On the Sam Roberts podcast The Big Show announced this will be his last WrestleMania
Paul Wight, the in-real-life name of the hulking monstrosity better known as the Big Show, doesn’t need to try. At 7 feet and more than 300 pounds, anything he does is enough to keep you captivated no pyrotechnics, death-defying or roller coaster necessary. The man himself is a walking WrestleMania, all jaw dropping enormity and persistent hype.
At first glance, he’s more monster than man, powerful enough to separate mandible from your skull in a single punch. Days before the event, Show is participating in a charity basketball game for the Special Olympics inside a modest high school gym in nearby Kissimmee. Of all the assembled wrestlers on hand AJ Styles, Mark Henry, Dana Brooke he gets the loudest reaction from the rabid, enthusiastic kids in the stands. He’s not playing in the game, content to just coach from the sidelines. He hasn’t picked up a basketball since he was 22, right before he became a wrestler. “It kinda felt like an egg in my hand,” he tells B/R Mag.
In a classroom adjacent to the court, everything from the tiny plastic chairs to the height of the tables is child-size. This must be what it’s like wherever the Big Show goes. Nothing ever quite fits when you’re a giant. His hands are like well-done steaks, and his voice reverberates all the way to the core of you. If there was a fire and the door to the classroom was locked, he could rip the damn thing off and carry us all to safety.
But strength also breeds insecurity. And more so than all the stars he’s faced in his soon to be former career Hulk Hogan, Randy Savage, Ric Flair, Steve Austin, The Rock, Triple H he’s the only one who’s lived every big fight as the special attraction, the sideshow even inside of the main event.
Underneath the giant frame, the Big Show is still Paul Wight, a kid from South Carolina who didn’t always know what to do with his gifts, who wasn’t really comfortable in his own skin until he was 22. To paraphrase the man himself, it took years for him to go from the freakishly big guy who should do something to the freakishly big guy who did do something.