Kirsty Bosley: My brush with The Dead Man is a moment I'll never forget
When I was very young, I was scared of everything. The dark, unexpected loud bangs, strangers, creepy crawlies and finding myself inexplicably without my mother. But more than anything, I was scared of The Undertaker.
For those of you who don't know him, he's the scariest wrestler of all time; an intimidating 6ft 10ins of horror. At just shy of 300lbs (21 stone), Taker was not only bigger than any other adult I'd ever encountered in my five years of life, but he was also the animated dead made live.
He popped up in coffins bafflingly at wrestling shows, rolling his eyes back in his head like something the late, great Wes Craven would have created and gathering super-human strength from an urn brandished by a similarly spooky man called Paul Bearer.
You knew that The Undertaker was about to wrestle when you were watching a wrestling VCR, as the screen would go black. The bongs of a death knell would toll and your blood would crystallise into icy shards, piercing your heart and freezing you on the spot.
His entrance music was as haunting as he was, the organ wailing through the darkness.
For a girl of five, it was almost too much to take. The Undertaker would often approach the wrestling ring (and his unfortunate victims) in a hearse, Paul Bearer wailing and moaning like a ghost up ahead.
At best, the competitor would get the better of Taker early on, knocking the big man down with some manoeuvre or other. At the worst, Taker would smash their head into the canvas in a piledriver known as a Tombstone, and then it was almost definitely curtains. At least until their next match.
I could never understand how they were still alive afterwards, or how their neck wasn't broken, their head wedged inside their torso like a mistreated Cabbage Patch Kid.
As a child, I had the infinite protection of my older brother who, standing at a massive three-feet tall was enough to keep me from harm. However, there were some situations in which Ryan could not shield me from The Dead Man – namely when I needed to go to the toilet.
Even now I can remember vividly how scared I was to venture upstairs to the loo after an Undertaker match. Just 13 steps away from the living room where my family sat, I would sit terrified, weeing as fast as I could so escape as quickly as possible.
If there was one place in the world where one of the most famous American wrestlers of all time would be on a Sunday night, ready to throttle little girls to death, it was upstairs in our West Brom council house. Oh God, quick. Why is this wee taking so long?!
"RYAN!" I'd shout. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING DOWN THERE WHAT'S HAPPENING?!" I would ask in the hope that he'd come to the bottom of the stairs.
If I could see him, I was safe. But he knew I was being daft, and remained fast on the sofa.
I'd shoot off the toilet quicker than a greyhound out of a trap, hurtling down the stairs at breakneck speed, The Undertaker's grey glove brushing my dirty blonde hair as I ran. 'He didn't get me this time', I'd think, but would I be so lucky the next time?
As the years went on, my fear of Taker lessened as he continued to wrestle, but the bongs of that death knell still electrified me every time I heard them.
Earlier this year, my friends Jimmy and Tom asked if I'd like to fly out to New York to see SummerSlam – one of the WWE's biggest wrestling shows of the year. I agreed happily and we booked flights and tickets.
So far, so good.
And then only weeks ago, it was announced that The Undertaker – who now at 50 years old only wrestles once a year – would be headlining the show. I couldn't believe it.
Twenty plus years had come and gone since my days of toilet terror, and now it was set to come back. I was going be there when the lights went out, hear that death knell and see The Dead Man, right in front of my eyes. Who would ever have thought it?
We flew out and I felt sick (thank you Rescue Remedy for keeping me grounded). As each hour ticked away, I became more and more nervous. It wasn't fear any more. The enormity of the situation threatened to upend me as I realised that this night was two decades in the making.
Sitting in a plastic seat in Brooklyn's Barclays Center, I felt my eyes prickle with impending tear-spillage.
My friend Jo had managed to nab us backstage passes for the event, and we were happily seated in a segregated area in a perfect spot to see all the action.
By perfect spot, I mean I was close enough to see the wrestlers, but far enough away so that I could get a good head start on The Undertaker if he decided to change direction and attempt to strangle me to death after all.
My heart was pounding – fight or flight.
The night began with the introduction of the commentators. I cheered and whooped the Spanish commentary team as they entered the arena, and hollered for English-speakers JBL and Michael Cole.
When Jerry 'The King' Lawler's music hit (the most long-standing of the commentators), I began to heave with suppressed sobs. There are some moments when excitement, happiness and relief hit you, and this was one of them. It was all a bit much.
I watched the show with wonderment, screaming and booing at all the right moments, and cowering at the overpowering noise of the pyrotechnics (another of my childhood terrors, back to ruin my life). And then the time had arrived. My hands trembled with anticipation, I held my breath and the lights went out.
Bong . . . bong . . .
I don't remember seeing The Undertaker arrive in the Barclays Center. I don't remember his walk to the ring. All I remember was the warmth of my tears streaming down my cheeks, made hotter by the blasts of fire that shot out from the stage to mark the arrival of The Dead Man.
I know The Undertaker isn't really eternal in death, I'm not stupid. But that night will stay with me for the rest of time, living forever in my heart and my memory, never dying.
Nothing and no one will ever wrestle that away from me, and I'm grateful to The Dead Man for that.
