I want you to picture a scene. It's 1995. You
are sitting on your couch, flipping through the
channels, and you land on primetime professional
wrestling. Day night. The classic spot. Exactly.
And you're expecting to see, you know, two athletes
in a ring, maybe a referee, maybe a title belt.
Standard fare. The usual stuff. Right. But instead,
sitting in the middle of the arena with absolutely
no explanation given is a gigantic block of ice.
And we are not talking about like a swan sculpture
you see at a wedding. We're talking about a cartoonishly
large, massive monolith of ice. And there's smoke
billowing around it. Lights are flashing. The
commentators are speaking in these hushed, terrified
tones. They're telling us that inside this ice
is a monster, a creature from the frozen north,
they call it, the Yeti. Now, if I tell you a
Yeti is about to break out of a block of ice,
what is the image that pops into your head? Well.
I mean, culturally speaking, a Yeti is the abominable
snowman. So I'm expecting white fur. I'm expecting
fangs, maybe a primate -like face. You know,
definitely something that looks like it belongs
in the Himalayas. Exactly. That is the only logical
assumption. But then the ice explodes, pyrotechnics
go off, and out steps a man, wrapped from head
to toe in dirty, tattered gauze bandages. Oh,
my God. He looks exactly like Boris Karloff from
the 1932 movie The Mummy. It is a moment of just
total visual incoherence. You have a creature
named after a snow beast who was encased in ice,
who emerges dressed as a... desert mummy ready
to engage in the hand -to -hand combat. It is
widely considered one of the most baffling, contradictory,
and let's be honest, unintentionally hilarious
moments in the history of television. But today
on The Deep Dive, we are not just here to point
and laugh at the mummy. As tempting as that is.
As tempting as it is, we're here to do something
a little different. We want to find the man inside
those bandages. And that is where the story shifts
from, you know, a blooper reel to a... Genuinely
fascinating human drama. We are talking about
a man named Ron Race. We've combed through the
archives, the match logs, the biographies, and
the old wrestling newsletters to bring you this
story. And our mission today is to look at the
concept of identity. It really is a perfect case
study in identity. We are looking at a legitimate
division -I athlete, a man born into what you
could pretty much call sports royalty, who ends
up freezing in a block of ice for a paycheck.
How does that happen? It's a story about physical
reinvention. It's about the specific strange
marketplace of the 1990s, where if you were seven
feet tall, the world didn't really want you to
be a person. They wanted you to be a monster.
Right. And as we'll see with Ron Reyes, they
didn't really care which monster you were, as
long as you were big and scary. So let's peel
back the bandages. Let's look at the man, the
myth, and, spoiler alert, the ninja. Oh, we will
definitely get to the name. Let's start at the
very beginning. To understand Ron Reyes, we have
to deal with the elephant in the room. Or rather,
the giant in the room. This isn't just a tall
guy we're talking about. No, no. We need to be
very specific about the biometrics here because
they define his entire life. Ron Reyes stood
7 feet, 2 inches tall. 7 '2". And he was billed
at a weight of 365 pounds. Seven foot two. That
places him in just a microscopic percentile of
the human population. It does. And usually when
we see men of that size, specifically in the
wrestling world, we kind of associate them with
a certain clumsiness. You know, the gentle giant
trope or the lumbering oaf who can barely put
one foot in front of the other. Sure, the Andre
the Giant model later in his career. Exactly.
But Reese was different. And that difference
comes from his pedigree. You mentioned sports
royalty earlier. Who was Ron Ray Sr.? So Ron
Ray Sr. was not just a tall father. He was a
cornerstone of the University of Cincinnati Bearcats
during their absolute golden era. We are talking
about the team that won back -to -back NCAA titles
in 1961 and 1962. Okay, hold on. For our listeners
who might not be college basketball historians,
winning back -to -back NCAA titles is incredibly
rare. That's a dynasty. It is. It's the absolute
pinnacle of the sport. So just imagine growing
up in that house. Your father isn't just big.
He's a champion. He has the rings. He has the
legacy. From the moment Ron Race Jr. started
growing, and he kept growing and growing... There
was an assumption. An expectation. A huge expectation.
You aren't just going to be big. You are going
to be an athlete. It's almost a predetermined
destiny, isn't it? You don't fit in a normal
car. You don't fit in normal clothes. You fit
on a basketball court. Precisely. And the sources
show he didn't just coast on his height. A lot
of giants just stand there and... You know, let
the ball hit him. We pulled the stats from his
time at Monta Vista High School in Cupertino,
California. Cupertino, which is funny because
before it was the headquarters of Apple, it was
the training ground for the Yeti. A very different
kind of giant emerged from there, that's for
sure. But look at these numbers. In his high
school career, Reese scored 2 ,082 points. 2
,000 points. OK, I need some context for that.
Is that good for a big guy or is that just flat
out good? That is elite. Consider that a high
school season is maybe 20 to 30 games long. To
hit 2 ,000 career points implies you are averaging,
what, 25 points a game for years. Wow. And for
a 7 -footer in the 80s, that usually meant just
standing under the basket and dropping the ball
in. But reports from the Times suggest Reese
actually had a touch. He had coordination. He
wasn't just a post. He led his team to the Central
Coast Section Championship in 1987. So he's a
blue -chip prospect. He's not a sideshow. Absolutely
not. That talent lands him at Santa Clara University,
Division I, and he plays four full years there.
And this is the crucial disconnect we need to
establish early on. When we talk about the Yeti
later, stumbling around like a zombie, we're
talking about a guy who spent four years running
suicide drills, memorizing complex defensive
plays, and competing at the highest collegiate
level. The engine inside the monster was a finely
tuned athlete. So that raises the obvious question.
You're 7 '2", you weigh over 300 pounds, you
have soft hands, and you scored 2 ,000 points
in high school. Why are we talking about a professional
wrestler and not an NBA center? Why wasn't he
banging in the post with Shaq and Hakeem Olajuwon?
It's the cruel filter of professional sports.
The NBA is the top, what, .001 % of athletes
in the world. You can be amazing, you can be
a college star, but if you lack that explosive
lateral quickness. That side -to -side movement.
That ability to slide your feet, to defend a
pick and roll against, you know, John Stockton.
Or if your knees are just slightly suspect from
carrying that frame for so long, you don't make
the cut. Reeves was a great college player, but
the NBA is a different beast entirely. It demands
a speed that is very, very rare for men over
seven feet. So the NBA door closes. It's the
early 90s. You have this massive body and this
proven athletic background. What are your options?
Well, you can go to Europe, maybe grind it out
in the pro leagues in Greece or Spain for decent
money. Or you look at the other industry that
pays a premium for height and has a history of
recruiting basketball players. Right. And this
is a really well -trodden path. The Undertaker
played college basketball. Kevin Nash played
for Tennessee. The skill set transfers surprisingly
well. You've got the footwork, the endurance,
and maybe most importantly, the ability to be
coached. You understand spacing. You understand
physicality. But Reese didn't just walk into
a local gym and start rolling around on the mats.
He sought out a very specific mentor. He went
to Big John Studd. No, that is a name that commands
respect in the wrestling world. For people who
might not know, who was Big John Studd? He was
a literal and figurative giant of the industry.
Big John Studd was a massive star in the WWE,
what we now call WWE in the 70s and 80s. He was
positioned as the arch rival to Andre the Giant.
The other giant. The other giant. He was famous
for the Body Slam Challenge, where he'd offer
thousands of dollars to anyone who could slam
him. He was a main event talent. So why does
it matter that Reese trained with Studd specifically?
Why not just a regular wrestling school? Because
wrestling as a giant is a completely different
art form than wrestling as a normal -sized person.
It's a different language. If you are 5 '10",
you need to learn to be fast, technical, maybe
high -flying. If you're 7 '2", your job is to
be immovable. Right, you're a landmark. You're
a landmark. You have to learn how not to take
a bump. You have to learn how to walk so that
the ground looks like it's shaking. You have
to learn how to work with opponents who are half
your size and make it look believable. Stud could
teach him the psychology of size. Giants of wrestling.
That's what they called themselves on the indie
circuit, right? Yes. A very on -the -nose name,
but it worked. Reese makes his debut on March
12, 1994, in the New England area. He starts
learning the ropes, tagging with his mentor.
He then moves out to Las Vegas for a promotion
called the National Wrestling Conference and
adopts the persona SWAT. SWAT, like a tactical
police officer. It was the 90s. Every gimmick
was either a job or a noun. He had a garbage
man, a plumber. a hockey player, so he was a
SWAT team member. It's pretty basic. It was rudimentary.
Yeah. But it was just the waiting room. Because
in 1995, World Championship Wrestling WCW came
calling. And they didn't want a SWAT team member.
They wanted an insurance policy. Okay, we absolutely
have to set the stage here. 1995 WCW. This isn't
the slick, polished product we see today with
WWE. This was the Wild West. It was chaotic.
It was vibrant. It was incredibly messy. You
had Hulk Hogan. the biggest star in the world
who had just come over from the WWF, and his
main antagonists were a faction called the Dungeon
of Doom. The Dungeon of Doom? Even the name sounds
like something a teenager scribbled on a napkin
during study hall. It was cartoonish villainy
at its finest. Their leader was a guy called
the Taskmaster, a short, screening maniac whose
only goal in life was to end Hulkamania. And
his army was just a collection of monsters, right?
Monsters, sharks, literally a guy named the shark.
They had Kamala, the Ugandan giant, Meng, a whole
menagerie. And they already had the giant who
we know today is the big show or Paul White.
Right. Paul White is a legitimate seven footer
as well. A massive human being in his own right.
But the booking philosophy, the script writing
at the time dictated that the odds always had
to be stacked against Hogan. So one giant wasn't
enough. For the upcoming Halloween Havoc pay
-per -view where Hogan was facing the giant,
they needed something bigger. Something. Colder.
Something colder. Enter the ice block. October
23, 1995. Monday Nitro. The visual is just seared
into the brains of wrestling fans. The arena
is dark, there's smoke everywhere, and this block
of ice is revealed. Now, logically, the creative
team clearly intended for a Yeti. The name implies
it, the ice implies it, everything points to...
Abominable snowman. You'd think so. So where
does the mummy come from? I mean, really, is
there any record of that meeting? Was it a mistake?
Did someone lose the fur costume? Did they just
not know what a yeti was? The sources are murky
on this, which honestly adds to the legend. The
prevailing theory is simply a breakdown in communication
between the costume department and the booking
committee. Pretty big breakdown. Or perhaps they
had the mummy costume lying around from an old
movie set or a Halloween store and someone thought,
well, he's big. Just wrap him up. He's a monster.
No one will notice the difference between snow
and bandages. They did notice. It's the first
thing everyone noticed. It's a mummy named the
Yeti. It's a walking contradiction. It gets even
better. Halloween Havoc 1995. The main event
is Hogan versus the Giant for the World Championship.
The Yeti breaks out of the ice to interfere.
And this is where we see the illusion of size
at work. Okay, explain this. Reese is 7 '2",
Paul White is roughly 7' even, maybe 7 '1". Why
did they need to fake anything? They are both
already enormous. Because in wrestling, the new
threat must always be larger than the old threat.
The giant, Paul White, was the current monster.
To make the Yeti seem like an even bigger threat,
he had to physically tower over the existing
giant. So how did they do it? The sources note
that Reese wore massive lifts in his boots. Lifts?
On a seven -foot -two man, you're adding height
to a skyscraper. Massive platform lifts. And
because he was wrapped in bandages, they could
cheat it. They wrapped the gauze high over the
top of his head, adding another three or four
inches of perceived height. So he's basically
walking on stilts blindfolded in a mummy suit.
Essentially. And that's why he walks so stiffly.
When he marched to the ring stiff -legged, because
you can't really bend your knees and lift like
that, he looked monstrously tall. And that's
when Tony Chivone, the lead announcer, screams
that famous line. The Yeti is taller than the
giant. That was the money line. That was the
whole point of the entire charade, to get that
one sentence on television. And then the hug.
We have to talk about the hug. The double bear
hug. It's a moment in time. The giant grabs Hulk
Hogan from behind in a bear hug. The Yeti then
shuffles up and grabs Hogan from the front in
another bear hug. It looked intimate. It looked
less like a vicious attack and more like a very
awkward, very large group hug. It was visually
clumsy, to put it my way. You have three massive
men just squeezing each other. Reese is kind
of shaking, trying to sell the power of the squeeze.
But it just looks like he's humping him. It's
so easy to laugh at it now. But I want to pause
and think about Ron Reiss for a second. Inside
that suit, what is possibly going through his
mind? He's an athlete. He scored 2000 points
in high school. He trained with Big John Studd.
And now he's dry humping Hulk Hogan in toilet
paper on national television. It has to be a
surreal mix of emotions. On one hand, you're
thinking, I can't believe I'm on TV with Hulk
Hogan. That is the peak of the industry at that
time. Sure. On the other hand. I really hope
none of my college teammates are watching this
right now. Yeah. But you do what the boss says.
It's the business. You go out there, you wear
the bandages, you do the awkward hug, and you
cash the check. So Halloween Havoc ends. The
Yeti has arrived. He has crushed Hogan. Surely
you keep this monster going, right? You milk
this for a year. He's the new big bad. In a logical
world, yes. In a world where stories make any
kind of sense, yes. In WCW in 1995, absolutely
not. The bandages disappear immediately. Just
gone. No melting scene. No unraveling segment
on TV where they reveal his face. Nope. The very
next time we see him, which is at the World War
III pay -per -view, a month later, the bandages
are off. And he is wearing a black hood and a
black bodysuit. Please tell me he wasn't. He
was a ninja. A 7 '2 ninja. That is a complete
oxymoron. The entire point of a ninja is stealth.
They hide in shadows. They climb walls unnoticed.
How do you hide a man the size of a minivan?
You don't. You put him in the middle of a 60
-man battle royal and call him the super giant
ninja. That sounds like something a five -year
-old would name their action figure. I want the
super giant ninja for my birthday. It does, and
that's essentially how WCW creative treated him.
He was an action figure they got bored with.
The mummy is boring. Okay, make him a ninja.
Oh, we're bored with the ninja now. It lasted
for a grand total of three appearances. Three.
The Battle Royal. A squash match against a guy
named Barry Houston, and another one against
one man gang. Then, poof. The ninja was gone.
This feels frantic. It feels like they saw his
size as a massive asset, but had zero respect
for the performer. They had no long -term plan.
That is the perfect way to put it. They viewed
him as a special effect, not a wrestler. He was
a... Prop. We need a ninja for this segment.
Use the big guy. But then in 1996, they try to
pivot to reality. He becomes Big Ron Studd. Okay,
so they finally acknowledge the training. They
acknowledge the lineage with Big John Studd.
This has to be a step up, right? It should have
been. They put him in simple tranks. No masks.
No gimmicks. They acknowledge on commentary that
Big John Studd was his mentor. It should have
been a respectful homage. A way to say, look,
this kid is the real deal. He has a pedigree.
But wrestling politics are never that simple,
are they? Never. Bobby the Brain, Heenan, who
was a legendary manager and color commentator
and, crucially, managed the original Big John
set back in the day, was working for WCW at the
time. And he wasn't a fan. Reports say he hated
the gimmick. He felt it was a cheap knockoff.
He felt it disrespected the memory of the original
stud, who had passed away by then. He even wrote
in the WCW magazine, the company's own publication,
that he didn't respect the angle. Imagine that.
You are trying to pay tribute to your mentor.
You're trying to finally be taken seriously as
a wrestler. And your mentor's most famous manager
is burying you in the company newsletter. It
undermines him completely from day one. So instead
of becoming a star attraction, Big Ron Studd
became what we call a jobber to the stars. Okay,
explain that term for the listener who might
not know the lingo. Because jobber sounds derogatory,
but it's actually a crucial part of the ecosystem,
isn't it? It is absolutely vital. Professional
wrestling is storytelling. If you want to make
a guy like Chris Benoit or Jeff Jarrett or Lex
Luger look like a dragon slayer, you need a dragon.
You can't just have them beat up regular guys.
Exactly. Yeah. They need to beat a giant to look
strong. So Reese became the dragon. His role
was to go out there, look terrifying for five
minutes, throw the smaller guy around. and then
the star would outsmart him or overpower him
and get the big dramatic win. So his job was
to lose. His job was to make the other guy look
like a million bucks. And that takes a ton of
skill. You have to know exactly when to fall,
how to sell the impact, so the crowd believes
that a 220 -pound man just knocked down a 365
-pound man. But for a competitor like Race, a
guy who won championships in high school, losing
every single night for a year. That has to take
a psychological toll. It's a grind. You're a
Division I athlete. You're conditioned to win.
And now your paycheck depends entirely on you
laying down for the other guy. It requires a
massive check of the ego. It's a role, an acting
role, really. But it must be incredibly difficult.
He had a string of high -profile losses to Benoit,
Randy Savage, Lex Luger, Jeff Jarrett, basically
every major star on the midcard. So he's the
Yeti, the ninja, the stud. Does he ever find
a character that actually has some meat to it?
Something that isn't just a costume or a tribute?
He does. And many would argue this was his best
and most memorable run. We have to fast forward
to 1998, the Flock era. The Flock. This was the
grunge era in wrestling, led by Raven. Exactly.
Raven was this fascinating, brooding, nihilistic
cult leader figure. He would sit in the corner
of the arena with his followers. He gathered
misfits and outcasts. And on March T, 1998, Ron
Reiss returns to WCW Nitro. But he's not a mummy
or a ninja. He's Reese. Just Reese. Spelled R
-E -E -S -E. And the narrative hook here is actually
compelling. Raven gives this promo where he claims
that Reese's size made him an outcast from society.
That because he was a freak of nature, normal
people rejected him, stared at him, made him
feel isolated. Which is probably true to some
extent for a man that size. It is. It blurs the
line between fiction and reality, doesn't it?
It taps into the real isolation that someone
of that size might feel. People staring at you
in airports. not being able to fit in restaurant
booths, being looked at as a specimen rather
than a human. So Raven offers him acceptance.
He offers him a home in the flock. And Reese
becomes the enforcer for the group, the muscle.
I remember this era. He wore the jean shorts,
the torn flannel shirt. He looked like a bouncer
for a Pearl Jam concert. It fit the aesthetic
of the time perfectly. And he had some key moments
within that storyline. He was involved in the
historic match where Goldberg, who was on the
greatest winning streak in wrestling history,
defeated Raven for the United States Heavyweight
Championship. Reese couldn't stop Goldberg, right?
Nobody could stop Goldberg back then. But being
in the frame for that moment, being part of that
historic angle, that's a big deal. And there
was a notable match against Juventud Guerrero,
right? Cruiserweight. The Great American Bash,
1998. This is the classic David versus Goliath
match. The Don is a cruiserweight, a high flyer,
maybe 5 '5", very small compared to Reese. And
Reese losing that match highlights that dynamic
again. The giant exists to make the little guy
look miraculous. But the end of the flock came
pretty violently for Reese. It did. On June 29,
1998, another member of the flock, a wrestler
named Perry Saturn, turns on the group. And to
make a statement, he hits a move called the Death
Valley Driver on Reese. Now, for those who don't
know, walk us through the physics of a Death
Valley Driver. What does that actually look like
on a man that size? Okay, so imagine a fireman's
carry. You lift your opponent up. but cross your
shoulders so they're horizontal. But instead
of just dropping them, you fall sideways with
them, driving their head and neck into the mat
with all of your body weight and all of theirs.
That sounds incredibly dangerous. It is. Now,
Perry Saturn is a very strong guy, a legitimate
powerhouse. But lifting a 365 -pound dead weight
up onto your shoulders and controlling that fall.
The physics alone are mind -boggling. It sounds
like a recipe for a broken neck for both guys.
It was a spectacular visual. The ring shook.
It was arguably the most impressive seat of strength
in WCW that entire year. But notice the pattern
again. The highlight is Saturn lifting Reese.
Reese's body was once again the prop that made
the moment possible. He took the bump, he trusted
his opponent, so Saturn could look like a god.
So the flock disbands, the 90s are winding down,
WCW is on its last legs, and it eventually collapses
and gets bought by WWE in 2001. Where does a
giant go when the big show closes down? Well,
like many American wrestlers, when the big promotions
run out of ideas for them, you look east. You
go to Japan. Japan has always loved the gaijin
monsters, right? The foreign heavyweights. They
absolutely love the spectacle of size. Think
of Andre the Giant, Stan Hansen, Big Van Vader,
the Japanese style. Strong style. Is very physical,
very hard -hitting. So in 2002, Reese tours Japan.
But he needs a new name. He can't be Reese the
Grunge Kid. Of course he needs a new name. So
what is it this time? Big Bomb Jones. Big Bomb
Jones. It's fantastic, isn't it? The source suggests
it's a riff on Big Van Vader. Maybe a combination
of Vader and Adam Bomb. another wrestler, or
just the word bomb because it sounds impactful.
It's wonderfully nonsensical. It's unclear, but
Big Bomb Jones sounds like a final boss character
from a 90s beat -em -up video game like Streets
of Rage. It really does. It sounds like you have
to defeat him to get to the next level. So he
found success over there. He toured throughout
2002. It shows his adaptability. He could work
the American TV style, which is more about character
and storylines. And he could work the grueling
Japanese touring style, which is about hitting
hard, endurance, and having long matches every
night. And he eventually comes back to the States
after that. He does. In 2003, he joins Turnbuckle
Championship Wrestling, or TCW. This was a promotion
run by the legendary Dusty Rhodes. And here...
He goes back to the big Ron Studd gimmick. A
return to his roots in a way. And he finds some
actual championship success. He forms a tag team
with a wrestler named Glacier. Glacier, the guy
who looked like Sub -Zero from Mortal Kombat.
The whole cryomancer gimmick. The very same.
So you have the guy who was the Yeti from the
Block of Ice and the guy who was a cryomancer.
It makes a weird sort of poetic sense, doesn't
it? It really, really does. They actually won
the TCW Tag Team Championships on January 3,
2004. So he got a hold gold. He got to be a champion.
That's good to hear. After all the jobbing, after
the mummy suit, after all the weird gimmicks,
he got a title. He did. But the story has one
final, very strange chapter. The final abstract
persona. And honestly, this might be weirder
than the Yeti. Oh, no. What could possibly top
the Yeti? I don't think that's possible. In 2005,
he works for a promotion called Ring of Glory
Wrestling. This was run by Vince Russo, a very...
A controversial writer in wrestling history.
But this promotion was different. It was a Christian
-oriented wrestling formation. Okay. So wrestling
with a biblical message. Exactly. It was all
allegorical. The storylines were meant to be
morality plays. And Reese played a character
named Evil. Just evil. Like Dr. Evil. Or you
mean the literal concept of evil. Just evil.
Not a name. The abstract concept of evil given
flesh. He wore black. He didn't speak. He was
the embodiment of sin. Wow. That is about as
unsubtle as it gets. Extremely. And to make the
allegory complete, on February 26, 2005, he wrestled
a man named Joshua the Carpenter. Joshua the
Carpenter. I feel like I know who that is supposed
to represent. It's a passion play in a wrestling
ring. It represents Jesus defeating Satan. And
of course, the source notes that Reese, as evil,
lost to Joshua, which theologically makes sense
for the promotion. Good must defeat evil. So
let's just trace this arc one more time. He went
from being a mummy frozen in ice to a ninja to
a grunge bouncer to being the literal embodiment
of sin getting pinned by a carpenter. That is
the career trajectory of Ron Reiss. It is an
exhausting list of identities. It really is.
You know, we've talked about his wrestling, but
the man did dip his toe into Hollywood, didn't
he? He did, very briefly. The source mentions
a film from 1999 called Assault on Death Mountain.
That's a great title. Also known as Shadow Warriors
II. Hunt for the Death Merchant. An even better
title. It starred Hulk Hogan, actually. And Reese
played a character named Vlassie. It's a small
footnote in his career, but it shows that he
was trying to leverage that size for acting,
much like other wrestlers like The Rock or Batista
have done, just on a much smaller scale. So,
let's zoom out. We've gone through the whole
timeline. Basketball player. SWAT. The Yeti.
The Supergiant Ninja. Big Romstead. Reese the
Outcast. Big Bomb Jones. And finally, evil. It
is a truly dizzying resume. It is! And when you
look at it all laid out like that, what is the
big takeaway? What does Ron Race's career tell
us about the industry he gave his body to for
over a decade? I think it tells us about the
commodification of the freak show aspect of wrestling.
Yeah. And I use that term historically, not respectfully.
The industry saw a man who was seven foot two.
And they didn't see Ron Reyes, the NCAA legacy,
the skilled basketball player who scored 2 ,000
points. They saw canvas. They saw canvas. They
saw a prop that could be wrapped in bandages
or put in a ninja hood or used as a stepping
stone to make other people look strong. It's
a career that was defined by his service to the
spectacle. He was the special effect. But there's
a real resilience there, isn't there? I mean,
he kept coming back. He didn't quit after the
mummy disaster, which would have been totally
understandable. He didn't quit after the ninja
embarrassment. He just kept reinventing himself.
Absolutely. There is a profound tenacity to that.
To endure the humiliation of the Yeti costume,
knowing that people are laughing at you, not
with you, and still come back and try to make
Reese work or try to make Big Ron Studd work.
That takes a true professional. It's a very strange
kind of professionalism, isn't it? I will wear
the toilet paper if the check clears and the
show goes on. And he'd get it for over a decade,
which in wrestling years is a lifetime. So here's
where it gets really interesting for me. And
this is the thought I want to leave everyone
with. We look back and we laugh at the Yeti.
It's a meme. It's a gif you see on Twitter. It's
a punchline. But inside that mummy suit was a
guy who probably dreamed of being the next Shaq,
or at the very least, a respected athlete. And
that's the tragedy and the beauty of it. He was
a real athlete. He was doing the work. The double
bear hug looks silly. But standing 7 '2 and taking
bumps for a living is incredibly hard on the
body. Your knees, your back, your hips. They're
not designed for that. It's physically punishing.
work. So while we chuckle at the super giant
ninja, we should also recognize the grind. We
should recognize the sacrifice that went into
being that punchline. We all wear masks at work,
right? Maybe not literal ninja masks, but we
all play a role. We adapt to what the boss wants.
We code switch depending on the meeting. We do.
We present the version of ourselves that is required
for the job. Ron Reyes did that to the absolute
extreme. He let himself be frozen in ice, wrapped
in cloth, shunned by society as an outcast, and
even personified as evil itself, all for the
entertainment of the crowd. And in doing so,
he became immortal in a very weird way. No one
forgets the Yeti. That is true. He might not
have ever won the world title, but he won a permanent
spot in our collective memory. And maybe. In
this strange world of professional wrestling,
that's enough. So next time you see a gif of
a giant mummy shaking his way toward Hulk Hogan,
don't just laugh. Remember Ron. Remember the
basketball star. Remember the man inside the
monster. It's a story of survival, really. Survival
of the weirdest. Couldn't have said it better
myself. Thanks for taking this deep dive with
us. My pleasure. And to you listening, stay curious
and maybe watch out for falling ice blocks. We'll
see you next time.