Over the late 1980s and early 1990s, during the legendary on-and-off love-hate relationship between “The Immortal” Hulk Hogan or the “Macho Man” Randy Savage, you were either a Hulkamaniac or a fan of the Macho Madness.
It was a mutually exclusive thing. There was practically no overlap between the fan bases of either WWE Superstar.
Either you bought into the wholesome “train, say your prayers, eat your vitamins” Real American persona of the Hulkster, or you were a devotee of the diametrically-opposed measured intensity and madness of the Macho Man. It was the Atomic Legdrop versus the Big Elbow, “Watcha gonna do when Hulkamania runs wild on you?” versus “Oh yeeeeahhh!!! Dig it!!!”
I hated Hulk Hogan. He was the predictable, too-white-bread-to-be-real, ultimate boy scout – the golden boy who never could seem to lose.
The Macho Man was just infinitesimally so much cooler, with his awesomer-than-awesome shades, crazy bushwhackin’ beard, sequined robes, and over-the-top flamboyant persona. When the Mega-Powers exploded in 1989, I was heartbroken that Hulk Hogan ended the year-long World Championship reign of Randy Savage.
Randy Savage never came out on top. He always came up with the short end of the stick when he faced down the invincible Hulk Hogan. It was frustrating to see Randy Savage claw and chop and axhandle his way to near-victory each time, only to have Hogan do his trademark “Hulk up” after absorbing the Macho Man’s patented Big Elbow, hit the Big Boot, drop the leg, and cover him for the 1-2-3.
He was the ultimate loser, always one step from snapping, never able to overcome the one big barrier of the Hulkster, never able to truly step out of his shadow. He was always the flawed anti-hero, doomed to fall, but never relenting in his emotion or intensity.
That, I think, is why I loved him so much, and why it was so gratifying to watch him lose his retirement match against the Ultimate Warrior at WrestleMania VII, but win ultimate redemption in what I think remains to be wrestling’s single greatest soap opera moment – his emotional reunion with his one true love, Miss Elizabeth, as he finally rode off into the sunset with the one thing that mattered most to him.
I genuinely cried when I watched this moment the first time, and I still get all damp twenty years later.
The Macho Man was one of a kind – the most flamboyant, craziest, most intense character the wrestling world has ever seen, and it tears me up that he passed away at the age of 58 in a heart-attack-induced car accident just a few days ago, just one year after he finally found peace and married his latest wife.
I am so glad that the WWE paid him a video tribute on the May 23rd edition of Raw. It was a bit of a shock, knowing how many bridges he had burned, and how he remains persona non grata in an age when even the bitterest prodigal sons such as Bret “Hitman” Hart came back home for one last blaze of glory in the WWE.
Rest in peace, Macho Man. The madness will never die.
We are all Savages.
