The Immortal Paradox: Hulk Hogan and the Legacy That Built—and Haunted—Professional Wrestling

Terry Bollea is gone.

And I didn’t expect to feel this. Not really. Not this gut-punch of memory, of nostalgia, of complicated reverence.

To say Hulk Hogan was a part of my childhood would be underselling it. He was childhood. He was the action figure I refused to leave behind. He was the reason I tuned in with wide eyes and a heart full of belief. Long before I understood the business, the politics, the layers of reality beneath the ring, Hogan was a superhero in flesh. A man who lifted an entire industry onto his oiled shoulders, even as the weight of his own contradictions pulled him down.

Before Hulk Hogan, professional wrestling was a spectacle confined to smoky arenas, regional broadcasts, and the back pages of sports tabloids. After Hogan, it was mainstream. It was pop culture. It was America. The red and yellow. The flex. The crowd erupting when “Real American” hit. I can still feel it.

Before Hulk Hogan, wrestling was something you stumbled across. After Hulk Hogan, it was something you couldn’t avoid. He turned the squared circle into a main event. He turned Vince McMahon’s vision into reality, bringing professional wrestling into living rooms, classrooms, playgrounds, and barbershops. Hulkamania wasn’t a gimmick—it was a movement. He told kids to say their prayers and eat their vitamins. He pointed to the heavens and flexed toward the future. And the world watched.

But greatness in wrestling is never a straight line—it’s a story of turns, reinventions, and shadows.

But like so many icons, the glow faded. I remember growing older and feeling the shift. The mystique started to crack. The way the spotlight seemed reluctant to shift. And still… he stayed relevant. In 1996, he spray-painted a black beard onto his legacy and gave birth to “Hollywood” Hogan. It wasn’t just a character shift—it was a cultural moment. He flipped the industry on its head, formed the New World Order, and helped WCW beat WWE for 83 straight weeks. For a second time, he didn’t just ride the wave of wrestling’s evolution—he was the wave. He flipped the script. And I had no choice but to respect it.

It made me realize something: this man, love him or hate him, had a sixth sense for moments. For timing. For transformation. And that’s what made him legendary.

But it wasn’t all glory. It never is. The scandals, the disappointments, the words that never should’ve been said—those parts hurt. Because when someone helped shape your childhood, their fall from grace feels personal. We don’t get to rewrite the ugly chapters. But we also shouldn’t erase the impact of the good ones.

Without Hogan, wrestling isn’t what it is today. Full stop.

No WrestleMania. No Rock. No Cena. No boom. No billion-dollar sports-entertainment empire.

Terry Bollea is gone, and with him, a piece of my youth and a piece of the entertainment world. But Hulk Hogan—the myth, the legacy, the immortal paradox—will live forever. He was the first to make me believe in larger-than-life. And maybe, in some way, he still does. Terry Bollea is gone.

But Hulk Hogan? He’s immortal.

Not because he asked us to believe in him, but because—once upon a time—we did.

So to the man who ran wild through decades of wrestling history and the imaginations of millions…

Let me ask you one last time:

"What’cha gonna do when the 24-inch pythons and the Hulkamaniacs run wild on you?"