SAD NEWS: “He Was My Hero, My Strength, My Reason to Believe” — Red Sox Star Alex Bregman Breaks Down at Hulk Hogan Memorial Statue, as Fenway Opens a Quiet Corner for Fans to Grieve the Fallen Icon Who Taught a Generation to Fight
By Staff Writer – The Athletic / July 24, 2025
The bronze glinted under the afternoon sun, still newly polished, still surrounded by flowers. Silence hung over Fenway Park like a curtain of reverence. No “Let’s go Sox!” chants. No bat cracks. Just the sound of sneakers scraping concrete and the soft hush of tears.
And then came Alex Bregman.
Baseball glove in one hand, sunglasses in the other, the Boston Red Sox star didn’t speak to the media. He didn’t speak to the fans. He barely even spoke at all. But when he saw the statue — the larger-than-life tribute to Hulk Hogan, arms forever flexed, chin held high — Bregman froze. His body tensed. And then he crumbled.
It wasn’t just a celebrity tribute. It wasn’t performative grief. This was real.
“He was my childhood,” Bregman finally whispered, voice cracked with emotion. “He was my reason to believe in strength.”
Just one week after the world learned of the passing of professional wrestling legend Hulk Hogan, the Red Sox had done something no one expected — they had carved a space inside Fenway not for a ballplayer, not for a manager, but for a wrestler. And not just a statue — a silent section beneath it. Row 6, Section 24. Seats painted gold. Cell phones off. A space for memory, not for noise.
Because for Bregman and millions of others, Hogan was more than a WWE icon. He was the icon.
“Say Your Prayers, Take Your Vitamins, Believe in Yourself”
Bregman, who grew up in Albuquerque, New Mexico, was just 7 when he first saw Hulk Hogan wrestle on TV. It wasn’t just about the muscle or the fame — it was the message. Hogan’s words, his fire, his stubborn belief in self-respect and honor… those things meant something to a little boy who would one day fight to be more than just another name in a crowded clubhouse.
In a 2021 interview, Bregman confessed: “Every time I felt weak, I’d just replay his voice in my head — ‘Never give up, brother.’ I heard that when I tore my ACL. I heard it when I was sent back to Triple-A. I heard it when my parents split.”
So when news broke earlier this month that Hogan — real name Terry Gene Bollea — had passed away in Florida at age 71, it hit hard.
But it wasn’t until today that fans saw just how deeply it hit Bregman.
“We’ve All Got Our Hero”
The scene outside Fenway was quiet but emotionally charged. Fans wore vintage yellow bandanas. Others came dressed in Hogan-style tank tops. One elderly man carried a sign that read, “Still Hearing His Roar.” There were no tickets, no ads, no promotions. Just presence.
Red Sox manager Alex Cora said the idea for the statue came from Bregman himself.
“Alex came to me after the loss and said, ‘We have to do something. Not just because he was famous. Because he made us feel like we could be strong,’” Cora recalled. “I’ve never seen him like that. Not even after the World Series.”
Within days, the organization greenlit a memorial. But it was Bregman’s idea to include the silent section.
“In a stadium built on noise,” Bregman said in a quiet team meeting, “this should be the one place we don’t scream. Because he taught us how to be loud — but also how to be still.”
A Legacy Beyond the Ring
Hulk Hogan never played baseball. He never stood in the batter’s box at Fenway. But his impact reached the diamond in ways few imagined.
For kids like Bregman, he was a symbol of perseverance. For fans who struggled with bullying, self-doubt, or fear, he was a mirror of might.
“Some athletes teach you how to play,” Bregman said. “He taught us how to exist with pride.”
That’s why today, in the center of America’s most storied ballpark, among plaques for Ted Williams and Yaz, there stands one for a man who never swung a bat. But he swung hearts.
A Moment That Will Echo
As the sun dipped low, casting gold shadows over Fenway’s green walls, Bregman stood alone one last time. No cameras. No words. Just him and the statue.
And then — without warning — he reached into his back pocket, pulled out a crumpled childhood photograph, and placed it at the base.
It was him, age 8. Dressed in a Hulkamania shirt. Holding a toy bat.
In marker, he had written: “Thank you for teaching me how to fight.”
No one clapped. No one cheered. Just silence. The kind of silence that says more than any roar ever could.