme songs of our favorite Superstars, and became deeply distressed at any sign of Hulk Hogan losing the upper hand. Saturday mornings were sacred, the squared circle our church, and the Superstars our Biblical figures, with their storylines as hallowed as the stories of Moses and Abraham. I can’t think of my childhood without the thought of the WWE in my mind. My brothers and I agonized over which Superstar would win the Royal Rumble and who, if anyone, would beat the Undertaker at Wrestlemania. WWE had grown with us, with Hulk Hogan and Randy Savage giving way to Bret Hart and Shawn Michaels, then giving way to The Rock and Stone Cold Steve Austin. Each year that passed brought a new storyline to become deeply involved with, new drama to be captivated by, a new Wrestlemania to desperately wait for.

We couldn’t have known as children the impact The Undertaker would have on professional wrestling and a generation of children, including the wide eyed, brown haired little boy in the nosebleed section of the Spectrum that day in 1992. His storied career has spanned more than three decades, the majority of that time as “The Deadman”. We watched him slay giants, be buried alive, become one of the darkest villains in the history of sports entertainment, transform into the American Bad Ass, and then take his rightful throne as the real “Mr. Wrestlemania” (sorry, Shawn Michaels, but you know it’s true). Last night, after his loss to Roman Reigns at Wrestlemania 33, the Deadman placed the pieces that made him iconic in the middle of the ring and symbolically brought an end to his historic career.

Life is funny sometimes. Some days bring reminders of good moments in your life. A cigarette smell brings you right back to the afternoon you spent swimming in your Uncle Lon’s swimming pool, while he enjoyed his Marlboro Lights and black coffee on the covered porch of his Levittown home. A crack of a baseball bat connecting with a 98 mile an hour pitch sends you to the hazy summer afternoon spent in the blue seats of Veterans Stadium with your brothers, dad, and favorite perpetual teenager, Uncle Rick. Waves crashing against the sandy beach transports you to the summer of your first vacation crush when you went to Cape May Courthouse with your mom and brothers, and the impending heartbreak that comes with saying goodbye when the trip is over. While her name has been eternally lost in translation between your short and long term memories, you can see her brown hair blowing in the wind as you threw sea shells into the ocean with her, and you can hear her laugh at the terrible joke you told her seconds before she kissed you. Wonderful, amazing moments that push the course of your life in new, exciting directions, and these life receipts, whether tangible or connected to senses, connect you directly to your past.

Other days are reminders of mortality and the unstoppable aging process that precedes our inevitable fate. Those reminders perpetually yield an absolute sadness, a melancholy that lingers over my daily routine like an obnoxious itch on your leg after a mosquito bite. It’s like a bitter aftertaste from a terrible drink your brother swore was delicious, and you knew better than to trust him on his decision making, but you drank it anyway, and no amount of water will dilute its foul remnants. No one and no actual thing prepares you for each loss you experience in life, nor do they buffer you from the successive losses of your childhood that accompany each passing year. There’s no guide to prepare for the first major loss in your life, as Uncle Lon slips away from cancer. The life lessons and tough skin Uncle Lon’s passing brought most certainly did not prepare you for the loss of Uncle Rick, also from cancer. Although you were older when Uncle Rick got sick, and you “convinced” yourself you could handle it because you knew it was coming, that the inevitability of his passing was sealed in his book of life, you’d literally give anything to sit and enjoy a Burger King cheeseburger and talk Phillies with him for another five minutes. You lose close friends by way of accident, and each loss never gets easier, as if I’m expecting the sudden, unexpected, and emotionally devastating passing of Scott Palek to somehow cushion me from the air constricting, guttural reaction I experience when learning Jeremy Fischer passed. Forty pounds and twice a day anxiety medicine told me that I wasn’t cushioned at all. They all become immediate reminders that the only constant in life is death, and, to quote John Mayer, “we’re never going to stop this train.”

Wrestlemania 33 brought one more reminder of this nonstop train. I remember speaking to my wife a few days before Wrestlemania 33, and saying, “I can’t believe Taker’s wrestling again. I don’t know how much more his body can take. He’s getting older, he’s probably past time to hang it up.” I said these things, not at all expecting him to do just that. I had the same thoughts about Goldberg, Sting, and other titans of professional wrestling coming back for one more round. Like Goldberg and Sting, The Undertaker owes us no more than he’s already given us. He’s entertained me, my brothers, and legions of fans across decades, putting his body and safety on the line in death defying, jaw dropping, heart pounding fashions, each and every time. I, like so many others, plead for more entertainment, more excitement, more action, but in reality, we’re pleading for a return to times long past. We project these fleeting wishes onto The Undertaker, a man who represents the last tangible piece of those times. The Undertaker hasn’t transitioned into that next plane of existence, like Robin Williams, The Ultimate Warrior, Chris Farley, Ryan Dunn, and countless other people, places, and things that no longer exist but in memory. The idea of him, however, his aura, and what he represents, now joins that plane in my mind. The Undertaker was the last tangible piece of my childhood that existed. I could watch his matches and remember that day vividly in the Spectrum, and become lost again as a child, discussing with my brothers whether or not was really dead and what was really in that urn. As I turn the calendar of another year of life, I find myself a year older, and another year as a father. I’ve shifted the life roles from child to father, and my father has become the wise grandfather, imparting wisdom and guidance on days where I can’t imagine my children acting any worse, and him gently reminding me that days like today don’t come back, and the better way to view life was to just breath and enjoy the ride. I snap back into the moment, looking towards two sets of little eyes above chocolate covered faces, and then repeating the Aladdin song to hear the sweet singing voice of my oldest serenade me one more time.

The seven year old boy is crying quietly, arms draped on the railing of the Spectrum, pulling his bent brimmed Seattle Mariners hat over his face to hide the tears, as another one of his heroes, and another, perhaps final, piece of his childhood makes the inevitable transition from present to past, short term to long term memory, taking its place with Uncle Lon, Uncle Rick, lost loves at the beach, and infinite life receipts, to peek out from time to time to remind us of who we are, the roads we’ve traveled, and where we’re headed next.

But I’m sitting here, typing through tears, saying “…maybe one more match for us? Please?”

Thank you for everything, Mark Calaway. You have made my life better and enjoyable in measurable ways I’m not sure I could accurately describe, and I thank you for every single moment of joy, excitement, and entertainment you’ve provided me.