The Undertaker Borrowed My Dad’s Urn And Still Hasn’t Returned It
By Keith Donte
I like to believe that most people understand the rules of what it means to “borrow” something from someone. “Borrowing,” to me, always meant there was intent to give the “borrowed” item back. Well, I’d like to demand that Mark Calloway — the man known as The Undertaker–give my dad’s urn back to me.
It was a fuzzy-eyed night in New Orleans. I headed down to Bourbon Street to take the edge off after working the late shift. After I found a quiet bar, I downed Heineken after Heineken until the bartender slid me a shot of whiskey and said it was paid for by the “man in the corner.” I didn’t even notice the man at first but gave a nod towards his shadow to show my gratitude. As the whiskey trickled down my throat, the shadowed man stood up and walked towards me. With each step, he grew bigger, more menacing. A noticeable chill filled the room. It made the curlies on my ball sack shudder in terror. He stood over me, his face still hidden in darkness, when I heard him speak. He said, “Can I ask you for a favorrrr?”
The eeriness of the voice was recognizable the instant I heard it. It was the Deadman. He ordered two more shots of Jack Daniels, downed them, then described his dilemma.
“WrestleMania is two days awayyy … and I don’t have my urnnn …” The Undertaker grumbled.
“Okay,” I replied. He went into more detail.
“It was lefttt … in a hotel roommm … in Atlantaaa … or maybe Orlandoooo …”
Then I noticed he started to break character.
“The souls, umm … Their powers … Ummm. I, uh, I just need it to win, okay?”
I assured him he could win and reminded him of his clashes with Shawn Michaels, Triple H, and CM Punk at the Showcase Of the Immortals. He was really worried, to the point where I think I actually saw him tear up. The vulnerable side of The Man From The Darkside was beginning to slip out. I jumped in to save the impressions this icon had instilled in me as a child. “I have an urn at home.”
And I did. I gave the Undertaker my dad’s urn with my dad’s ashes still inside of it. My father passed away three years earlier in a freak cement-mixing truck accident. Our family pulled what we could from his body that was half stuck in the sidewalk and had him cremated. As you could imagine, this was all very hard, but what other chance would I have to cheer up this demon man than letting him hold onto my father’s remains for a few days? Technically speaking, it’s what Undertakers actually do. So I trusted him, but no one expected what happened next.
‘Taker hooked me up with prime seats for the show. As the match grew nearer, I started to feel emotional because I realized my dad was going to have a WrestleMania moment. Dong. Dong. He entered … but with no urn. But he needed it so badly? Then it happened. One, two, three. Brock Lesnar broke the streak. The world was in shock. The streak was broken, and my special WrestleMania backstage passes were revoked, followed by a swift security escort out of the Mercedes-Benz Superdome. What the hell? ‘Taker told me there would be a chicken wing bar in the back after his match, and I was really looking forward to it. Was he pissed off he lost? Did he blame it on my dad’s urn? I don’t know, but he’s made it unable to reach him for the past five years, and I’d really like to have my father’s ashes on my fireplace where they should’ve stayed.
Rest … In … Peace, Dad?
Undertaker, you might have lost once to snap your streak, but get over it! My family has lost my dad twice, and we want him back. So please, Undertaker, send dad’s urn back A.S.A.P. We’d really appreciate it, since he means the world to us. Then we could stop honoring him with his Playboy lifetime membership plaque.
Images: World Wrestling Entertainment, Inc., Pixabay
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