HipHopStan
Top 113 Poster
Rey Mysterio wrote this tribute to Eddie in The Players Tribune. It’s a long read but worth it if you’ve got some time.
________
Dear Eddie,
It’s Friday night.
I’m riding shotgun with my uncle, Rey Sr., and we’re pulling up to the Auditorio de Tijuana. Everyone else reading this letter, when I say “pull up” they’ll probably think I mean around back — like they must have had a special entrance for the famous luchador and his nephew. But you know. Nah, man … this was Fight Night in a border town!! This was 1987. We entered through the front door like everyone else.
I remember those times as if they were yesterday. Me and Senior, driving to the show … it was like a million little block parties. And of course you could smell it before you would see it: hot dogs, tacos, popcorn, chicharrón. Maybe some other smells we won’t mention. Then you’d see the adults and the older kids, getting their hustle on — bootleg t-shirts, bootleg action figures (nothing like we have now, just some stiff plastic with a nail-polished-on mask if you were lucky … and if you were really lucky, an 8x8 wooden square as a ring, 4 nails as posts and some rubber bands for the ropes). And then last you would see the younger kids, holding their autograph papers and pencils, bunched at the doors waiting to find out which of their favorite luchadores will show up that night.
We would get there about an hour before … and my uncle, he had it timed exact. As soon as we were two blocks from the auditorium, he’d rolllll to that next light and slow the car down to a stop. Then he’d kind of look around for a moment, to make sure no one was watching. And in this one motion, so smooth — whoooosh — he’d pull on his mask. And I’d just be sitting there in the passenger seat, 12 years old, like I’m Robin in the Batmobile and thinking, Man. This is IT. Wrestling is EVERYTHING. Then we’d park Senior’s car in the lot out front, he would give me his bag to carry, and we’d walk right in.
OK OK — now I’m picturing you up there in Heaven, WeeWeeto. And you’re reading this, like, “Rey. Rey, brother. Cool story. Tell me something I don’t already know.” So I’ll get to the point. Bagman-ing for my uncle, on those Friday nights in the border towns … I have a lot of amazing memories from back then. Memories that mean so much to me, and shaped who I am. But there’s one that means more and shaped me more than the rest. And it’s the memory of how — on one of those nights?? I basically saw a shooting star. I saw the greatest wrestler of all time, for the first time.
I saw you.
I saw Eddie Guerrero.
When I publish this letter on Thursday, it will be 20 years to the day since you passed. November 13th, 2005. It’s hard to believe. And it feels so unfair sometimes, just knowing how much life I’ve gotten to live in those years. You didn’t get to see 40 … that’s still painful to think about. Me, on the other hand, I turned 50 last December. Nahhhh I can already see the evil grin on your face, hearing that. “50?!? 50?!? Oh Rey, no…….. You OLD.” I know, WeeWeeto. It’s true. But I’m writing this to you now, and I swear: I could live another 50 years — and when it comes to our friendship, I’d still be Little Bro. I’m forever your little bro.
And you’re forever my big brother.
There was something unique about our friendship…… even going back to that night in Tijuana, before we had any friendship. It’s hard to put into words. But I think I’d say it like this: A lot of wrestlers, they work together in the ring, and then become friends outside the ring. Not us, though. We became friends in the ring — literally in the ring. Through the art of wrestling itself.
Of course, it started as a one-way friendship. Me following my uncle around Mexico, then later training to be a luchador myself around Mexico, and crossing paths with you that way — from the outside looking in. Instantly I felt a connection. It was so obvious just from watching you that you were special … that you’d mastered this presence, this way of movement, that was yours alone. But as I went through wrestling school, and began to study the craft of lucha libre, that’s when I understood how you’d mastered the fundamentals as well. So many times while training, I’d be working on some roll, or position, and I’d get to a point where maybe I’d start to think, Wow!!! I’m pretty good at this one. Then I’d see you do it..… and I’d learn the lesson that almost anyone who’s trained to wrestle has eventually had to learn: There’s a mountain of difference between “pretty good” and “Eddie.” Between pretty good and perfect.
Part of our connection, I think, was in how we both came from these legendary lucha families … which meant we both inherited the gift and curse of being “next” in a line. And I gained so much admiration for you, just from watching you carry that. One thing I always loved, that doesn’t get mentioned enough (and probably isn’t very well known), is how you came from a lineage of “shooters” — the not-f***ing-around type of wrestlers. The type who could (and might) break a guy’s leg for real if they had to. So you were trained in all of that … a legit, old-school tough guy. But you were never actually old-school. And you were never trying to be a tough guy. What you were, though, at your heart, was a genius — and it’s like you had this incredible drive to take that genius and push things forward. So as lucha libre evolved away from the shooters, to a more “worker”-based style, and became more about performing with someone than against them, you embraced it. And you worked at it, and worked at it, until you became the best in the world at it.
When I finally got to enter the ring with you, Eddie…… I’d say that’s when you finally got to know ME. And it’s when our friendship began to take shape for real. I think about those first few times we wrestled, and it’s like every now and then I would do something that surprised you a bit — a move I’d pull out, or a way I’d execute something, or even just the passion I’d show. Every time I did something like that, I could see your gears sort of turning. Like, Oh, OK. Interesting.… THIS is Rey…. I didn’t know he got MUD on him like that. Like you were slowly getting a read on me, and adjusting your expectations of me. And it’s like with each new adjustment we would strengthen our bond. I’m guessing there will be people confused by this — Huh??? That doesn’t sound like a basis for being friends. But that’s just it, WeeWeeto. That’s why our bond meant so much. It’s like we each loved this thing…… in a way that no one else could understand. So we almost had no choice but to understand each other.
The truest moment of our friendship may have been from our very first American match together. This was in ’97, so you’d already been in WCW for a year or two by then. I mean, come on, you’d already wrestled Ric Flair for the U.S. Title on Pay Per View!!! We were all so proud of you. And then slowly but surely we started following in your footsteps. But I also think we knew the deal: We were there to be undercard guys, to pop the crowd with exciting matches … but that’s about it. They didn’t really “see money” in us. And they didn’t always understand our culture.
That was definitely the case when they told me I’d be wrestling you at Halloween Havoc for your Cruiserweight Title … with my MASK on the line … and I was going to LOSE. Man, I remember being so upset when I heard that. I was panicking!!! Like, I had just started to get over with the American fans — and with my mask being such a strong part of my identity. So to lose it so early in my career, I knew that could be a death sentence. But what choice did I have?? I was a 22-year-old kid. I had no power, I had no leverage, I had no pull with the office.
Thankfully, though, I had you. I had my friend, my big brother. That whole day leading up to the match, my head was spinning. I couldn’t even think straight. But you just kept telling me, “Don’t worry, Rey!!!! Don’t worry!!!! Keep your head up, brother. We’re going to make this right.” And I’ll never know what those exact conversations were that went down behind closed doors. But I know you talked to the office, explained why it was a bad decision for me to lose, and convinced them to let you put me over. Honestly … I still get chills when I think of what you did for me that night. Not just sticking your neck out for me, but doing it at your own expense — and offering to lose your title, so I could keep mymask, and my identity, and the momentum in my career. It’s a gift I’ve never forgotten, and have tried to pay forward over the years as I’ve grown from New Kid into OG: the idea that success for Latinos in this business — in this life — doesn’t have to be zero-sum. We either get over as a community…… or we risk getting buried as one. For me, that lesson, it all started with you.
________
Dear Eddie,
It’s Friday night.
I’m riding shotgun with my uncle, Rey Sr., and we’re pulling up to the Auditorio de Tijuana. Everyone else reading this letter, when I say “pull up” they’ll probably think I mean around back — like they must have had a special entrance for the famous luchador and his nephew. But you know. Nah, man … this was Fight Night in a border town!! This was 1987. We entered through the front door like everyone else.
I remember those times as if they were yesterday. Me and Senior, driving to the show … it was like a million little block parties. And of course you could smell it before you would see it: hot dogs, tacos, popcorn, chicharrón. Maybe some other smells we won’t mention. Then you’d see the adults and the older kids, getting their hustle on — bootleg t-shirts, bootleg action figures (nothing like we have now, just some stiff plastic with a nail-polished-on mask if you were lucky … and if you were really lucky, an 8x8 wooden square as a ring, 4 nails as posts and some rubber bands for the ropes). And then last you would see the younger kids, holding their autograph papers and pencils, bunched at the doors waiting to find out which of their favorite luchadores will show up that night.
We would get there about an hour before … and my uncle, he had it timed exact. As soon as we were two blocks from the auditorium, he’d rolllll to that next light and slow the car down to a stop. Then he’d kind of look around for a moment, to make sure no one was watching. And in this one motion, so smooth — whoooosh — he’d pull on his mask. And I’d just be sitting there in the passenger seat, 12 years old, like I’m Robin in the Batmobile and thinking, Man. This is IT. Wrestling is EVERYTHING. Then we’d park Senior’s car in the lot out front, he would give me his bag to carry, and we’d walk right in.
OK OK — now I’m picturing you up there in Heaven, WeeWeeto. And you’re reading this, like, “Rey. Rey, brother. Cool story. Tell me something I don’t already know.” So I’ll get to the point. Bagman-ing for my uncle, on those Friday nights in the border towns … I have a lot of amazing memories from back then. Memories that mean so much to me, and shaped who I am. But there’s one that means more and shaped me more than the rest. And it’s the memory of how — on one of those nights?? I basically saw a shooting star. I saw the greatest wrestler of all time, for the first time.
I saw you.
I saw Eddie Guerrero.
When I publish this letter on Thursday, it will be 20 years to the day since you passed. November 13th, 2005. It’s hard to believe. And it feels so unfair sometimes, just knowing how much life I’ve gotten to live in those years. You didn’t get to see 40 … that’s still painful to think about. Me, on the other hand, I turned 50 last December. Nahhhh I can already see the evil grin on your face, hearing that. “50?!? 50?!? Oh Rey, no…….. You OLD.” I know, WeeWeeto. It’s true. But I’m writing this to you now, and I swear: I could live another 50 years — and when it comes to our friendship, I’d still be Little Bro. I’m forever your little bro.
And you’re forever my big brother.
There was something unique about our friendship…… even going back to that night in Tijuana, before we had any friendship. It’s hard to put into words. But I think I’d say it like this: A lot of wrestlers, they work together in the ring, and then become friends outside the ring. Not us, though. We became friends in the ring — literally in the ring. Through the art of wrestling itself.
Of course, it started as a one-way friendship. Me following my uncle around Mexico, then later training to be a luchador myself around Mexico, and crossing paths with you that way — from the outside looking in. Instantly I felt a connection. It was so obvious just from watching you that you were special … that you’d mastered this presence, this way of movement, that was yours alone. But as I went through wrestling school, and began to study the craft of lucha libre, that’s when I understood how you’d mastered the fundamentals as well. So many times while training, I’d be working on some roll, or position, and I’d get to a point where maybe I’d start to think, Wow!!! I’m pretty good at this one. Then I’d see you do it..… and I’d learn the lesson that almost anyone who’s trained to wrestle has eventually had to learn: There’s a mountain of difference between “pretty good” and “Eddie.” Between pretty good and perfect.
Part of our connection, I think, was in how we both came from these legendary lucha families … which meant we both inherited the gift and curse of being “next” in a line. And I gained so much admiration for you, just from watching you carry that. One thing I always loved, that doesn’t get mentioned enough (and probably isn’t very well known), is how you came from a lineage of “shooters” — the not-f***ing-around type of wrestlers. The type who could (and might) break a guy’s leg for real if they had to. So you were trained in all of that … a legit, old-school tough guy. But you were never actually old-school. And you were never trying to be a tough guy. What you were, though, at your heart, was a genius — and it’s like you had this incredible drive to take that genius and push things forward. So as lucha libre evolved away from the shooters, to a more “worker”-based style, and became more about performing with someone than against them, you embraced it. And you worked at it, and worked at it, until you became the best in the world at it.
When I finally got to enter the ring with you, Eddie…… I’d say that’s when you finally got to know ME. And it’s when our friendship began to take shape for real. I think about those first few times we wrestled, and it’s like every now and then I would do something that surprised you a bit — a move I’d pull out, or a way I’d execute something, or even just the passion I’d show. Every time I did something like that, I could see your gears sort of turning. Like, Oh, OK. Interesting.… THIS is Rey…. I didn’t know he got MUD on him like that. Like you were slowly getting a read on me, and adjusting your expectations of me. And it’s like with each new adjustment we would strengthen our bond. I’m guessing there will be people confused by this — Huh??? That doesn’t sound like a basis for being friends. But that’s just it, WeeWeeto. That’s why our bond meant so much. It’s like we each loved this thing…… in a way that no one else could understand. So we almost had no choice but to understand each other.
The truest moment of our friendship may have been from our very first American match together. This was in ’97, so you’d already been in WCW for a year or two by then. I mean, come on, you’d already wrestled Ric Flair for the U.S. Title on Pay Per View!!! We were all so proud of you. And then slowly but surely we started following in your footsteps. But I also think we knew the deal: We were there to be undercard guys, to pop the crowd with exciting matches … but that’s about it. They didn’t really “see money” in us. And they didn’t always understand our culture.
That was definitely the case when they told me I’d be wrestling you at Halloween Havoc for your Cruiserweight Title … with my MASK on the line … and I was going to LOSE. Man, I remember being so upset when I heard that. I was panicking!!! Like, I had just started to get over with the American fans — and with my mask being such a strong part of my identity. So to lose it so early in my career, I knew that could be a death sentence. But what choice did I have?? I was a 22-year-old kid. I had no power, I had no leverage, I had no pull with the office.
Thankfully, though, I had you. I had my friend, my big brother. That whole day leading up to the match, my head was spinning. I couldn’t even think straight. But you just kept telling me, “Don’t worry, Rey!!!! Don’t worry!!!! Keep your head up, brother. We’re going to make this right.” And I’ll never know what those exact conversations were that went down behind closed doors. But I know you talked to the office, explained why it was a bad decision for me to lose, and convinced them to let you put me over. Honestly … I still get chills when I think of what you did for me that night. Not just sticking your neck out for me, but doing it at your own expense — and offering to lose your title, so I could keep mymask, and my identity, and the momentum in my career. It’s a gift I’ve never forgotten, and have tried to pay forward over the years as I’ve grown from New Kid into OG: the idea that success for Latinos in this business — in this life — doesn’t have to be zero-sum. We either get over as a community…… or we risk getting buried as one. For me, that lesson, it all started with you.
