I Grew Up Watching a Lie in Tights
RIP Hulk Hogan (But Not You, Terry Bollea)
Author’s Note:
I said I’d be posting just once a week this summer, but this is the exception. After losing Malcolm-Jamal Warner and Ozzy Osbourne earlier this week, Hulk Hogan’s death hit me in a strange, nostalgic way. They say death comes in threes, and for me, this trio brought up more than just pop culture icons.
I’m really thinking about my dad, whose death anniversary is coming up this weekend. Wrestling was one of the things we shared, and watching Hogan flex on TV with him remains a connection to my childhood. So while this essay carries its share of snark, it’s also a nod to those moments and the complicated ways we remember people - both in the ring and out of it.
Back to the regular summer schedule next week.
Terry Bollea was hard to like the more you learned about him.
But Hulk Hogan? That guy was an icon.
If you were a kid in the '80s, you knew him, even if you didn’t follow wrestling. He was a walking catchphrase in yellow tights. He ripped shirts, flexed muscles, and preached a gospel of vitamins, prayers, and American exceptionalism. He was Saturday-morning TV distilled into a sweaty, screaming blond mustache.
And now he’s dead. Or rather, Terry Bollea is.
Here’s the thing: the majority of folks aren’t mourning Terry Bollea.
Not really. Not even the people who should be mourning him: his fans, his political ilk, the cable news anchors clinging to their nostalgia like it’s a MyPillow. They’re not talking about the man, Terry. They’re eulogizing the character, Hulk. (Also, the myth. And the merchandise.)
In wrestling, the line between person and persona isn’t just blurry, it’s basically nonexistent. Kayfabe wasn’t a costume for Hulk Hogan; it was his whole damned identity. Bollea became Hogan and stayed that way long after it stopped being a performance. And in death, even the tributes are keeping the act alive. Donald Trump isn’t sending his condolences to the Bollea family. Mike Johnson has probably never heard of the man Terry.
I’m not conflicted about this - there’s no inner ethical debate crashing down and burning inside over how to feel. I’ve said before that I can separate art from artist. This isn’t even that; it’s something weirder. This is about watching the death of a character who never actually lived, and trying to square it with the real man we did get to know over time - with secretly recorded racist diatribes and prison phone calls to his incarcerated kid.
And that man? He sucked.
The racism, the lawsuits, the terminal ego, the political nonsense… it’s a long list. The glimpses we got of Terry Bollea outside the ring were less “misunderstood public figure” and more “how is this guy still getting work?” Every time the mask slipped, the person underneath looked worse. His last appearance on WWE was met with a stadium of boos.
So no, many of us aren’t not mourning Terry. What we’re collectively doing right now - on social media, in obituaries, in thinkpieces like this - is mourning the character. We’re mourning the version of Hulk Hogan who made us feel invincible in the 1980s. We’re remembering the guy who body-slammed Andre the Giant and leg dropped the “bad guys” to fight for what’s right, fight for his life.
Nostalgia is a hell of a drug. Losing someone like this messes with your wiring, even when you know better. It’s like someone reached into the attic of your childhood and torched one of the boxes.
But let’s be real: what died today wasn’t just a man, it was a myth too stubborn to fade quietly. Hulk Hogan - the “Immortal One,” the human cartoon - still lives on in memes, merchandise, and half-baked nostalgia. But Terry Bollea? The man behind the mustache? He’s gone.
And maybe that’s the legacy: not a person, but a persona. One that outlasted its moment, got repackaged a hundred times, and finally tapped out for good.
Rest in peace, Hulk Hogan.
And Terry? I hope wherever you are, it’s got mirrors. Lots of ’em.