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.
