Terry Funk, Middle Age, and Self Expression

It's 1989 and tell the world how you really feel.

I'm envious of Terry Funk. His profession allowed him the opportunity to go on television and be middle aged and crazy.

I watch him as he delivers his promos. He stands on the television set while Ross introduces him, and Funk pounds the backdrop with his palm.

"I'm middle aged and crazy!" he tells Jim Ross.

I watch his eyes. This man is an artist. There is something inside of him, something deep and something from the home that he conjures to express himself on cable television.

I'm envious. He gets to vomit his pain. He gets catharsis. He takes the emotion of his life and uses it to paint a picture of a pro wrestling heel.

His voice wilts.

His insanity is unwilling. It needs to come out. Mick Foley is somewhere at home taking notes.

I'm jealous. If only the opportunity to make money on self expression.

I would gladly piledrive Ric Flair through a table if it lead to my middle aged catharsis. Instead I write about another insane middle aged man's self expression as my own middle aged insanity bubbles unchecked.

I'm convinced that the foundation of a pro wrestling heel is the public expression of what is supposed to remain unsaid. If you break the covenant, and tell the world how you really feel, you will be resented. You cannot express your individuality without being hated by others who have sacrificed individualism for conformity.

It's not even the heel's fault. He has a mortgage. He has bills. God, responsibility! He has children.

If self expression costs your job, how can you risk it?

You have small eyes looking up at you. You are noble in your sacrifice. You conform. Let the world judge you. Who cares, who cares, who cares. Your children are happy.

You are not.

But part of growing up is understanding that the world's opinion of your actions doesn't matter in the least. You've allowed the world to misunderstand you so your children have that sliver of a chance of being who they want to be.

Not just your children. Everyone who comes after.

Or, you are Terry Funk. You are middle aged and crazy and you appear on World Championship Wrestling and perforate the homes of middle class America with your sadness.

You used to be champion once. You used to be young. God, one day you were young and the next Ric Flair is telling you that you are unranked.

How could you respond with anything but a piledriver?

I would have shot him.

I watch Terry Funk with heartache. He only wants to be a contender. Don't we all. He asks the champion for respect, and when he gets none, he commands it.

Put that fucker through a table. See if all the girls come running to save him then.

Terry Funk was long ago, as we all will be someday. What he wanted was the chance to show the world that he still mattered. He was denied. So he created the opportunity himself.

Middle aged, but hardly crazy.

But Funk gets a prize bigger than the NWA title. He gets self expression. He lets the world know that a man who was champ in a previous era has something unique to offer.

Don't bet against him, because he is still going to be around for awhile.

Should we all be so lucky. God knows we can’t be.