Once upon a time, I was a pro wrestling fanatic

Tonight's Royal Rumble could reignite the urge to paint my face and go a little nuts.

The year was 199—who the heck knows. I was crying on my aunt and uncle’s staircase, and few people in the room understood why. The Ultimate Warrior had just been defeated in a big match, and it was done with cheating methods by Sgt. Slaughter and his group of pals. Try saying that to an older group of clear-thinking adults, and they may ask you where your medication was.

The harsh reality was that my favorite wrestler had just lost the match of his life and it was bullshit (aka staged), so I tried to find the darkest spot in the house to sulk. Without even grabbing the jar full of stale yet still edible candy, I tried to pull myself together.

The Ultimate Warrior, aka Jim Hellwig, was literally the craziest looking, sounding, and acting wrestler when I got into the sport. Any young wrestling addict latched onto that maniac persona. A guy who jaunted to the ring in a full sprint, shuffling his feet feverishly even once in the ring--like a guy trying to hold a big pee in at the playground. His post-fight rambles made little sense and he couldn’t even execute a proper clothesline at times, but he was exactly what pro wrestling aspired to be: wild, nutty fun.