2 Corinthians 4:17-18

[Rick Majors]

"For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us
an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.
So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen,
since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal."

Rick Majors was 27 years old when his grandfather died. Admittedly, that’s a decent age to lose a grandparent. He wasn’t a child. He understood what death was. He had moved out on his own and started his own life. He’d been to funerals before. In terms of being able to cope with death, he was in a good position. But can you ever really cope with death? It’s so mysterious… it’s so permanent… it’s so…. final.

His grandfather dying was the first time a member of his immediate family had passed away. That alone made the experience more difficult. Plus, there was the fact that his grandfather was like a father to him.

He’d grown up with his mom as his single parent, but his maternal grandparents were there every step of the way as well. They looked after him while his mother went to work. They cared for him. His grandfather stepped into the role that his father vacated. He’s the one who took Rick fishing and boating and hiking in the woods. He’s the one who taught him how to tie a tie and how to shave. He’s the one who introduced Rick Majors to wrestling. He was as close to a father as he had.

And now he was dying.

It wasn’t unexpected. His grandfather had been sick for several months, and by the end he was unable to get out of bed. He couldn’t speak. He struggled to breathe. The end was near. In one sense, that made the situation easier to deal with. In others ways, knowing what was coming made things worse.

The who family anticipated the passing. They’d filled his house a few nights before he died, sitting around, talking, sharing stories, trying to comfort his grandmother. She was struggling both with the impending death of her husband as well as her own battle with dementia. At first it was nice. Aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, cousins and spouses… they all got together and spent time with one another. This was a rare occurrence.

If someone hadn’t been dying in the next room, you’d almost think it was a party.

But, as one day turned into two and two turned into three, the family gathering became a bizarre “death watch.” And it felt weird, like they were waiting for him to die. None of their lives could move on until he passed. It felt sad and disturbing and awkward all at the same time.

At one point, his mother left for several hours. It’s not that she had anywhere to go, it’s just that didn’t want to be in that house anymore, with those people in that situation. He didn’t blame her. Though he certainly missed her and wished that she would stay with him, Rick Majors understood.

Death hung in the air.

It was uncomfortable. It was strange. It was sad.

And then, in the middle of the night, his grandfather took his last breath.

They had all sat there for days, keeping vigil. No one wanted to leave his bedside. They didn’t want him to die alone. But he did. In the middle of the night, when they were all asleep, he passed. Whether that’s what he wanted or not, no one will ever know. But that’s what happened.

We don’t get to choose who dies or when they die. People pass on and they go…. no one really knows where they go. Not with absolute certainly at least. What we do know is that what happens after you die is only a concern to the living. The dead are gone. It’s up to us to move on. We must cope. We must live.




Rick Majors was 29 years old when the MWF closed. He had poured his heart and soul – not to mention most of his bank account – into that company. He’d grown the organization from nothing into an international brand that sold out stadiums across the country. Then he’d watched as it fell back down the ranks. The final shows took place in high school gyms and on university campuses. It was sad. But it wasn’t just a professional failing for Rick Majors. It wasn’t just about the business or the money. It was about what the company represented.

Rick had always wanted to be a professional wrestler, but he’d never done anything to make that goal a reality. Maybe he was scared. Maybe he feared injury or failure. Maybe he didn’t know how to start. Whatever it was, by the time he turned 25, he still had not entered a wrestling school. A lot of people might have said that he was still young and that he had his whole life ahead of him, but he felt like his time has passed. He was too old to start now. Certain that his dream of becoming a pro wrestler would never happen, he decided to at least involve himself in the industry in some capacity.

He started by attending a few independent shows and talking to whoever would speak to him. He quickly got himself into some booking meetings and before long, he found himself running some local shows. A loan from his mother (a loan that he still has not repaid) helped him turn this experience into starting his own company.

This was something he was good at. He not only had a knack for business, but he also seemed to have a way with wrestlers. He could talk to them in a manner they appreciated and that resulted in him booking some pretty big names for his shows. He was honest, he paid people well, and his company put on big shows. It was going well.

And then, one day, the roster started thinning out. It was the late-90s and wrestling was in a boom. Larger companies, desperate for new stars, snapped up much of his talent. And soon, the MWF was on its deathbed.

Backstage at the final show, he cried. He’d known it was coming for a while, but while watching that show from behind the curtain, it finally hit him. No matter what he did, he couldn’t properly prepare for the reality that faced him. The company as closing and so was his chance at being in the wrestling industry. All his dreams were crashing down around him. It felt suffocating. It felt horrible. And there was nothing he could do.

It was over.




Rick Majors was 38 years old when the NLCW closed. Once the MWF shut its doors, he wallowed for a while. Then, as his 30th birthday approached, he decided to step into the ring at an independent show where he was working backstage. It was supposed to just be a one-night deal. A wrestler on the card hadn’t showed up, so he took their place. But somehow, despite having no formal training, he did okay. He lost the match, obviously, but he impressed enough people backstage to earn himself a second match.

That second match turned into a third, which turned into a fourth, which soon turned into a call from the NLCW. No Limits Championship Wrestling was new, but it was already getting a lot of buzz. Some very big names in the industry had signed there and the entire wrestling world was paying attention to the company.

Rick Majors was signed to compete in a tournament to name the first NLCW Cruiserweight Champion. And, somehow, against all odds, he won that tournament. He’d go on to hold that title for months, building a long undefeated streak in the process. Within a year, he was one of the company’s biggest names.

But, to him, the NLCW wasn’t just about the championships and the notoriety. It was about the friendships he’d made. For the first time, he was “one of the boys.” Rick Majors had never been popular growing up. He’d never had many friends at any point in life. But, in the NLCW, travelling the roads and staying late at shows had resulted in several real friendships. He felt like he belonged. The company was his home. During his time in the NLCW, he even met his wife. He was happy. He felt whole.

And even as many of those friendships died, even as his wife was hospitalized thanks to a drunk driver, he held on to the NLCW. He wouldn’t let go. He returned to the ring after a brief retirement, emotionally broken but physically strong, and won the World Championship. And then, within weeks, the company was gone.

He was angry. He felt ripped off. Everything good in his life had been taken from him. First his friends, then his wife, and now his home. He had nowhere to go. He was lost. He was scared. He was broken.




Rick Majors is 49 years old right now. At almost 50 years of age, he will walk into Mass Destruction, ready to take on anyone who shows up. Is that a smart move? Probably not. Is it the right move? Most certainly. Whatever happens, he will be there ready to defend the Genesis Title.

Will anyone show up? For one of the first times in PCW history, that’s a legitimate question. He’d heard rumours about former competitors coming back or challengers appearing from other companies, but you never know what’s going to happen until the day of the show. Nothing is guaranteed. The company is not what it once was. There are not too many PCW diehards around anymore and three of the most dedicated ones are battling it out for the World Title. And that could leave Rick Majors alone. Again.

But it’s different this time.

When the MWF closed, he was crushed. Running that company was a dream come true and suddenly it was over. When the NLCW closed, he was lost. Kelly was still hospitalized, and he had turned to wrestling to give himself some sense of normalcy. Then it was suddenly gone. He didn’t know where to turn.

Now? No matter what happens with the Genesis Title or Pure Class Wrestling or the entire wrestling industry, he knows he will be okay. No matter what happens, he must cope. He must live.

Maybe it’s because he’s older now. Maybe it’s because he’s dealt with loss in his life. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t expect anything other than disappointment these days. He doesn’t know why, but, whatever the reason, he feels okay. Even sitting alone in his apartment, with no friends, no family, nothing… it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. Even if he walks out to the ring on Sunday night and no one comes out to face him, that’s okay. Even if the PCW lights turn out at the end of Mass Destruction and they never come back on again, it will be alright.

Pure Class Wrestling has nothing else to prove.

Just like just grandfather had nothing else to prove. And the MWF and NLCW had nothing else to prove. And he has nothing else to prove. It is what it is. Everyone lives life as best they can. You can’t be perfect. You can’t script how it will all go. You do the best you can. And, when it’s time to go, you go.

He’ll never be PCW World Champion. He’ll never be the company’s biggest star. He’ll never accomplish so many of the things he hoped he would when he signed a contract with the company back in 2012. But that’s fine. That’s life.

He’s lived more than many people have, not just in years but also in experiences. He’s travelled the world. He’s met interesting people and done interesting things. He’s run a company, ruled a company, and fallen into a cult. He’s fallen in love and fallen out of love. He’s broken his neck and injured his knee and slit his wrists on the washroom floor. He’s slept in his car and held championship gold. He’s been on a rollercoaster for almost 50 years and it has certainly been a thrill. Whenever it ends, and however it ends, it’ll be okay.

He no longer feels crushed. He no longer feels ripped off. He no longer feels lost. Whatever this is, whoever he is right now, he’s content.

Hopefully, there is an opponent or two across the ring from him on Sunday night. Hopefully, he gets to have one more match. Hopefully, he gets to defend the Genesis title one more time. It’s a title he didn’t want. It’s a title that replaced the Crown that had come to define him. But, over the course of the last few months, it’s certainly come to mean something. He wants to hold onto it.

But, unlike prior championship reigns, he’ll be okay if this one ends. If it ends, that means there is someone else who wants this belt. It means that there is still competition in PCW. And that would obviously be a good thing. But if no one does… if he ends up standing alone inside that ring on Sunday night…. that’s okay too.

This won’t be a death watch. This won’t be a vigil. Mass Destruction should be a celebration of everything that PCW has meant. And it will be.

If it’s time to go, it’s time to go. We’d love if the people and the things that matter could stay around forever. But that’s not how it works. We don’t get to choose who dies or when they die. That’s not our role. Our role is to live.