Know Your Role

JUST... BRING IT.

I sat on the edge of my parents' bed, the faded pink floral comforter bunching under me, my eyes locked on him: Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned, gut hanging out, shades on, head tilted back as he "smelled what The Rock was cooking." My dad had charisma for days—the kind that made strangers feel like old friends. Cousins called him "Uncle Rock," but to me, he was just Dad—larger than life and cool as hell.

The room smelled like carpet powder and smoked turkey necks—warm, the kind of warmth you don't appreciate until it's a memory. The 19-inch CRT perched on the dresser buzzed with static as The Rock's theme music hit: IF YA SMELL... The crowd on TV roared, but I only cared about the man in the room. I was just a kid with everything—a Game Boy loaded with Pokémon Silver, wrestling on TV, The Rock, and my dad, teaching me what it meant to create your own moment.

I wish I could say I didn't know what I had until it was gone. But the truth? I knew the whole time. I watched him like you'd watch your favorite wrestler, trying to catch every move, every gesture, hoping some of that magic would rub off on me.

He didn't need a ring or a crowd. My dad was the main event. He'd stride right through the living room like he was ready to layeth the smackethdown, turning gas station runs into grand entrances. He had the juice, plain and simple.

It wasn't just wrestling, either. He brought that same energy everywhere—barbecues, family reunions, even at work. People gravitated toward him, and he loved the spotlight, wore it like a championship belt. He could take a quiet room and flip it, all jokes and big laughs. I didn't understand how someone could command a space like that, how they could just... decide to be the coolest person in the room and make it true.

For me, it was everything I wasn't. I was shy, socially awkward, and scared of saying the wrong thing. Daddy? He took all that pressure off me without ever saying a word. I wasn't just his kid—I was his favorite person to hang out with. In a world of millions, I was his Rock.

He never told me to be louder. He didn't need to. He just showed me that you could carry yourself with confidence even when life isn't perfect. And sometimes, that meant performing. Putting on a show, even when you didn't feel like it. He taught me that it isn't about being flawless—it's about owning who you are, jabroni or not.

When my dad passed, everything went dark for a while. Wrestling stopped being fun. The Rock left for Hollywood around the same time, and it felt like everything I loved about those nights had vanished. The world lost its background music, its electricity.

But I couldn't let it go. I'd rewatch old matches, hearing the same crowd pop when The Rock's music hit. I'd play Here Comes the Pain on my PlayStation for hours, pretending my dad was watching every move, calling the match in his booming voice. Those games became my lifeline—something to hold onto when everything else felt too heavy, when the three-count seemed impossible to kick out of.

Even now, when I see The Rock back in the ring, it's more than nostalgia. It's a reminder of those times, of who I was back then. Of the kid who thought his dad could go toe-to-toe with any superstar and win.

And somehow, I started to channel both of them—The Rock and my dad. I didn't realize it at first, but I started cracking jokes in tough situations, stepping into rooms with a little more presence, even when I felt like disappearing. It wasn't perfect, but it was something. It was me, finding my voice in the echoes of theirs.

I was never going to be my dad. That much was obvious. He could light up a room without trying; I could barely raise my voice above a mumble. But over time, I realized I didn't have to be him. I just had to carry a piece of him with me, like a wrestler carrying an old move from their mentor.

The Rock gave me the blueprint: confidence, showmanship, a little swag when the moment called for it. My dad showed me how to live it. I started small—cracking a joke here, standing a little taller there. At first, it felt forced, like a bad impersonation. But then it started to feel natural, like it had always been in me, just waiting to come out, like a finishing move you've practiced a thousand times.

Now? I'm a riot, even if it's sometimes a defense mechanism. I can turn a bad day into a decent one with a little humor and a lot of energy. When I walk into a room, I don't shrink anymore. I don't need people to like me, but I damn sure make them notice. I'm not afraid to fail and own it. And that? That's the kind of energy my dad would have loved. The kind The Rock would call electrifying.

When I see The Rock now—not Dwayne Johnson, the movie star, but The Rock—it's like stepping back into a memory. The music hits, the crowd goes wild, and for a moment, I'm back in that room: carpet powder in the air, the TV buzzing, my dad standing there, larger than life, showing me how to work a crowd of one.

It's nostalgia, sure, but it's more than that. It's a reminder of what wrestling—and my dad—taught me. Wrestling is random, dramatic, over the top. But it's also about telling stories, about going out there every night to perform, win or lose, and giving everything you've got. It's flawed and perfect at the same time, just like every hero we ever had.

That's the lesson I carry with me. My dad wasn't perfect—far from it. But he was perfect to me. He showed me that it's okay to take up space, to shine a little brighter, even when life feels like it's pinning you down.

Because as The Rock would say, "Know your role."

And mine is to step into the spotlight, even when it scares me—just like they did.