In an age of fleeting digital condolences and 280-character farewells, the most profound goodbyes are the ones that break the mold. When the news of Terry Bollea’s—better known to the world as Hulk Hogan’s—passing at 71 sent shockwaves across the globe, the expected flood of tributes followed. But one voice rose above the rest, not with a public statement or a trending hashtag, but with the quiet, deliberate scratching of a pen on paper. Tyrus, the powerhouse wrestler turned television personality, offered a eulogy that wasn’t for the cameras or the headlines. It was for the man who, decades ago, made a little boy believe in heroes.

His letter, raw and achingly personal, bypassed the pageantry of professional wrestling entirely. It didn’t mention WrestleMania, championship reigns, or the roar of the crowd. Instead, it spoke of a loneliness that only a child can know and the larger-than-life figure who, through a television screen, managed to banish it. “I never told you this,” Tyrus began, “But when I was a kid, watching you meant I didn’t feel so alone. You didn’t just wrestle villains — you fought the world for kids like me.”

Those words transport us back to a different era. Before the internet dissected every hero and cynicism became our default setting, there was Hulkamania. For millions of children in the 80s and 90s, Hulk Hogan was more than an entertainer; he was a living, breathing superhero. He was the force of good against the forces of evil, a real-life cartoon character who told us to train, say our prayers, and eat our vitamins. His power wasn’t just in his 24-inch pythons; it was in his seemingly unshakable conviction. When he tore his shirt and cupped his ear to the crowd, he wasn’t just performing a move. He was absorbing the hopes of every kid in the arena who felt small, unheard, or afraid.

Tyrus was one of those kids. In his letter, he vividly recalls the one time he saw his hero live. It wasn’t the body slam or the leg drop that seared into his memory. It was something far quieter and more profound. It was a gesture. Amid the chaotic sea of faces, the thunderous music, and the blinding lights, Hogan pointed. He pointed out into the vast darkness of the crowd, right where a young Tyrus was sitting, his heart likely pounding in his chest.

“I was sure you saw me. Just me,” he wrote. “And for the first time, I thought maybe I could matter. Maybe I could fight back too.” In that single moment, Hulk Hogan the celebrity vanished, and Hulk Hogan the hero was solidified. He transformed from a distant figure on a poster into a personal champion. That single, simple act of acknowledgment bridged the gap between the ring and the cheap seats, telling a child that he was part of the story. It was a silent promise that even in a world full of giants and villains, he mattered.

This is the core of Tyrus’s tribute and why it has resonated so deeply. It strips away the complex, often controversial, legacy of the public figure and holds up the pure, untarnished memory of what he meant to a child. It reminds us that our heroes’ greatest victories often happen far from the spotlight, in the quiet moments where they inspire someone to believe in their own strength.

But the letter’s most powerful gut punch was saved for the end. As the tribute draws to a close, the audience shifts. Tyrus is no longer speaking to his fallen hero. He’s speaking to the future—to the two children Hogan leaves behind, who will now only know their father through stories.

His words become a vow, a sacred promise from one man to the children of another. He doesn’t offer condolences; he offers a mission. “When you’re old enough to hear the stories, I hope you know this: your dad didn’t just make millions cheer. He made a scared little boy believe he could grow up to be more than what the world told him.”

The final line is a declaration that carries the weight of a lifetime of gratitude. “And I promise you this — I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure they never forget the name Hulk Hogan.”

He wasn’t talking about the name synonymous with celebrity, fame, or fortune. He was talking about the name that meant strength, hope, and the unwavering belief that good could triumph over evil. Tyrus’s letter is not just a farewell. It’s a shield, forged to protect the purest part of a legend’s legacy. It’s the voice of millions who once wore red and yellow, who ripped their own t-shirts in their living rooms, and who truly believed that one man was strong enough to beat all the bad guys. He may not have been immortal, but Tyrus reminded us all that for a generation of kids, he didn’t need to be.