Some people don’t just pass through our lives. They live in them.
Terry Bollea — Hulk Hogan — was one of those people. He didn’t just wrestle. He didn’t just perform. He became part of the cultural bloodstream. If you grew up in the ‘80s or ‘90s, you didn’t just know Hulk Hogan. You felt Hulk Hogan.
On July 24, 2025, Hogan died of a heart attack at 71. He’d been quietly battling leukemia, living with atrial fibrillation, and carrying the wreckage of a body that gave everything to entertain the world. We didn’t know how much he’d suffered. Maybe he didn’t want us to. Because Hogan never wanted us to see him break.
And that’s what made him larger than life.
He wasn’t just an entertainer. He was a Saturday-morning ritual. A pay-per-view event you watched with your whole family. A hero in yellow and red who made the whole world feel a little louder.
As a boy, I remember sprinting around the house in yellow Speedos pretending to be the Hulkster — flexing the “muscles” I didn’t have with my spaghetti arms, cupping my ear to imaginary crowds that were apparently going wild in the lounge room. I even ripped one of Mum’s old T-shirts once in a “Hulkmania” moment that got me grounded faster than you can say leg drop. But in my head? I was unstoppable. I was 6 feet tall, 300 pounds of pure charisma. That’s what Hulk Hogan did. He made all of us — the shy, the small, the awkward — feel like giants.
The entrance music. The ripped shirt. The cupped ear to an arena that shook like a living thing. The leg drop that wasn’t just a finishing move — it was punctuation. A full stop at the end of a story we’d been living for weeks. He didn’t just win matches. He made us believe. And he gave us more than a show.
Hogan was resilience personified. He taught us that strength could be loud and proud but also playful. He showed us that even when life knocks you down, you can rip off your metaphorical shirt, get back in the ring, and make the crowd — or yourself — believe again.
Even in reinvention — when the all-American hero turned heel and led the New World Order — he taught us another lesson: even legends can change. And change doesn’t erase who you were. That’s why this hurts so much.
Losing Hogan isn’t just losing a wrestler. It’s losing a piece of our collective childhood — the smell of cereal on a Saturday morning, the sound of a packed arena on TV, the thrill of believing in heroes.
But there’s humour in grief too. Because in remembering him, I remember me — that scrawny kid in yellow Speedos, practising the big boot on my unsuspecting little brother, screaming “WHATCHA GONNA DO, BROTHER?!” with all the confidence my tiny lungs could manage. And maybe that’s what Hogan really gave us. Permission to be bold. Permission to feel big. Permission to be more than we thought we could be.
Hulk Hogan’s legacy isn’t just in the matches. It’s in how he made us feel — like the world could be conquered with heart, grit, and a bit of theatre.
So here’s to you, brother. Thank you for the roars, the leg drops, the myth, and the magic.
Now I want to hear from you:
Because Hogan might be gone from the ring — but his echo? It’ll rattle the rafters for generations.
Author: Master Yoda
For: Langtrees.com
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“I can't believe he's gone, it feels like a part of my childhood has vanished into thin air.”
“This brought back so many memories. The music, the ripped shirts, the energy. He was a superhero in real life. Rest in power, Hulk.”
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