When I was 5 years old, the corner of our family room in Longmeadow, Massachusetts, was my own Madison Square Garden. Armed with a squadron of World Wrestling Federation action figures — “Macho Man” Randy Savage, Bret “The Hitman” Hart, “The Undertaker,” and, of course, “The Ultimate Warrior,” my undisputed favorite — I’d stage epic wrestling matches on a makeshift ring of couch cushions and carpet. The Ultimate Warrior’s face paint and frenetic energy spoke to my kid-brain, but even then, I couldn’t resist the gravitational pull of Hulk Hogan. What wrestling fan didn’t love the Hulkster? With his bleach-blond mustache, red bandana, and 24-inch pythons, he was the Babe Ruth of professional wrestling — a quasimythical figure who wasn’t just a character but a living legend in our day and age.

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My father, sensing my obsession, took me to see Hogan in the flesh at the Springfield Civic Center. I can still feel the electric buzz of the crowd, the way the arena shook when Hogan’s theme, “Real American,” blared through the speakers. He hulked up, shook off a clothesline from “Rowdy” Roddy Piper, and dropped the leg on him to a thunderous roar. I was hooked. But by 7, I learned the dirty secret: Wrestling was scripted. The magic faded, and my fandom shifted to “real” sports — basketball, baseball, and football. Yet, looking back, I see now that wrestling’s pageantry, emotions, and performances were as real as any slam dunk or home run. And Hulk Hogan? He was the beating heart of it all.

Hogan, born Terry Gene Bollea, died on July 24 at 71, leaving behind a legacy that transcends the squared circle. In his final years, he morphed from a wrestling icon into a towering figure in conservative politics, a MAGA hero whose journey from the WWF to the Republican National Committee stage cemented him as a cultural lightning rod. His death sparked an outpouring of tributes from the Right — and vitriolic attacks from the Left. But whether you cheered or jeered, Hogan’s late-life transformation into a political force, his takedown of Gawker, his spiritual rebirth, and his unapologetic embrace of President Donald Trump’s America ensure he’ll loom even larger as a conservative icon in the years ahead.

From the ring to the Right

Hogan’s political arc wasn’t inevitable. In the 1980s and ‘90s, he was the all-American hero, waving the flag and preaching, “Train, say your prayers, eat your vitamins.” His politics, if you could call them that, were vague — patriotic platitudes that fit the Reagan era but didn’t scream partisan. He was a showman, not a senator. Yet as the culture wars heated up, Hogan found himself drawn into the fray, his larger-than-life persona perfectly suited for the polarized stage of 21st-century politics.

Hogan’s political awakening crystallized in the aftermath of a personal scandal that could’ve ended him. In 2012, Gawker, the snarky, left-leaning gossip site, published a leaked sex tape showing Hogan with the wife of radio host Bubba the Love Sponge. The tape, recorded without Hogan’s consent, was a gross violation of privacy, but Gawker’s editors framed it as “newsworthy,” gleefully mocking the wrestler under the headline, “Even for a Minute, Watching Hulk Hogan Have Sex in a Canopy Bed is Not Safe For Work but Watch It Anyway.” Worse, the tape revealed Hogan using racial slurs, sparking a firestorm that cost him his WWE contract and public goodwill. The Left branded him a racist, and the Right saw a man targeted by a vindictive media.

Enter Peter Thiel, the billionaire tech mogul and conservative kingmaker. Thiel, nursing his own grudge against Gawker for outing him as gay in 2007, saw an opportunity. He secretly bankrolled Hogan’s $100 million invasion-of-privacy lawsuit against the site, funneling $10 million to a legal team led by Charles Harder. The 2016 trial was a spectacle, with Hogan’s larger-than-life persona squaring off against Gawker’s self-righteous “journalism” defense. A Florida jury sided with Hogan, awarding him $140 million (later settled for $31 million), a verdict that bankrupted Gawker and sent shock waves through the media world.

The lawsuit wasn’t just a personal victory for Hogan. It was a cultural earthquake. Thiel’s funding, revealed post-trial, exposed a new playbook: Deep-pocketed conservatives could weaponize the legal system to silence left-leaning outlets. Critics cried foul, warning of a chilling effect on press freedom. Supporters, including many on the Right, cheered the demise of Gawker, a site they saw as emblematic of woke excess — smug, invasive, and unaccountable. Hogan, once a victim, emerged as a conservative folk hero, the guy who took down the “wokist” media with a leg drop heard ‘round the world.

Hogan’s journey didn’t end in the courtroom. In 2023, at 70, he underwent a late-life baptism, a moment that added depth to his public persona. The ceremony, held at a Florida church, saw Hogan and his wife, Sky Daily, publicly declare their faith. “Total surrender and dedication to Jesus is the greatest day of my life,” Hogan posted on X, sharing images of the event. For a man whose career was built on bravado, the humility of the moment struck a chord with conservative audiences, who saw it as a redemption arc — a wrestler turning from scandal to salvation.

This spiritual pivot dovetailed with Hogan’s growing alignment with the MAGA movement. He had dabbled in politics before, supporting Barack Obama in 2008 before flipping to Mitt Romney in 2012. But by 2016, Hogan claimed he cast his first-ever vote for Donald Trump, a fellow WWE Hall of Famer whose bombastic style mirrored his own. Their friendship, forged in the 1980s at WrestleMania events hosted at Trump’s Atlantic City properties, deepened as Hogan embraced Trump’s anti-establishment ethos. The July 13, 2024, assassination attempt on Trump in Butler, Pennsylvania, was the final catalyst. “When I saw him stand up with that fist in the air and the blood on his face — as a warrior, as a leader — I realized that’s what America needs,” Hogan said on Fox News.

Hogan’s political apotheosis came on July 18, 2024, at the Republican National Convention in Milwaukee. Taking the stage to “Real American,” he delivered a performance that fused wrestling theatrics with MAGA fervor. “Well, let me tell you something, brother!” he roared, his signature catchphrase igniting the crowd. He called Trump his “hero,” praised his toughness, and tore off his shirt to reveal a red Trump-Vance tank top, flexing his biceps as the arena erupted in “U.S.A.!” chants. “Let Trumpamania run wild, brother! Let Trumpamania rule again! Let Trumpamania make America great again!”

The moment was pure Hogan — part promo, part patriotism, all spectacle. Trump, watching from the family box, beamed like a child at WrestleMania, even blowing Hogan a kiss. For MAGA faithful, it was a cultural touchdown: a wrestling legend, redeemed by faith and vindicated in court, aligning with their champion against a common enemy — the liberal elite. Hogan’s speech wasn’t just a highlight of the RNC. It was a defining image of the 2024 election, a middle finger to the Left wrapped in a red bandana.

Hogan doubled down in the months that followed, appearing at Trump’s Madison Square Garden rally and an Inauguration Day event at Mar-a-Lago. He even used a promotional event for his Real American Beer brand to take shots at former Vice President Kamala Harris, asking a crowd if he should “body slam” her or “drop the leg” on her, comments that stirred controversy for their perceived insensitivity. “That was the beers talking,” he later quipped, but the damage was done — and for MAGA fans, it only burnished his credentials as an unapologetic provocateur.

Hogan’s death from cardiac arrest in July 2025 in Clearwater, Florida, unleashed a torrent of reactions. Trump led the tributes, calling him a “great friend” who was “MAGA all the way — strong, tough, smart, but with the biggest heart.” Vice President JD Vance, another Thiel protégé, hailed him as a “great American icon.” But the Left wasn’t so kind. Social media posts on X erupted with vitriol, branding Hogan a “racist MAGA supporter” and a “heel” who “teamed up with Peter Thiel to destroy Gawker.” One user snarked, “Rest in Poverty, Hulk. We hardly knew ya.” Another pointed to the Gawker lawsuit, accusing Hogan of being a pawn in Thiel’s anti-press crusade.

The attacks centered on two flashpoints: the 2015 racism scandal and the Gawker case. The same leaked tape that eventually led to Gawker’s downfall also happened to capture Hogan using a racial slur while discussing his daughter’s dating life. His apologies —“It was unacceptable for me to have used that offensive language; there is no excuse for it”— did little to quell critics, especially after additional racist remarks surfaced from 2008 jailhouse calls. Black WWE wrestler Mark Henry called it a “dark cloud” over Hogan’s career, noting that he never fully addressed the issue. For the Left, Hogan’s MAGA turn only confirmed their view: He was a bigot who found a home in Trump’s America.

The Gawker lawsuit, meanwhile, remains a lightning rod. Progressive Democrats see it as a chilling precedent, with Thiel’s funding signaling a new era of billionaire-driven censorship. Journalist Josephine Riesman, in a scathing piece for The Handbasket, called Hogan a “vessel” for Thiel’s “war on the free press,” arguing that the lawsuit paved the way for Trump’s legal battles against media outlets such as CBS. Others, like Slate’s wrestling columnist, framed Hogan as a willing accomplice in Thiel’s vendetta, noting his half-hearted apology to black wrestlers upon his 2018 WWE return.

Yet these attacks only fuel Hogan’s posthumous ascent as a conservative icon. To the Right, the Left’s outrage is proof of his impact — a man who stood up to cancel culture, defeated a woke media giant, and embraced faith and patriotism. His flaws, they argue, are outweighed by his courage. As Charlie Kirk put it, “Hulk Hogan was a genuine, uniquely American creation. Fearlessly original. Flawed but unbowed. He had the courage to stand on his own principles, and he never stopped fighting for his country.”

Hogan’s death ensures that his story will only grow larger. In life, he was a wrestler, a showman, and a flawed man who weathered scandals and emerged as a MAGA warrior. In death, he is poised to become a conservative myth — a symbol of resistance against the Left’s cultural hegemony. His Gawker victory, backed by Thiel’s millions, will be studied as a master class in taking down the media elite. His baptism will resonate with evangelicals, who see in him a prodigal son redeemed. And his RNC performance, shirt ripped and muscles flexed, will be replayed as a defining moment of Trump’s 2024 triumph.

EDWIN J. FEULNER JR, 1941-2025

The Left’s attacks, far from diminishing him, will only solidify his status. Every X post calling him a racist or a Thiel pawn burnishes his credentials among conservatives who view such criticism as a badge of honor. Hogan’s story fits the MAGA narrative: a man vilified by the woke, lifted by faith, and vindicated by his loyalty to Trump. His Real American Beer brand, now embroiled in a $10 million lawsuit, will likely become a collectible for MAGA fans, a relic of their hero’s final stand.

Hogan’s legacy mirrors wrestling — scripted yet visceral, flawed yet undeniable. He wasn’t the Ultimate Warrior, my childhood favorite, but he was something greater: a cultural force who transcended the ring to become a political titan. As I reflect on that night in Springfield, watching him drop the leg on Piper and electrify the crowd, I realize that the Hulkster never stopped performing. He just traded the squared circle for the political arena, and in doing so, he ensured his name would echo long after the final bell. Let Trumpamania run wild, brother.

Daniel Ross Goodman is a Washington Examiner contributing writer, the author of three books, and the Allen and Joan Bildner Visiting Scholar at Rutgers University.