Column: Why Hulk Hogan Still Matters (Even If He Shouldn’t)

By Antionette Kerr

Growing up in the 1980s was like living in a Technicolor tornado—loud, chaotic, and unforgettable. We drank Tang like it was orange juice, trusted commercials, and danced to MC Hammer like it was gospel. Saturday mornings were sacred, reserved for cartoons, sugary cereal, and wrestling.

Photo: Jashaunn Arnett, Grandfather H.M. Arnett and Antionette Kerr giving a thumbs up to life as we knew it.

And in that glorious, neon-soaked mess of a decade, one man loomed larger than life: Hulk Hogan.

You didn’t just watch Hulk Hogan. You believed in Hulk Hogan. The red, yellow and blond. The flex. The bandana. The leg drop. The way he’d cup his hand to his ear like he was pulling energy straight from every living-room couch in America.

For me, Hulk Hogan wasn’t just entertainment. He was a bridge—built on body slams and elbow drops—between me and my cousin Jashaunn.

Jashaunn had sickle cell anemia. If you know, you know. It’s a brutal disease—especially back then, when treatments were limited and understanding even more so. But J was tough in motion. Quick to laugh. Quicker to flex. And let’s be clear—Jashaunn was mean muggin’ before it even had a name. He’d strike a pose like a champ even when his body was hurting. He loved hard, and he lived for pro wrestling.

More specifically: for The Hulkster.

We’d sit cross-legged on the floor. He held the remote like a sacred artifact. He’d narrate the moves before they happened, mimic the voices of the announcers, and shout “HULKAMANIA!” like he was rallying the living room crowd.

So I stayed. I watched for him—because Hulk made us feel fearless..

When we weren’t glued to wrestling, we were trying to beat Super Mario Bros.—because let’s face it, there were only so many things you could do when you were stuck inside with sickle cell and a clunky old TV. We’d cheer when Mario stomped a Goomba and groan when we missed a jump. But just like wrestling, it was always about the comeback. You fall in a pit, you try again. You lose a life, you keep going.

We were 19 when Jashaunn died. He left behind a lengthy note for him mom and our family. He knew time was short, and somehow he still found the words to say goodbye.

But what stays with me more than anything is the sound of those rides in his car, the wrestling theme songs on blast, and his nonstop commentary—like we were ringside. He had a fascination with wrestling that felt like faith. And in a world where his own body betrayed him, he tried to teach me to drive a stick shift and looked to larger-than-life heroes who refused to back down.

Even as a kid, I knew Hogan wasn’t perfect. And let’s be honest: the man behind the mustache has had some ugly chapters. But J believed in Hulk Hogan. The character. The fighter. The good guy who, despite everything, always got back up.

When you’re a kid growing up with a chronic illness, joy is not guaranteed. And for a boy like J—living with a disease that didn’t let him forget it—wrestling gave him a script where the good guy won. Even if it was fake, it felt real.