This past Sunday, we said goodbye to another one of the great pillars of professional wrestling history.
Nick Bockwinkel, known as “smartest wrestler alive,” was memorialized by WWE on the following Monday during WWE Raw. The video package is a touching tribute to arguably one of the greatest pro wrestlers of all-time. He was a noted champion, a great wrestler, threw some of the most believable worker punches probably ever, and could scare you half to death without ever raising his voice. He was cool, he was athletic, he was smart, and he was everything I love in a heel.
In the Uproxx article about his passing, Brandon Stroud referred to him as ‘the thinking man’s Ric Flair,’ but for me… he’s all of those things most die-hard Flair fans feel when they see the Nature Boy. And I am going to be super honest and admit that I’m kind of not okay.
Way back in the way back, before we even had an entire section of Uproxx devoted entirely to pro wrestling, we did a re-list of ‘The 50 Most Beautiful People In Sports Entertainment History.’ A number of mine didn’t end up ranking, including his, but the paragraph I wrote about Nick Bockwinkel is still one of the best descriptions I can give:
Bockwinkel looks like the type you would see in an Otto Preminger film noir; the overtly charismatic scoundrel who refers to ladies as ‘skirts’ and ‘dames,’ drinks too much, and lives too fast. A man who — for his calm demeanor, perfectly coiffed hair, and sly flirtations — has something sinister lurking beneath. Something much more dangerous. The kind of man who would sweep a small-town girl with big city dreams off of her feet with promises of stardom, only to leave her with a failed cabaret act and a terrible opium addiction. Looking at him, you get the sense that he’d smell like cigars, scotch older than you are, with just a whiff of latent daddy issues. All of that is infinitely more thrilling than any bad-boy wrestler trope today
While we were supposed to be writing purely about their physical appearance, that pretty much cuts to the heart of the reason I love Bockwinkel. His presence was so commanding, and his character — not his gimmick, but the very essence of who he was as a pro wrestler — was evident in everything he did. Even when he was rapping (rapping!) during the ridiculous, but amazing WrestleRock Rumble, he’s so smooth that he ends up being the best one. The best one!
https://youtu.be/y1CRatikdWg
During that WrestleRock ’86 event, Bockwinkel wrestled fellow legend Stan Hansen. The match itself sends me into honest-to-god giggle fits, but I love the promo afterwards. Again, it’s a little ridiculous, and both men were already past what you could call their prime, but man… Bock says he wants Hansen again, and that he’ll be waiting by his phone, and “waiting by the door for the telegram.” Even for then, that’s a pretty dated concept, but that’s just him, old school to the core. He so succinctly conveyed an era — his era — of pro wrestling that all I can do when I watch his matches or promos is sit with my head in my chin, all heart-eyed with dreamy sighs that occasionally turn into gleeful laughter when he really lays it into his opponents. Rudos forever, man.
I’m still stuck in the mindset of not really recognizing the fact that I’ll never get to meet him, or interview him. I’m sure once it kicks in, I’m going to be so much sadder than I am now, though it honestly feels like if I just keep writing and saying nice things, I can stave off that sadness for just a little longer. As much as he’s so inextricably woven into the fabric of pro wrestling history, so does he exist at the very core of my love for pro wrestling.
But this is what happens when you love something from such an easily discernible era. It’s all long gone by the time you get around to it, and those names and faces who made it happen can’t stick around forever. This year has seen so much loss, and the sad truth is that when we get older, so do our heroes. We were shocked by the death of Perro Aguayo, Jr. Losing Dusty Rhodes broke a piece of my heart in a way I didn’t even know it could be broken. We mourned again for Roddy Piper. Wrestling as we know it wouldn’t exist without Verne Gagne, and he’s gone, too. Then suddenly it’s 10 years later and everyone is revisiting the heartbreak of losing Eddie Guerrero. With all due respect to the actual wonderful things that have happened this year, as far as this stuff goes, 2015 has f*cking sucked.
We get so frustrated and angry at what wrestling is, and so disappointed that it’s not as good as it can be. It betrays the love we give it, again and again in so many different ways that, at times, it doesn’t even seem worth it to stick around. But as much as our hearts have hurt over wrestling in 2015, Dusty and Piper and Bock and everyone we’ve lost, they’re the reason we gave our heart to pro wrestling in the first place. These titans who will never be matched, they’re always with us. And it’s these people who remind us why dumb old wrestling is still the best thing in the whole goddamn world.
