August 14, 2025 • 23 mins
⚡ BREAKING: The Nature Boy finally unleashes 40 years of untold Hulkamania secrets! 👊 EXCLUSIVE: Behind-the-scenes heat between wrestling's biggest icons exposed! 💰 The real story of money, betrayal, and ego that shaped wrestling history. 🎭 WARNING: Flair holds nothing back about their legendary rivalry and friendship. 👑 Never-heard stories about what really happened when the cameras stopped rolling. 🔍 Wrestling Alert: The most controversial shoot interview of 2024. When the Nature Boy speaks, careers crumble. WOOOOO!
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Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
More than they'll ever know it. People are in want
of Thematus as enemies when we were actually buried very
close friends. At seventy six, Rick Flair breaks his silence
about Hulk Hogan's death, and what he says has left
fans stunned. This isn't the farewell anyone expected, no soft tribute,
(00:22):
no carefully crafted nostalgia. Instead, Flair delivers a raw and
deeply personal truth that's dividing the wrestling world. But it's
what he allegedly said in private that really set things off.
Fans are furious, insiders are whispering, and the legacy of
one of wrestling's biggest icons suddenly feels more complicated than ever.
(00:42):
Why now and why this message? You're about to hear
the version of the story no one else is willing
to tell. The weight Hogan carried in the final months
of his life, Hulk Hogan didn't look like the towering
icon millions remembered from the golden era of wrestling. He
(01:03):
wasn't posing in the ring or hyping up crowds anymore.
Behind closed doors, the man once hailed as the strongest
in the business was quietly falling apart physically, emotionally, spiritually,
it was all catching up to him. At seventy one,
Hogan had endured more surgeries than some hospitals see in
a week. His back had been opened up eleven times,
(01:25):
both hips replaced, knees battered, shoulders reconstructed, and just months
before his death, he underwent a delicate neck procedure that
left him with limited mobility, painkillers, therapy, discomfort. Those weren't
occasional hurdles. They were his daily routine. According to reports,
Hogan rarely complained to the public, but those closest to
(01:48):
him saw a different side. He was tired, not in
a passing, casual way, but in a way that went
all the way to the core. Friends say he struggled
to get out of chairs without help. He stopped attending
many wrestling events, not because he didn't want to, but
because walking across a room had become a chore. And
then there was the leukemia, chronic lymphocytic leukemia. To be exact,
(02:14):
it wasn't widely known. Hogan had kept it private, preferring
to let the world remember the version of him in
red and yellow, not the man quietly battling a disease
that drained him behind the scenes. He didn't want sympathy,
he didn't want pity, but he knew the end was
inching closer. His final days were spent mostly at home
(02:35):
in Clearwater, Florida. He reportedly rejected any dramatic hospital stays,
no press, no drama, just quiet. That silence, though, didn't
mean peace, it meant isolation. One friend described his last
few weeks as haunting, not because of any dramatic event,
but because of how still everything had become. For a
(02:57):
man whose life had been defined by noise, cheering fans,
roaring arenas, explosive interviews, his final chapter was marked by stillness,
and maybe that was the part that hurt the most
for those who knew him. The quiet, the absence, the
realization that the man who once embodied American heroism, strength
and resilience was now barely able to lift his arms
(03:20):
without wincing. Some say Hogan had made peace with it,
that he saw it coming, that he chose to go
out on his own terms without turning it into a
medias circus. Others say he withdrew because he couldn't face
what he had become, a shadow of the man he
once was. Whatever the reason, the result was the same.
(03:41):
When the news of his death hit, it felt sudden
to the public, but to those close to him, it
was a slow motion ending they'd watched unfold for months.
He died of a heart attack, but that final moment
was just the last crack in a foundation that had
been crumbling for years. His heart, in more way, had
(04:01):
taken on more than it could handle. Wrestling fans around
the world mourned, Tributes flooded social media. Celebrities shared stories,
fellow wrestlers posted old photos. Everyone seemed to have something
to say, and among them was Ric Flair. But while
others celebrated the legacy, Flair's tone would soon take a
different turn. What came next was not what anyone expected.
(04:25):
A history written in sweat and betrayals long before tributes
and headlines, Rick Flair and Hulk Hogan shared a bond
forged in the chaos of wrestling's most ruthless era. Their
names were never far apart. Wherever Hogan went, Flair wasn't
far behind or ahead. They weren't just icons. They were rivals, allies, competitors,
(04:47):
and occasionally enemies, and yet through it all they understood
each other in a way no one else could. Their
rivalry began long before the lights of WrestleMania or the
drama of Dea WCW's Monday Nitro. In the nineteen eighties,
Hogan was the face of WWF, bringing professional wrestling into
(05:08):
mainstream pop culture. Flair, meanwhile, was dominating the NWA as
the flamboyant, technical genius, the guy who didn't need bright
colors or finger pointing to steal the spotlight. Hogan was
a superhero, Flair was the villain, and the fans couldn't
get enough of either of them. It wasn't until the
nineteen nineties under WCW that the two finally collided full time.
(05:32):
Their matches were explosive, but the real drama unfolded backstage.
According to insiders, Hogan's creative control clauses and political maneuvering
clashed hard with Flair's traditionalist mindset. They both wanted the spotlight,
and there were times that nearly tore the locker room apart.
But that tension, that friction, is exactly what made their
(05:53):
rivalry iconic. Neither man would ever admit it outright back then,
but they pushed each other, elevated each other, and even
when one walked out of the arena furious. He walked
out better than he was before. But it wasn't all business.
Behind the scenes, a deeper relationship was forming. Flare and
Hogan would eventually find common ground, not in their personas,
(06:17):
but in their struggles. Both faced financial troubles at different points,
Both dealt with broken families, public scrutiny, health issues, and
both had to face the painful reality of their bodies
breaking down after decades of punishment. There's something oddly bonding
about mutual wear and tear. Flair would later admit that
(06:38):
Hogan had helped him more than most people knew. There
were times when Hogan gave him money, checked in when
others didn't, and defended him when the media turned its back.
Even when they weren't speaking regularly, there was still a
thread that connected them, and that thread never really snapped. Still,
theirs wasn't the story of two best friends sharing retirement cruises.
(07:01):
Their relationship remained unpredictable. In nineteen ninety nine, Flair and
Hogan had a real life altercation after a WCW event
that nearly ended everything. Flair felt disrespected by how the
match played out. Hogan reportedly didn't see the issue. Voices
were raised, tempers flared, but as always, times smoothed the edges.
(07:24):
In recent years, the tone shifted. They were both older,
both worn down, and both carrying visible and invisible scars.
Hogan had largely stepped away from the public eye. Flair,
on the other hand, remained as loud as ever, still
appearing at events, still tweeting, still letting the world know
he was alive and kicking. Yet even Flair had started
(07:47):
to slow down, and when news broke of Hogan's death,
that familiar fire seemed to dim, if only for a moment,
because this loss wasn't just about a colleague or a
fellow wrestler. It was about history. Flair didn't lose a friend,
He lost a mirror, someone who reflected both the best
and worst of a life lived under the spotlight. And
(08:08):
that's why what came next caught so many people off guard.
Flair didn't issue a clean cut tribute or carefully chosen words.
What he shared was raw, unfiltered emotion, mixed with decades
of shared pain, pride, and history. He wasn't speaking as
a brand. He was speaking as a man who had
run out of people, who truly understood what it meant
(08:30):
to live that life, and when he finally opened up,
it wasn't the kind of message fans were ready for.
The survivor's paradox. In the days that followed Hulk Hogan's passing,
Rick Flair didn't retreat into silence. He didn't vanish from
public view, but something about him had changed. His usual bravado,
(08:52):
the woo energy that fans had come to expect was subdued.
The sparkle in his eye wasn't quite gone, but it
was dimmed, and those who know him best say that
behind the public appearances and off hand remarks was a
man battling something much deeper survivor's guilt. Flare has always
been a man of extremes, extreme confidence, extreme charisma, extreme resilience,
(09:16):
but also extreme vulnerability. Over the course of his life,
he's cheated death more times than most wrestlers have had
tidal reigns. In nineteen seventy five, a plane crash broke
his back and nearly ended his career before it began.
In twenty seventeen, he was placed in a medically induced
coma and given a two percent chance of survival after
(09:36):
suffering multiple organ failure twice. He's been diagnosed with skin
cancer and beat it. He's outlived friends, family, even his
own son. So when Hogan, seemingly the larger than life
figure who appeared almost immune to time, died, it hit
Flare in a way he hadn't expected. According to those
(09:57):
close to him, he began to spiral emotionally, not outwardly,
not in some dramatic breakdown, but in private. There were
long stretches of silence, followed by anxious rants about aging,
legacy and whether he had said everything he needed to say.
More than once, he reportedly confided to friends, why am
(10:17):
I still here? Not in a self pitying way, but
in pure disbelief. Because while Hogan had become a recluse
in his later years, consumed by surgeries and pain, Flair,
five years older, still felt physically fine, no aches, no
chronic conditions that he spoke of. It was baffling, and
it scared him. That kind of contrast, the physical decline
(10:41):
of one icon and the eerie vitality of another, created
a strange kind of imbalance. Flare couldn't make sense of it.
He began reflecting publicly on Hogan's pain, not just the
physical kind, but the emotional burden of watching his body
fall apart while the world expected him to still be
the Hulkster. Flair, speaking in interviews, described how hard it
(11:04):
had become for Hogan to move, to walk, to live normally,
and yet Hogan never asked for sympathy. He chose dignity
over spectacle, even in his final days. For Flair, that
realization triggered something, a need to speak, a need to
confront not just Hogan's death but everything it represented, time, legacy, regret,
(11:29):
what it means to outlive your peers when your entire
identity was built around being one of them. It's no
surprise then, that his eventual statement would stir emotions. But
what surprised people most wasn't that he spoke. It was
how he spoke. There was no filter, no publicist smoothing
the edges. This wasn't a press release. It was a
(11:49):
man laying his thoughts bare, whether fans were ready for
them or not. And that honesty, unflinching, unpolished, and rooted
in decades of shared history, is what set the stage
for everything that followed. Because Flair didn't just pay tribute,
He told the truth as he saw it, and in
doing so, he lit a fire storm breaking the silence.
(12:13):
It wasn't some flashy announcement, no dramatic return to the spotlight.
Flare simply spoke publicly for the first time since Hogan's passing.
His message was brief but clear. I think he just
got tired. Eleven back surgeries, two hip replacements, a neck surgery.
I mean, how much can your body take? He didn't
(12:34):
dramatize it, he didn't embellish. There was a tone of
resignation in his voice, the kind of weariness that only
comes from watching someone close to you slowly deteriorate over time.
Flair also added something that caught the attention of many viewers. Here,
I am five years older than Hulk, and I don't
have an ache or pain in my body that bothers me,
(12:58):
and of course it gives me anxiety that I could
be next. The reaction to his public remarks was mixed,
but not outraged. Many fans found the statement respectful, even heartbreaking.
They appreciated the honesty, the humanity. Flair wasn't performing. He
was reflecting, speaking not as a showman, but as a
(13:19):
man who had watched too many of his peers fade
away before their time. But that was only the surface.
According to sources close to Flare, there was another side
to what he'd been saying privately behind closed doors, in
conversations not meant for the cameras, And when those words
began to leak online, everything changed. I can't stay silent anymore,
(13:42):
Flair reportedly said to a longtime friend before his public comments.
People keep pretending like Hogan went out on a high note.
He didn't. He was miserable. He hated being seen like that.
Couldn't walk, couldn't move. That's not how he wanted to
be remembered. The remark spread fast. Yes, at seventy six,
(14:04):
Rick Flair broke his silence about Hulk Hogan's death, but
what he said made fans furious. To many fans, it
was more than just an observation. It was a gut punch.
Hearing Flair suggests that Hogan was ashamed of his condition
felt like a betrayal of the hero they idolized. It
painted a picture of vulnerability they didn't want to see,
(14:24):
one that clashed violently with the larger than life image
of the man who once body slammed giants and told
millions to eat their vitamins and say their prayers. Some
fans lashed out. Social media threads turned heated, wrestling forums
buzzed with debate. How dare he speak for Hogan like that?
One post read, He's supposed to be honoring his friend,
(14:46):
not rewriting the ending. Others accused Flair of making Hogan's
death about himself, twisting grief into commentary that wasn't his
to give. But there was another side too. A growing
number of voices defended Flair, arguing that if anyone had
earned the right to speak honestly, it was the man
who knew Hogan, both in and out of the ring
(15:06):
for over four decades. To them, Flair's leaked comments weren't disrespectful.
They were raw, uncomfortable, yes, but rooted in truth. After all,
Flair hadn't trashed Hogan's legacy. He'd mourned the quiet suffering
of a man who spent his final years in pain
and out of view, far from the limelight that once
(15:27):
defined him. The phrase I can't stay silent anymore took
on a life of its own. Some viewed it as unnecessary,
others saw it as brave. But no matter the opinion,
it sparked a storm. Flair didn't try to calm at
seventy six. Rick Flair didn't break his silence with a
tribute that polished Hogan's memory to perfection. He broke it
(15:48):
with honesty, maybe too much of it, and whether fans
felt betrayed or seen, the message was clear. Behind the legends,
behind the larger than life personas were men dealing with pain, fear,
and fading legacies, and not everyone was ready to face that.
Wrestling with the fallout. The response to Rick Flair's remarks
(16:09):
about Hulk Hogan wasn't explosive. There were no dramatic headlines,
no viral outrage, no coordinated backlash. It was quieter than that.
But in the wrestling community, the circles that really followed
these men, that understood their histories, it stirred a deep discomfort,
not because of what Flair said publicly, but because of
(16:31):
what had been whispered afterward. Flair's official statement had been measured, respectful,
even he spoke about Hogan's pain, his surgeries, his resilience.
He reflected on how strange it felt to be five
years older and still physically strong, while his longtime friend
had spent his final years in pain. It felt honest, vulnerable.
(16:53):
Most fans appreciated that, but the discomfort grew when word
of Flair's private remarks began to surface. He had reportedly
told a friend, I can't stay silent anymore, followed by
something more blunt. People keep pretending Hogan went out on top.
He didn't. He hated being seen like that. That's what
really broke him. No one quoted it in print. It
(17:17):
didn't become a headline, but people in the wrestling world
were talking about it quietly, carefully, and that was enough.
Some felt Flair had overstepped, not because his words were false,
but because Hogan never chose to say them himself. If
Hogan had felt ashamed of how he looked near the end,
if he had chosen to withdraw rather than appear in public,
(17:40):
he hadn't made that part of his story. He had
never asked for anyone to explain it for him. Flaire's
decision to fill in that blank, even with the best intentions,
made some uncomfortable. Others understood exactly where Flair was coming from.
They'd seen the same things. Hogan had turned down appearances
in the final year of his life life, he avoided cameras.
(18:02):
He chose privacy, even when it cost him work. He
didn't want sympathy. He wanted to preserve the image people
still had of him, the strong, proud, unstoppable force. Flaire's
comments didn't undo that image, but they added something real
to it, something many people weren't ready to confront. The
truth is, there was never going to be a perfect
(18:22):
way to talk about what happened to Hulk Hogan in
his final years. His physical decline was painful, his health
issues were serious, but he kept it quiet. He didn't
want the world to see him suffering, and that silence
made his death feel sudden. Even though it wasn't Flaire's
choice to speak about that silence, To break it even
(18:43):
gently made people uncomfortable. He wasn't malicious, he wasn't unkind,
but he was direct, and that's something wrestling fans don't
always know how to process when it comes to their heroes.
They're used to the legend, not the man. They were.
Remember the entrances, the promos, the slams. They don't always
(19:04):
want to hear about the hospital beds, the isolation, the
way someone slowly fades out of the spotlight. Flair didn't
try to rewrite Hogan's story. He simply added a chapter
most fans hadn't read, one that didn't fit the larger
than life narrative, but still mattered, And while it didn't
cause a firestorm, it left people sitting with a new,
(19:24):
heavier understanding of what aging in this business really looks like.
Among wrestlers, Flair's remarks sparked quiet reflection, not statements, not interviews,
just nods, off hand comments. A few texts exchanged between
veterans who knew exactly what he meant. They'd seen it
happen to others, they feared it happening to themselves. No
(19:47):
one shouted Rick Flair down, but something had shifted. The
conversation around Hogan's final years wasn't as clean as it
used to be. It had been touched by something honest,
even if it wasn't welcome, and for Flair, that was
the point, the truth that wouldn't stay buried. In the
days that followed. Rick Flair didn't offer any clarifications. He
(20:10):
didn't walk back his words. He didn't issue a second statement,
nor did he deny the private quote that had slowly
worked its way into the wrestling world's collective memory. Instead,
he remained quiet, not in retreat, but in a kind
of acceptance. What he'd said was already out there, and
more importantly, it was something he believed needed to be said.
(20:32):
For Flair, Hulk Hogan's death wasn't just the loss of
a friend. It was the closing of a chapter in
wrestling history, one that no longer had many voices left
to speak for it. Most of the icons who once
traveled those brutal circuits, who built their bodies into machines
and then broke them for the sake of entertainment, were
either gone or no longer able to speak. Flair, against
(20:55):
all odds, was still standing, still, loocid, still able to
remember what it all was really cost. That's what made
his words different. They weren't polished, celebratory tributes designed for
public comfort. They came from a man who had lived it,
who had seen what the spotlight doesn't show, who had
outlived the image. When Flair said I think he just
(21:18):
got tired, he wasn't trying to minimize Hogan's legacy. He
was trying to explain the toll. And when he privately
said he didn't want to be seen like that. It
wasn't said with judgment, It was said with recognition. Flair
had seen that same look in others. He understood what
it meant when a man who used to command the
(21:38):
world now hesitated to open the front door. He wasn't
painting Hogan as weak. He was reminding people that being strong,
truly strong, sometimes meant choosing silence, even when your whole
life had been built on the roar of the crowd. Still,
the discomfort lingered, because what Flair had revealed, intentionally or not,
(21:59):
was that wrestling doesn't always allow its heroes to age gracefully.
It demands everything in their prime, then often leaves them
behind when their bodies no longer cooperate. And when those
same heroes disappear from the spotlight, it's easier to assume
they're simply resting, not quietly suffering. Flare knew that he'd
(22:20):
lived both sides of it. He'd been at the top,
he'd lost everything, he'd come back, and he'd buried more
friends than he cared to count. That kind of survival
comes with a burden, one that doesn't leave room for illusions.
Some fans still wish he had kept certain things to himself.
Maybe Hogan would have preferred that too. But if there's
(22:41):
one thing Flair never was, it's quiet, and maybe in
the end, that was the point someone had to say
what others were too afraid to admit that the end
doesn't always look like the movies that sometimes our strongest
heroes slip away quietly, not with a final match, but
with a closed and too much pain to explain. Flair
(23:03):
didn't say it to hurt. He said it because he
couldn't carry it anymore, And as uncomfortable as that truth was,
it opened a space for something wrestling rarely embraces. Reflection,
not the kind built around highlights or title belts, but
the kind that asks what we owe the people who
gave us their bodies, their health, and eventually their peace.
(23:27):
The red and yellow will always shine in memory, but
so will the reality that even legends grow tired, and
maybe that too deserves to be remembered. What do you
think about Rick Flair's confession? Let us know in the comments,
More than they'll ever know it. People are in want
of Thematus as enemies when we were actually buried very
close friends. At seventy six, Rick Flair breaks his silence
about Hulk Hogan's death, and what he says has left
fans stunned. This isn't the farewell anyone expected, no soft tribute,
(00:22):
no carefully crafted nostalgia. Instead, Flair delivers a raw and
deeply personal truth that's dividing the wrestling world. But it's
what he allegedly said in private that really set things off.
Fans are furious, insiders are whispering, and the legacy of
one of wrestling's biggest icons suddenly feels more complicated than ever.
(00:42):
Why now and why this message? You're about to hear
the version of the story no one else is willing
to tell. The weight Hogan carried in the final months
of his life, Hulk Hogan didn't look like the towering
icon millions remembered from the golden era of wrestling. He
(01:03):
wasn't posing in the ring or hyping up crowds anymore.
Behind closed doors, the man once hailed as the strongest
in the business was quietly falling apart physically, emotionally, spiritually,
it was all catching up to him. At seventy one,
Hogan had endured more surgeries than some hospitals see in
a week. His back had been opened up eleven times,
(01:25):
both hips replaced, knees battered, shoulders reconstructed, and just months
before his death, he underwent a delicate neck procedure that
left him with limited mobility, painkillers, therapy, discomfort. Those weren't
occasional hurdles. They were his daily routine. According to reports,
Hogan rarely complained to the public, but those closest to
(01:48):
him saw a different side. He was tired, not in
a passing, casual way, but in a way that went
all the way to the core. Friends say he struggled
to get out of chairs without help. He stopped attending
many wrestling events, not because he didn't want to, but
because walking across a room had become a chore. And
then there was the leukemia, chronic lymphocytic leukemia. To be exact,
(02:14):
it wasn't widely known. Hogan had kept it private, preferring
to let the world remember the version of him in
red and yellow, not the man quietly battling a disease
that drained him behind the scenes. He didn't want sympathy,
he didn't want pity, but he knew the end was
inching closer. His final days were spent mostly at home
(02:35):
in Clearwater, Florida. He reportedly rejected any dramatic hospital stays,
no press, no drama, just quiet. That silence, though, didn't
mean peace, it meant isolation. One friend described his last
few weeks as haunting, not because of any dramatic event,
but because of how still everything had become. For a
(02:57):
man whose life had been defined by noise, cheering fans,
roaring arenas, explosive interviews, his final chapter was marked by stillness,
and maybe that was the part that hurt the most
for those who knew him. The quiet, the absence, the
realization that the man who once embodied American heroism, strength
and resilience was now barely able to lift his arms
(03:20):
without wincing. Some say Hogan had made peace with it,
that he saw it coming, that he chose to go
out on his own terms without turning it into a
medias circus. Others say he withdrew because he couldn't face
what he had become, a shadow of the man he
once was. Whatever the reason, the result was the same.
(03:41):
When the news of his death hit, it felt sudden
to the public, but to those close to him, it
was a slow motion ending they'd watched unfold for months.
He died of a heart attack, but that final moment
was just the last crack in a foundation that had
been crumbling for years. His heart, in more way, had
(04:01):
taken on more than it could handle. Wrestling fans around
the world mourned, Tributes flooded social media. Celebrities shared stories,
fellow wrestlers posted old photos. Everyone seemed to have something
to say, and among them was Ric Flair. But while
others celebrated the legacy, Flair's tone would soon take a
different turn. What came next was not what anyone expected.
(04:25):
A history written in sweat and betrayals long before tributes
and headlines, Rick Flair and Hulk Hogan shared a bond
forged in the chaos of wrestling's most ruthless era. Their
names were never far apart. Wherever Hogan went, Flair wasn't
far behind or ahead. They weren't just icons. They were rivals, allies, competitors,
(04:47):
and occasionally enemies, and yet through it all they understood
each other in a way no one else could. Their
rivalry began long before the lights of WrestleMania or the
drama of Dea WCW's Monday Nitro. In the nineteen eighties,
Hogan was the face of WWF, bringing professional wrestling into
(05:08):
mainstream pop culture. Flair, meanwhile, was dominating the NWA as
the flamboyant, technical genius, the guy who didn't need bright
colors or finger pointing to steal the spotlight. Hogan was
a superhero, Flair was the villain, and the fans couldn't
get enough of either of them. It wasn't until the
nineteen nineties under WCW that the two finally collided full time.
(05:32):
Their matches were explosive, but the real drama unfolded backstage.
According to insiders, Hogan's creative control clauses and political maneuvering
clashed hard with Flair's traditionalist mindset. They both wanted the spotlight,
and there were times that nearly tore the locker room apart.
But that tension, that friction, is exactly what made their
(05:53):
rivalry iconic. Neither man would ever admit it outright back then,
but they pushed each other, elevated each other, and even
when one walked out of the arena furious. He walked
out better than he was before. But it wasn't all business.
Behind the scenes, a deeper relationship was forming. Flare and
Hogan would eventually find common ground, not in their personas,
(06:17):
but in their struggles. Both faced financial troubles at different points,
Both dealt with broken families, public scrutiny, health issues, and
both had to face the painful reality of their bodies
breaking down after decades of punishment. There's something oddly bonding
about mutual wear and tear. Flair would later admit that
(06:38):
Hogan had helped him more than most people knew. There
were times when Hogan gave him money, checked in when
others didn't, and defended him when the media turned its back.
Even when they weren't speaking regularly, there was still a
thread that connected them, and that thread never really snapped. Still,
theirs wasn't the story of two best friends sharing retirement cruises.
(07:01):
Their relationship remained unpredictable. In nineteen ninety nine, Flair and
Hogan had a real life altercation after a WCW event
that nearly ended everything. Flair felt disrespected by how the
match played out. Hogan reportedly didn't see the issue. Voices
were raised, tempers flared, but as always, times smoothed the edges.
(07:24):
In recent years, the tone shifted. They were both older,
both worn down, and both carrying visible and invisible scars.
Hogan had largely stepped away from the public eye. Flair,
on the other hand, remained as loud as ever, still
appearing at events, still tweeting, still letting the world know
he was alive and kicking. Yet even Flair had started
(07:47):
to slow down, and when news broke of Hogan's death,
that familiar fire seemed to dim, if only for a moment,
because this loss wasn't just about a colleague or a
fellow wrestler. It was about history. Flair didn't lose a friend,
He lost a mirror, someone who reflected both the best
and worst of a life lived under the spotlight. And
(08:08):
that's why what came next caught so many people off guard.
Flair didn't issue a clean cut tribute or carefully chosen words.
What he shared was raw, unfiltered emotion, mixed with decades
of shared pain, pride, and history. He wasn't speaking as
a brand. He was speaking as a man who had
run out of people, who truly understood what it meant
(08:30):
to live that life, and when he finally opened up,
it wasn't the kind of message fans were ready for.
The survivor's paradox. In the days that followed Hulk Hogan's passing,
Rick Flair didn't retreat into silence. He didn't vanish from
public view, but something about him had changed. His usual bravado,
(08:52):
the woo energy that fans had come to expect was subdued.
The sparkle in his eye wasn't quite gone, but it
was dimmed, and those who know him best say that
behind the public appearances and off hand remarks was a
man battling something much deeper survivor's guilt. Flare has always
been a man of extremes, extreme confidence, extreme charisma, extreme resilience,
(09:16):
but also extreme vulnerability. Over the course of his life,
he's cheated death more times than most wrestlers have had
tidal reigns. In nineteen seventy five, a plane crash broke
his back and nearly ended his career before it began.
In twenty seventeen, he was placed in a medically induced
coma and given a two percent chance of survival after
(09:36):
suffering multiple organ failure twice. He's been diagnosed with skin
cancer and beat it. He's outlived friends, family, even his
own son. So when Hogan, seemingly the larger than life
figure who appeared almost immune to time, died, it hit
Flare in a way he hadn't expected. According to those
(09:57):
close to him, he began to spiral emotionally, not outwardly,
not in some dramatic breakdown, but in private. There were
long stretches of silence, followed by anxious rants about aging,
legacy and whether he had said everything he needed to say.
More than once, he reportedly confided to friends, why am
(10:17):
I still here? Not in a self pitying way, but
in pure disbelief. Because while Hogan had become a recluse
in his later years, consumed by surgeries and pain, Flair,
five years older, still felt physically fine, no aches, no
chronic conditions that he spoke of. It was baffling, and
it scared him. That kind of contrast, the physical decline
(10:41):
of one icon and the eerie vitality of another, created
a strange kind of imbalance. Flare couldn't make sense of it.
He began reflecting publicly on Hogan's pain, not just the
physical kind, but the emotional burden of watching his body
fall apart while the world expected him to still be
the Hulkster. Flair, speaking in interviews, described how hard it
(11:04):
had become for Hogan to move, to walk, to live normally,
and yet Hogan never asked for sympathy. He chose dignity
over spectacle, even in his final days. For Flair, that
realization triggered something, a need to speak, a need to
confront not just Hogan's death but everything it represented, time, legacy, regret,
(11:29):
what it means to outlive your peers when your entire
identity was built around being one of them. It's no
surprise then, that his eventual statement would stir emotions. But
what surprised people most wasn't that he spoke. It was
how he spoke. There was no filter, no publicist smoothing
the edges. This wasn't a press release. It was a
(11:49):
man laying his thoughts bare, whether fans were ready for
them or not. And that honesty, unflinching, unpolished, and rooted
in decades of shared history, is what set the stage
for everything that followed. Because Flair didn't just pay tribute,
He told the truth as he saw it, and in
doing so, he lit a fire storm breaking the silence.
(12:13):
It wasn't some flashy announcement, no dramatic return to the spotlight.
Flare simply spoke publicly for the first time since Hogan's passing.
His message was brief but clear. I think he just
got tired. Eleven back surgeries, two hip replacements, a neck surgery.
I mean, how much can your body take? He didn't
(12:34):
dramatize it, he didn't embellish. There was a tone of
resignation in his voice, the kind of weariness that only
comes from watching someone close to you slowly deteriorate over time.
Flair also added something that caught the attention of many viewers. Here,
I am five years older than Hulk, and I don't
have an ache or pain in my body that bothers me,
(12:58):
and of course it gives me anxiety that I could
be next. The reaction to his public remarks was mixed,
but not outraged. Many fans found the statement respectful, even heartbreaking.
They appreciated the honesty, the humanity. Flair wasn't performing. He
was reflecting, speaking not as a showman, but as a
(13:19):
man who had watched too many of his peers fade
away before their time. But that was only the surface.
According to sources close to Flare, there was another side
to what he'd been saying privately behind closed doors, in
conversations not meant for the cameras, And when those words
began to leak online, everything changed. I can't stay silent anymore,
(13:42):
Flair reportedly said to a longtime friend before his public comments.
People keep pretending like Hogan went out on a high note.
He didn't. He was miserable. He hated being seen like that.
Couldn't walk, couldn't move. That's not how he wanted to
be remembered. The remark spread fast. Yes, at seventy six,
(14:04):
Rick Flair broke his silence about Hulk Hogan's death, but
what he said made fans furious. To many fans, it
was more than just an observation. It was a gut punch.
Hearing Flair suggests that Hogan was ashamed of his condition
felt like a betrayal of the hero they idolized. It
painted a picture of vulnerability they didn't want to see,
(14:24):
one that clashed violently with the larger than life image
of the man who once body slammed giants and told
millions to eat their vitamins and say their prayers. Some
fans lashed out. Social media threads turned heated, wrestling forums
buzzed with debate. How dare he speak for Hogan like that?
One post read, He's supposed to be honoring his friend,
(14:46):
not rewriting the ending. Others accused Flair of making Hogan's
death about himself, twisting grief into commentary that wasn't his
to give. But there was another side too. A growing
number of voices defended Flair, arguing that if anyone had
earned the right to speak honestly, it was the man
who knew Hogan, both in and out of the ring
(15:06):
for over four decades. To them, Flair's leaked comments weren't disrespectful.
They were raw, uncomfortable, yes, but rooted in truth. After all,
Flair hadn't trashed Hogan's legacy. He'd mourned the quiet suffering
of a man who spent his final years in pain
and out of view, far from the limelight that once
(15:27):
defined him. The phrase I can't stay silent anymore took
on a life of its own. Some viewed it as unnecessary,
others saw it as brave. But no matter the opinion,
it sparked a storm. Flair didn't try to calm at
seventy six. Rick Flair didn't break his silence with a
tribute that polished Hogan's memory to perfection. He broke it
(15:48):
with honesty, maybe too much of it, and whether fans
felt betrayed or seen, the message was clear. Behind the legends,
behind the larger than life personas were men dealing with pain, fear,
and fading legacies, and not everyone was ready to face that.
Wrestling with the fallout. The response to Rick Flair's remarks
(16:09):
about Hulk Hogan wasn't explosive. There were no dramatic headlines,
no viral outrage, no coordinated backlash. It was quieter than that.
But in the wrestling community, the circles that really followed
these men, that understood their histories, it stirred a deep discomfort,
not because of what Flair said publicly, but because of
(16:31):
what had been whispered afterward. Flair's official statement had been measured, respectful,
even he spoke about Hogan's pain, his surgeries, his resilience.
He reflected on how strange it felt to be five
years older and still physically strong, while his longtime friend
had spent his final years in pain. It felt honest, vulnerable.
(16:53):
Most fans appreciated that, but the discomfort grew when word
of Flair's private remarks began to surface. He had reportedly
told a friend, I can't stay silent anymore, followed by
something more blunt. People keep pretending Hogan went out on top.
He didn't. He hated being seen like that. That's what
really broke him. No one quoted it in print. It
(17:17):
didn't become a headline, but people in the wrestling world
were talking about it quietly, carefully, and that was enough.
Some felt Flair had overstepped, not because his words were false,
but because Hogan never chose to say them himself. If
Hogan had felt ashamed of how he looked near the end,
if he had chosen to withdraw rather than appear in public,
(17:40):
he hadn't made that part of his story. He had
never asked for anyone to explain it for him. Flaire's
decision to fill in that blank, even with the best intentions,
made some uncomfortable. Others understood exactly where Flair was coming from.
They'd seen the same things. Hogan had turned down appearances
in the final year of his life life, he avoided cameras.
(18:02):
He chose privacy, even when it cost him work. He
didn't want sympathy. He wanted to preserve the image people
still had of him, the strong, proud, unstoppable force. Flaire's
comments didn't undo that image, but they added something real
to it, something many people weren't ready to confront. The
truth is, there was never going to be a perfect
(18:22):
way to talk about what happened to Hulk Hogan in
his final years. His physical decline was painful, his health
issues were serious, but he kept it quiet. He didn't
want the world to see him suffering, and that silence
made his death feel sudden. Even though it wasn't Flaire's
choice to speak about that silence, To break it even
(18:43):
gently made people uncomfortable. He wasn't malicious, he wasn't unkind,
but he was direct, and that's something wrestling fans don't
always know how to process when it comes to their heroes.
They're used to the legend, not the man. They were.
Remember the entrances, the promos, the slams. They don't always
(19:04):
want to hear about the hospital beds, the isolation, the
way someone slowly fades out of the spotlight. Flair didn't
try to rewrite Hogan's story. He simply added a chapter
most fans hadn't read, one that didn't fit the larger
than life narrative, but still mattered, And while it didn't
cause a firestorm, it left people sitting with a new,
(19:24):
heavier understanding of what aging in this business really looks like.
Among wrestlers, Flair's remarks sparked quiet reflection, not statements, not interviews,
just nods, off hand comments. A few texts exchanged between
veterans who knew exactly what he meant. They'd seen it
happen to others, they feared it happening to themselves. No
(19:47):
one shouted Rick Flair down, but something had shifted. The
conversation around Hogan's final years wasn't as clean as it
used to be. It had been touched by something honest,
even if it wasn't welcome, and for Flair, that was
the point, the truth that wouldn't stay buried. In the
days that followed. Rick Flair didn't offer any clarifications. He
(20:10):
didn't walk back his words. He didn't issue a second statement,
nor did he deny the private quote that had slowly
worked its way into the wrestling world's collective memory. Instead,
he remained quiet, not in retreat, but in a kind
of acceptance. What he'd said was already out there, and
more importantly, it was something he believed needed to be said.
(20:32):
For Flair, Hulk Hogan's death wasn't just the loss of
a friend. It was the closing of a chapter in
wrestling history, one that no longer had many voices left
to speak for it. Most of the icons who once
traveled those brutal circuits, who built their bodies into machines
and then broke them for the sake of entertainment, were
either gone or no longer able to speak. Flair, against
(20:55):
all odds, was still standing, still, loocid, still able to
remember what it all was really cost. That's what made
his words different. They weren't polished, celebratory tributes designed for
public comfort. They came from a man who had lived it,
who had seen what the spotlight doesn't show, who had
outlived the image. When Flair said I think he just
(21:18):
got tired, he wasn't trying to minimize Hogan's legacy. He
was trying to explain the toll. And when he privately
said he didn't want to be seen like that. It
wasn't said with judgment, It was said with recognition. Flair
had seen that same look in others. He understood what
it meant when a man who used to command the
(21:38):
world now hesitated to open the front door. He wasn't
painting Hogan as weak. He was reminding people that being strong,
truly strong, sometimes meant choosing silence, even when your whole
life had been built on the roar of the crowd. Still,
the discomfort lingered, because what Flair had revealed, intentionally or not,
(21:59):
was that wrestling doesn't always allow its heroes to age gracefully.
It demands everything in their prime, then often leaves them
behind when their bodies no longer cooperate. And when those
same heroes disappear from the spotlight, it's easier to assume
they're simply resting, not quietly suffering. Flare knew that he'd
(22:20):
lived both sides of it. He'd been at the top,
he'd lost everything, he'd come back, and he'd buried more
friends than he cared to count. That kind of survival
comes with a burden, one that doesn't leave room for illusions.
Some fans still wish he had kept certain things to himself.
Maybe Hogan would have preferred that too. But if there's
(22:41):
one thing Flair never was, it's quiet, and maybe in
the end, that was the point someone had to say
what others were too afraid to admit that the end
doesn't always look like the movies that sometimes our strongest
heroes slip away quietly, not with a final match, but
with a closed and too much pain to explain. Flair
(23:03):
didn't say it to hurt. He said it because he
couldn't carry it anymore, And as uncomfortable as that truth was,
it opened a space for something wrestling rarely embraces. Reflection,
not the kind built around highlights or title belts, but
the kind that asks what we owe the people who
gave us their bodies, their health, and eventually their peace.
(23:27):
The red and yellow will always shine in memory, but
so will the reality that even legends grow tired, and
maybe that too deserves to be remembered. What do you
think about Rick Flair's confession? Let us know in the comments,
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