Wrestling’s Absurd Beauty: A Nostalgic Tribute to the Ring 

There are a handful of memories etched into my bones so deeply that I can still smell the room. One of them is watching Bruno Sammartino wrestle Pedro Morales, sitting in front of the TV while my father sat beside me in his chair—stoic, but engaged. Pedro was Puerto Rican, of course he was my dad’s favorite. He was on TV, representing us in a way that felt rare and important. That mattered. We cheered loud.

That was the beginning.

I saw the golden era of grappling. Ivan Putski flexing those ridiculous muscles. Don Muraco, thick and dangerous. The Wild Samoans. Bob Backlund with that Boy Scout vibe. Wrestling felt like a blue-collar opera, and I was hooked.

Then came the boom.

The Rock ‘n’ Wrestling era hit like a leg drop from the top rope. Roddy Piper was king of the mic, the ultimate instigator. Hulk Hogan became a living cartoon character, a hero to some, a heel to me (long before the nWo ever got to him). Big John Studd lumbered like a kaiju. The Junkyard Dog had the best headbutt in the game. And Ricky “The Dragon” Steamboat? He moved like no one else. Fluid. Sharp. I believed he was a martial artist. Not just a wrestler—an artist.

By then, my dad was gone. But wrestling stuck around. It filled some of that space. It kept evolving. And weirdly—so did I.

By the time the Attitude Era arrived, I was older, angrier, and wrestling was right there with me. Flipping the bird. Bleeding from the head. Women like Trish Stratus, Tori, and Stacy weren’t just eye candy—they were starting to carve a path, take bumps, tell stories. It was raw (literally), and realer than real, even when it was fake. Austin and The Rock weren’t just characters—they were moments in time. Living memes before memes existed.

I remember chanting “ECW! ECW!” at a busted TV screen, as if I could will the tables to break harder. I watched WCW soar and then crash, like a shooting star covered in glitter and bad booking. The nWo was cool until it wasn’t. Goldberg was unstoppable—until he wasn’t. And Vince McMahon stood there, grinning, holding his competition’s corpse.

Then came Ruthless Aggression. Cena. Batista. Orton. Edge in full Rated-R sleaze mode. The women’s division continued to grow, and the storytelling matured. And somehow, I was still here. Still watching.

I lived through NXT when it was the black-and-gold underdog. Through Punk’s pipe bomb. Through Daniel Bryan’s “Yes!” movement. Through Roman Reigns’ long road from suffering succotash to Tribal Chief. Through Seth Rollins, the visionary workhorse. And now Cody—our Cody—trying to finish his father’s story. It’s Shakespeare in spandex. It’s anime in real time. It’s… the silliest ballet in the world.

And I love it.

Wrestling is absurd. Always has been. Oiled-up giants pretending to beat the hell out of each other while wearing glitter and yelling about respect or revenge. But it’s also theater, myth, and emotion. When it’s done right, it hits something primal. A chant. A gasp. A cheer. A tear. It’s a soap opera for people who never admit they needed one.

More than anything, wrestling has been there—a constant companion through every phase of my life. Childhood awe. Teenage angst. Adult nostalgia. It connected me to my dad when he was alive, and somehow still does even now that he’s gone. And it connects me to something deep inside myself—that inner kid who just wanted to cheer, boo, and believe in something just unreal enough to feel true.

So yeah. Thank you, wrestling.

For the highs. The lows. The botches and the five-star clinics. For Dusty promos and Flair chops. For Elimination Chambers and Royal Rumbles. For broken tables and broken kayfabe. For the Undertaker’s gong, for “If ya smell…,” and for “It’s true, it’s damn true.”

Thank you for being the dumbest, greatest, loudest, weirdest form of storytelling I’ve ever known.

Thank you for being mine.

I hope pops is cheering for Damien Priest alongside me.