A WCW Hat Signed by Nick Fotiu
Nick Fotiu’s professional career began with the Hartford Whalers of the World Hockey Association in 1974, just a year before the Cincinnati Stingers and their coliseum on the riverfront joined the league. By 1979, the WHA and the Stingers were out of business, but the Whalers had jumped to the National Hockey League and so had Fotiu. Now lacing up with the New York Rangers as the club’s first New York City-born player, he was beloved by the people. An enforcer who regularly drew upon his past life as a boxer, he was the guy who’d toss pucks up into the arena’s “cheap seats” so that kids sitting there had a chance for a souvenir. My dad was one of those kids (although he never caught a puck). Before he grew up and made his way to Cincinnati where I was born.
I liked hockey, especially the two competing minor league teams we had in town. The Cyclones played at the downtown Firstar Center, a mid-70s arena with a mid-90s renovation that had originally been built for the Stingers. Meanwhile, the Mighty Ducks were taking advantage of their parent club’s popular Disney branding at the classic “Gardens” across town. These two Queens City arenas also split professional wrestling tours and if I’m being completely honest—I liked that form of sports entertainment quite a bit more than hockey.
The World Wrestling Federation (known today as WWE) typically ran at the Gardens while World Championship Wrestling (WCW) ran at the downtown arena. My loyalty was to WCW through and through, however. When the company’s nWo group of wrestlers said they were “nWo for life,” seven-year-old me also took that oath (and I stand by it today). Not that I ever got to pledge my allegiance in person—WCW’s events always came to town during the week and there was no way my parent’s were going to let me go see “Nitro” or “Thunder” on a school night. Until one day, when the calendar aligned.
I awoke on Christmas morning 1999 to find that my parents got me tickets to an upcoming WCW show at the downtown Firstar Center. My dad and I would be going to see “Souled Out,” live from our hometown on the Sunday evening before school was closed for MLK Day. When the year finally turned, we took our seats at “the first wrestling pay-per-view of the new millennium.”
WCW wasn’t doing well at this point, though. It had fallen from its once dominant position atop the wrestling world to become an aimless, mis-managed cog within a massive corporate wheel. A distant second to WWE. Not that I had any idea about all that at the time. I was ten and just absolutely stoked to go see live wrestling.
Thanks to behind the scenes drama, contract disputes, and injuries—there was a severe lack of star power in the building that night. Names like Sting, Goldberg, Randy “Macho Man” Savage, Scott Hall, Brett Hart, and even Jeff Jarrett were glaringly absent. I was particularly disappointed about not getting to see my absolute favorite, Hulk Hogan, but the folks who did show made it a night to remember. Booker T, Billy Kidman, and Diamond Dallas Page in particular.
Contemporary wrestling critics will often point out that the January 2000 edition of “Souled Out” was one of the worst professional wrestling shows ever cobbled together. As interesting as that is to me as an adult (I’ve read about it and rewatched this video many times), none of that can negate how much I loved it as a kid. The tickets were a total surprise and I had such a great time with my Dad. The man who also bought me a souvenir hat that night.
I wore that hat to the city’s other arena, the Gardens, a few weeks later when we went to a Cincinnati Mighty Ducks game. It was there that my dad recognized and ran into Nick Fotiu—now retired and serving as the assistant coach of the Kentucky [Lexington] ThoroughBLADES. After chatting with us for a while, Coach Fotiu signed my WCW hat.
As I grew up, and especially after WCW finally went out of business in 2001, pro wrestling became a fading interest. I’d try every now and again to get into as an adult, but no matter how strong the nostalgia was—the fandom just never clicked. In 2010, a friend and I attended another wrestling pay-per-view on a curious lark. The TNA promotion’s “Lockdown” was occurring in the same venue where I’d watched Souled Out a decade prior. Now, however, I could recognize when things were bad. Even downright uncomfortable at times.
We took pity as an aging Ric Flair bled in a steel cage. Did the guy still love the business or did he just have another divorce to pay off?
Sting wrestled at that show, though, and he was awesome. His bout was the only time we actually perked up and paid full attention to the show. And then: Hulk Hogan’s music hit.
Finally…I’d get to see my guy.
The legend.
The icon.
The IMMORTAL…
HOLLYWOOD! HULK! HOGAN!
Except the Hulkster simply made his entrance, silently taunted Sting, and walked away to collect his paycheck.
Then the show ended.
0-for-2 on wrestling pay-per-views at the downtown arena, I guess.
Souled Out 2000 ticket stub.
As the years continued to wear on, I did eventually make peace with my affection for professional wrestling—no longer embarrassed to admit that the business holds a truly fond place in my heart. I’m not watching any of the tv shows these days, but give me Brian Zane’s excellent YouTube channel or a Wikipedia rabbit hole about a wrestler’s career and I can get lost for hours. When it comes to live events, I love a good “indie” show with pizza and beer on occasion, but if the WWE is in town—I’m indifferent at best. Even their relatively new competitor, known as All Elite Wrestling, had only been a mere curiosity and not something I was interested in spending money to attend. Until I ran into Joe on the street.
A wonderful old friend from my days at the amusement park, he invited me over to watch a pay-per-view the next night: AEW’s “Revolution.” The event was significant because it would feature Sting’s final match. A mainstay of the old WCW days and our respective childhoods, Sting was the one wrestler who no one ever seemed to have any legitimate, backstage heat with. You never hear anyone say a bad thing about the guy, there’s no rumors of him being a jerk, and as far as how he carries himself: even after a lackluster, late career run with WWE—he continues to be a consummate professional who makes time for fans and always speaks fondly of his experiences.
In a world of Hulk Hogans…be a Sting.
Watching the show with my friend was a good excuse for indulging in both nostalgia and beer, but I also felt a genuine appreciation for seeing a stand-up human get the respect and send-off they deserved. A truly impressive match, especially for a 62-year-old man in face paint. Even through the television screen, you could recognize the significance of the moment and recognize the appreciation of the crowd. A heartfelt celebration for a good man who’d worked hard and carried himself with humility.
I was reeled back in. Which made it easy to say: “absolutely” after Joe invited me to go with him—and try my luck once more—at seeing another large-scale wrestling event live in person at a local arena.
I’m not a “mark” (slang for super fans with blinders on) of any wrestling organization or wrestler. It’s the history, nostalgia, and “stories of time” that drive me to have an appreciation for the present (a mentality that shouldn’t come as a surprise if you’ve ever met me, followed this website, or have ever heard me go on a rant at the bar). AEW had me intrigued not just for the great Sting match, but due to its comparisons to the WCW I had grown up with. Depending on what/who you read: it’s a company that’s making the same mistakes and on the same downward trajectory—or—it’s an innovator and disruptor. There was only one way to find out. And damnit, I wanted to find out.
Attendees were condensed onto the lower level of one side. A tried and true pro wrestling television tactic to make the crowd seem larger on camera. The audience was much smaller than the one assembled for my college graduation, the last time I’d ever been in this venue.
Souvenir.
Northern Kentucky University’s Truist Arena technically seats 9,400, but on this night for a live episode of “AEW Collision” on the TNT network—there was maybe a quarter of that number. Still, this crowd was into it. They’d erupt into chants and wildly react to the wrestlers and announcers working the crowd. Even my cynical and skeptical self got goosebumps when the show went live and the pyrotechnics shot off in sync with Elton John’s “Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting.”
When AEW’s owner, Tony Khan, came out to thunderous applause—I took notice. I don’t know if the rumors of him being a coked-out pro wrestling fan burning his daddy’s money are true, but the guy seemed genuine. Both then and when he came out later to shout out the work of his his employees, crew, and behind-the-scenes staff who make each show happen (he also referenced the film “Time Cop” (I’ve never seen it, but I respect the random diversion)).
In a world of Hulk Hogans, be a Sting.
In a world of Vince McMahons, be a Tony Khan?
My record of seeing bad, large-scale pro wrestling shows in the Cincinnati area continued, though. And despite my enthusiasm for embracing nostalgia on this particular evening, I couldn’t keep up like I did when I was ten. At one point, I looked over at Joe as he excitedly yelled to me: “‘Sharpshooter,’ Ron! He’s got ‘em in the Sharpshooter!”
At another point, I looked over to see that Joe had nodded off.
Ric Flair, his presence still lingering around the wrestling world for a pay day, had his “Woo Energy” drink promoted while we sat through commercial breaks and wondered: “what in the actual fuck is going on here?”
There were legitimate reactions to good matches and I went for a few walks around the arena during boring ones. It was during that time, perhaps a few beers into a “fear and loathing” state, that I remembered a scene from a Hallmark movie. One where this stereotypical “writer” gives a monologue over a stereotypically cheesy scene about the “meaning of Christmas.” And look: I don’t strive to be that guy (although I secretly love Hallmark movies just as much as I love pro wrestling). I wasn’t wandering around that arena with a notion in my mind about how I need to write about the true spirit of the professional wrestling industry and how we should all embrace our nostalgia, but I did want to write something.
In the end, it may have resulted in this winding, rambling tale of arenas and scripted gladiator spectacles, but I’m glad I went once more. Because professional wrestling speaks to numerous things at the core of my being and my identity. I’m glad to embrace it.
And, hell, if anything: it was a great excuse to once again wear my WCW hat signed by Nick Fotiu.
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