Reaching for the door as I walked into the bank today, out walked a woman in her mid 50s in an nWo shirt.
She gave me a look that said “keep walking young pup before I hit you over the head with a fire extinguisher.”
Who knows who this lady was, and why she was wearing a wrestling shirt that was once popular in 1996, and why she looked at me like she was ready to spray my face down with black paint, but the moment struck chords that I hadn’t felt since my youth.
Those were the days in which wrestling, power bombs and figure-four leg locks were king to me.
I was greeted with a long line at the bank, so instead of observing my fellow patrons as they impatiently waited to tell the person in front of them at the split of a second that the next teller was available, I had a chance to remember my childhood.
I remembered the dumpster match I had with my neighbor, where the loser had to order the next pay-per view. The no holds barred matches I had at the monkey bars in elementary school; then the night cap at home with my brother as our father filmed it.
I remembered the championship belts I made out of construction paper in art class. The action figures I wouldn’t stop buying, and my fascination with the Ultimate Warrior.
I definitely couldn’t forget the days when I randomly ripped off shirts like Hulk Hogan, and how my mom threatened to give me a beating like the Hulkster for doing so. Or how I made my father rent Wrestlemania VI from the old 20/20 on Sunset Blvd. at least 15 times.
There were also days that I had to put my parent’s to sleep so I could watch Saturday Night’s Main Event on NBC in a secluded corner, then get too scared to sleep after Paul Bearer and The Undertaker had one of their abnormal skits from the cemetery.
The nWo shirt spoke to me because that was the height – and decline – of my interest in wrestling.
After about 10 minutes of reflection, I was ready to put every worker in their in a cross-faced chicken wing if I had to wait any longer.