Pssssst. Keep this under your hat.
If what I'm about to tell you ever leaks, professional wrestling will come apart like wet sushi. There won't be another wrestler's autobiography on The New York Times best-seller list. Wrestling will pull worse ratings than test patterns.
This is because I know the truth about America's bloodiest wrestler, Goldberg, the half-man, half-Sasquatch who enjoys head-butting doors and smashing folding chairs over the heads of his colleagues.
His mother, Ethel, is a classical violinist! His dad, Jed, is a Harvard man and an esteemed obstetrician-gynecologist! They live in South Florida, and you can only imagine the conversations around the bridge table.
Phyllis: My son's a lawyer!
Gladys: My son's a doctor!
Ethel: My son bites the heads off chickens!
Not only that, but the big mook has a flower named after him! Ethel not only played with the Chicago Symphony but also bred an award-winning hybrid orchid that is so precious she named it after a certain slobbering neckless grappler.
Sportscaster: Uh-oh. Here it comes! Looks like Goldberg's pulling out the secret weapon!