First of all, you don’t see its shadow. You listen to him.
A church bell rings. A choir starts singing. There is lightning and thunder. Then, you hear a funeral march. The field grows dark and the wind howls, and suddenly, a figure emerges from the purple fog. The whites of his eyes shine in the dark. It feels supernatural, like the end of times, like you’re about to meet your maker.
Mark “The Undertaker” Calaway’s iconic World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) entrance is scary enough to strike fear in the heart of anyone, even the league’s mightiest wrestlers. The Undertaker was an intimidating opponent, coming in at 6’10” and 309 pounds with a nearly 75% win rate. He was one of the longest tenured wrestlers in WWE and was inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame shortly after his retirement. He is also a big part of why WWE’s annual WrestleMania event – ​​the fortieth event of which took place last weekend – is so popular today, thanks to his (once undefeated) streak of 21 consecutive victories. The series continues to serve as a major draw for wrestling fans due to its unique and virtually unbeatable “Deadman” gimmick.
You can only imagine the impact it had on 9 year old me and my 7 year old brother. He’s a legend in homes across the country – but especially mine. He graced the flatscreen TV in our living room during wrestling season, becoming a looming presence that haunted our childhoods. Our dad would often use his image (like an evil Santa Claus) to make my brother and I behave, rolling our eyes in the back of our heads, wiggling his fingers and muttering about the Undertaker under his breath. They muttered something scary.
Often, in the half-light of the television, my brother and I would wrestle each other – but (get this) these matches were sanctioned by our parents. He thought that if we have to fight then why not produce it? Free entertainment! Plus, we needed an outlet for all the pent-up aggression, a place to vent all the little injustices of the week. The place was just an air mattress and sofa that we turned into a makeshift wrestling ring.
As ridiculous as it probably seemed to our parents, the stakes of these matches were incredibly high. Under the shade of the undertaker, we crouched and slowly circled each other, stepping into the deflated mattress. We would look at each other sideways and try to size each other up. How much have I really made you angry this week? Where are your injuries from the playground? Our little house in Texas became a saloon in the Old West. You can practically hear the guitars and whistles, practically see the tumbleweeds rolling by.
Then, the slightest movement would send the eight lean and heavy limbs into a frenzy. I didn’t know (and still don’t know) any of the rules or holds that dictate a wrestling match and I could never do a Tombstone Piledriver on my brother, although I might have been confused enough to try it once. Was trying to point. We’ll just attack each other. No strategy. Without hesitation. no fears.
Often I would win with my secret weapon. My brother’s soft and cuddly belly was the cause of his downfall every time. Beneath my fingers, he would melt into a pool of laughter. Like athletes in a WWE match, we will never cause serious injury to each other. It was all part of a demonstration.
Sometimes, I think of the days when my brother and I would fight openly, when my biggest fear was a man in his forties showing off on national television wearing a black spandex unitard. Because at that time, we did not yet know that the real shadow of death was looming over our family.
Our mother died about four months before Undertaker won the last match of “The Streak”. That’s when we all learned what real fear is. The Undertaker’s signature purple was nothing compared to the flashing red and blue police lights. The whites of her eyes were nothing compared to how sad our tile floor looked the morning our father told us she had died. “The Deadman” seemed less serious about death.
This loss hardened my brother and father. As I watched my brother grow, the softness of his belly grew stronger, his smile faded and his wonderful bouts of laughter became fewer and farther between. My father would watch WWE matches alone in his dark bedroom with a Bud Light Lime instead of in the living room.
Despite everything, we stuck to each other. It took – and still takes – a lot of strength to tear down the walls we’ve built around ourselves, but we work on it every day. As we have grown up, my brother and I have learned to resolve our differences without getting physical. And yet, we accidentally fall into old habits. On the surface it may seem like aggression when I bother my brother or when he confronts me. But I think fighting can also be a form of intimacy.
We didn’t know it then, but our father was teaching us a valuable lesson that we were too young to understand. During those Saturday nights in the shadow of the Undertaker, beneath the man I once believed to be death itself, wrestling my brother became an excuse to hold him tight – and somehow, miraculously, we forgot that we Were afraid.
