When I was 5 years old, the corner of our family room in Longmeadow, Massachusetts, was my own Madison Square Garden. Armed with a squadron of World Wrestling Federation action figures — “Macho Man” Randy Savage, Bret “The Hitman” Hart, “The Undertaker,” and, of course, “The Ultimate Warrior,” my undisputed favorite — I’d stage epic wrestling matches on a makeshift ring of couch cushions and carpet. The Ultimate Warrior’s face paint and frenetic energy spoke to my kid-brain, but even then, I couldn’t resist the gravitational pull of Hulk Hogan. What wrestling fan didn’t love the Hulkster? With his bleach-blond mustache, red bandana, and 24-inch pythons, he was the Babe Ruth of professional wrestling — a quasimythical figure who wasn’t just a character but a living legend in our day and age.