I’ve been an Undertaker fan since I was ten years old. I suppose that’s a common story. Many of us saw him for the first time at that age, when he towered over the heads of nearly everyone in the company, accompanied by a mugging Paul Bearer, rolling back his eyes like a zombie in heat.
No one pretends that the Undertaker was an elegant wrestler. He could walk the ropes and pull off the whole zombie thing, but he was creaky and imperfect and imprecise. It took years for him to build up this sort of cool nonchalance, this sort of image that made questioning his skills kind of a moot point. The Undertaker was just The Undertaker: like a pillar or a supporting wall, he was always there if you were a wrestling fan of a certain age, always solidly available. Performance over athleticism was his game. For spectacle he was at the top of his game.