Believe it or not, I used to be a fan of professional wrestling. In the 1980s, Suzanne and I often bought tickets to the live wrestling shows at the Superdome, the Municipal Auditorium, or the UNO Lakefront Arena. We once met Arn Anderson and gave him a ride to the airport after a match with Dusty Rhodes.
Our favorite wrestler then, bar none, was the Nature Boy, Ric Flair. He was always the top dog, the jet-flying, styling, profiling, limousine-riding, kiss-stealing, wheeling-dealing son of a gun—the greatest pro wrestler who ever lived. A rich man’s Hulk Hogan.
So imagine my sigh when I read this AP story, saying that Nature Boy got himself beaten up by his daughter’s boyfriend. That will happen when you’re (yikes!) 59 and the boyfriend is 22. Time catches up to us all—even the Nature Boy.
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