Just watched an amazing doc on MLB TV on Mark “The Bird” Fidrych. One of the greatest all-time “characters” in the history of baseball. One thing I bet you didn’t […]
Just watched an amazing doc on MLB TV on Mark “The Bird” Fidrych. One of the greatest all-time “characters” in the history of baseball. One thing I bet you didn’t know about me—I actually had the honor and privilege of interviewing “The Bird” back in around 1981 when he was pitching for the Evansville Triplets. It was something I’ll never forget—what a great, great memory. Dead at the age of 54 due to a freak accident—just heartbreaking.
When I first committed about a week ago to blogging daily, I told you if I was going to take the time to do this, then it was going to come from my heart. Whether I was happy, sad—you were going to get the real me—nothing was going to be kept from you.
Depression has reared its ugly head again, and I’ve been trying to fight my way through it the last couple of days. At the core, I think I know where it all stems from, and quite honestly—I just don’t know how to handle it at times. It’s a dilemma that I’ve been dealing with for some time now, and . . . I don’t know . . . I just don’t see it going away. Let me just try to put my raw emotions on the page right here. The enjoyment I had for professional wrestling ended for me before I even left the WWE—I would say sometime around mid-1999. By the time I set foot into a WCW locker room for the very first time—my passion for the business was gone. It wasn’t there at WCW, and for the most part . . . it wasn’t there at TNA. Unfortunately, my curse was that I was successful in wrestling and it became a part of my identity. I could never get away from it no matter how hard I tried. People always wanted to talk to me about wrestling, wrestling, wrestling, which forced me to rely on it to pay my bills. Hence the depression. I genuinely feel bad because I don’t enjoy wrestling any more. I genuinely feel bad because I haven’t truly enjoyed it for 17 years now—that is the God honest truth.
Ever since the very first time I ever stumbled across him on WNBC back in about 1983 . . . I knew that I wanted to do what Howard Stern did. His show, to this day, is my greatest form of entertainment, and he no doubt is both a mentor and a role model even though I’ve never even met the man. So, as I got older, I started realizing that I did not have much time to follow my dream. That was the reason I decided to get into podcasting a bit over two years ago. I love podcasting. I love MY BRAND. I love doing a show every day. I love interviewing people. I love my banter with Jeff. I love talking with guys like Disco, Ed and Konnan. I love talking about my love for boobies. I love ripping my own family to shreds. I love Mark & Mark. I love all of that, but the truth is—-there is no longer love left in my body for professional wrestling . But, being that’s how people know me, and that’s what people expect of me, I’m forced to talk about it day in, and day out and that just gets overwhelming at times.
And, let me make this clear. Wrestling is just about the only thing I’ve ever lost passion for. When something grabs my attention . . .I’m loyal for LIFE. Baseball, the Giants, Tiny Tim, the Beatles, Steve Perry, MY WIFE, KISS, Rocky Movies, Vinyl, Rihanna, the Honeymooners, I have not lost any passion for any of those things over the years . . . only wrestling. And, the reason why is simple—wrestling isn’t wrestling any more. I started understanding that way back in 1999 when politics turned my passion into a job . . . just a job. Today, wrestling isn’t wrestling . . . it’s not even close. And, quite frankly—I’m sorry of being sorry that I’m not a fan of it any more. Why should I apologize? It’s not my fault . . . it’s just not the same.
Every day I get asked, “If you don’t like wrestling, then why do you talk about it? Why do you even watch it?” The answer is simple—because people EXPECT me to and because it pays my bills.
That’s where the crux of my depression comes in. I want to get away from it . . . but . . . It just won’t let me.