You weren't just an event. You were a storm. A living room turned arena. The scent of tortilla chips and cheap soda thickened the air, and a dozen boys, sweaty, loud, and electric, packed into one room like a pride of howling wolves.

We had snacks. We had arguments. And we had high stakes.

Would Hulk Hogan win? Could anyone stop Andre the Giant? Was Randy Savage really the greatest of all time?

We watched with wild eyes and open mouths, cheered until our voices cracked, booed like our lives depended on it, threw popcorn like confetti, and suplexed couch cushions just to feel like we were in it.

And for that one night, we were brothers.

We wrestled during commercial breaks. We made entrance themes out of cassette tapes. We lived fully in the moment, too young to know we were carving a memory that we'd never quite shake.

We didn't think about the future. We didn't know we'd scatter. We didn't know that two of us wouldn't be here now to remember it.

And now, when WrestleMania comes around, when I see the logo or hear the theme music, I don't just remember the matches. I remember the laughter. The noise. The joy of being crammed on the floor with your best friends, elbows and ribs, Mountain Dew fizzing, believing in everything the world could be.

I remember the ones who aren't here. Their voices. Their laughter. The way they jumped up at the exact moment I did when a steel chair came out of nowhere.

It hurts, a little. But it also matters.

Because that night... that ridiculous, glorious night of pageantry and pyro was real. And we were together.

And I'll always carry that ring bell echo in my chest and the way it felt to be surrounded by people who got it before life became more complicated than a heel turn.

This has been a love letter to a forgotten thing and to the tag team memories that still rumble through the quiet parts of our heart.