The lonely final bell for wrestling's greatest villains

The isolation of the ring

The image of Sgt. Slaughter standing as the lone representative of the professional wrestling industry at the 2023 funeral of The Iron Sheik is a jarring reality check. It serves as a stark reminder of the transient nature of fame within this business.

For decades, these two men were inextricably linked by the most successful angle of the 1980s. Their feud defined the patriotic fervor of the era, culminating in a series of matches that packed arenas from Madison Square Garden to the Cow Palace.

When a wrestler passes, the industry often floods social media with tributes. These posts are easy to draft and even easier to share. Showing up in person is a different commitment entirely.

The myth of the brotherhood

Wrestling often markets itself as a tight-knit family. We hear stories about locker room bonds that survive decades of travel, drug abuse, and physical trauma. Yet, the absence of peers at a funeral for a man who helped build the foundation of modern WWE suggests those bonds are often superficial.

The Iron Sheik was a polarizing figure who never truly broke character, even in his final years. His social media presence was erratic, often abrasive, and occasionally offensive. Perhaps his contemporaries found it difficult to reconcile the man they knew with the persona he maintained.

However, the professional courtesy of mourning a peer should not be conditional. If the industry wants to claim a legacy of brotherhood, it needs to show up when the cameras are off and the lights are dimmed. Seeing only Slaughter there feels like a failure of the collective.

The cost of the gimmick

The Iron Sheik was the quintessential heel. His ability to draw heat was unparalleled because he didn't rely on cheap tricks. He used legitimate amateur credentials and a genuine, terrifying intensity that made fans believe he was a legitimate threat to American security.

That dedication to the character, however, likely contributed to his professional isolation. By staying in character for decades, he made it difficult for younger generations to distinguish the man from the monster. When the lines blur for too long, the person behind the mask gets lost.

This is a recurring theme in the history of the sport. We celebrate the performers who sacrifice their health for our entertainment, but we rarely support them when they are no longer useful to the promotion. The industry operates on a recent report from Wrestling Inc regarding Slaughter's attendance, which highlights a disconnect between the public reverence for legends and their private reality.

A legacy left in the pews

Sgt. Slaughter deserves credit for his loyalty. He understood that the history of wrestling is built on the backs of those who played the villain. Without the Sheik's interference in the 1984 match where Hulk Hogan won the belt, the entire trajectory of the company would have changed.

The 1980s were a golden age of booking that relied heavily on the foreign menace trope. It was a simple, effective narrative that made millions. Yet, looking at the empty seats at that funeral, it is clear that the business has moved on from those who made it rich.

The lack of attendance isn't just a scheduling conflict. It is a reflection of how disposable the industry views its own history. When a man who headlined the first WrestleMania dies, the lack of presence from his peers is a loud, sad statement.

We can blame the travel schedules or the age of the remaining legends, but that is a lazy excuse. If these performers are truly family, they should have been there to pay their respects to a man who sacrificed his body for the sake of the show. The silence of the locker room is deafening.