10 bell Pod

Monster Ripper should be remembered as one of the most accomplished women wrestlers of her era, NOT as the short lived WWF character Bertha Faye.

In this episode, I trace Rhonda Sing’s journey from Calgary dreamer to international powerhouse, following her rise through AJW, Stampede, Puerto Rico, and beyond.

In this off-season video episode of 10 Bell Pod, I dive deep into the life and legacy of a wild, unpredictable brawler who helped redefine what a pro wrestler could be: Pampero Firpo.

From his origins in Argentina to becoming a traveling attraction across the United States, Japan, Hawaii, and beyond, Firpo built a career as a chaotic force of nature.

This isn’t just wrestling history. It’s rediscovery.

Firpo’s intense, unorthodox style broke away from traditional wrestling norms, his eerie presentation and use of Chimu helped introduce mystical elements into the business, and his influence quietly echoes through generations, most notably in legends like Randy Savage.

At his peak, Firpo was a true territory superstar, a headliner who could walk into any city, any promotion, and instantly feel like the most dangerous man in the building.

But like many legends of his era, his legacy has faded with time, reduced to footnotes and passing references.

In this off-season video episode, I dive into the wild, complicated, and often misunderstood story of Yukon Moose Cholak.

Moose was 30+ year territory veteran who lived through nearly every era of professional wrestling’s evolution.

Moose Cholak was a towering presence, a road warrior who bounced from promotion to promotion and someone that left behind stories that didn't always end up in the history books.  I'll talk about his time in Chicago & The Midwest, working the territory wrestling system and a rumored clash with a global icon. But this isn’t just a story about a man in a moose head.

This is a deep dive into the forgotten backbone of professional wrestling: the workers who weren’t always the main event, but made the main event possible.

Davey Boy Smith had the look before wrestling even knew what to do with it. He had the power of a heavyweight and the agility of someone decades ahead of his time. He had a country behind him, a family dynasty beside him, and real, thunderous, stadium shaking moments that should have made him immortal.

But things for him… kept breaking.

A Kid From England Who Got Thrown Into the Fire

Davey didn’t ease into wrestling. He was practically tossed into it.

By 15, he was already wrestling on English television.  Not training. Not learning. Wrestling. Before most kids figure out who they are, Davey Boy Smith was figuring out how to survive in a ring. Then, he went to Canada. Stampede Wrestling. The Hart Dungeon. A place where “training” felt less like mentorship and more like a controlled demolition of your body and ego.

His legacy forever connected to his cousin, Dynamite Kid. A human lightning bolt with zero regard for his own survival. Together, they became something wrestling had never quite seen before.Not just a tag team. A glitch in the system.

The British Bulldogs Changed Wrestling Forever 

Before the Bulldogs, American wrestling was slow. Heavy. Methodical. Then the British Bulldogs showed up/

Suddenly you had: Speed, Violence that looked real (because it kinda was and a moveset that was blazing a trail for future generations.

They weren’t supposed to work in that era, but they did. You don’t get modern wrestling without them. You just don’t.

SummerSlam 1992: The Night He Became a God

Wembley Stadium. 80,000 people. Davey Boy Smith vs. Bret Hart. It wasn’t just a match. It was a coronation.

Davey walked out not as a wrestler, but as England’s wrestler. The kind of figure that makes a crowd feel like they’re watching history instead of entertainment.

And when he won?The place didn’t cheer. It detonated.

That should’ve been it. That should’ve been the beginning of the run. Instead… it was the peak.

The Pattern: Every Time He Got Close, Something Went Wrong

This is the part that makes his story feel cursed. Every time Davey got momentum, something snapped: His body broke, His habits caught up, Politics shifted, His partner went nuts, freak accidewnts/

He wasn’t just unlucky. He was stuck in a loop. Right place. Right time. Wrong everything else.

The Split That Never Healed

When he left Japan and went back to WWE, he didn’t just change companies. He broke away from Dynamite Kid. Then he did something worse, he took the “British Bulldog” name with him.

That wasn’t just branding. That was identity. They never spoke again.

Two guys who changed wrestling together… ending like strangers who couldn’t even share the same memory.

The Body Starts Cashing Checks the Life Can’t Cover

By the late 90s, the machine was breaking down.

A trapdoor injury in WCW shattered his spine. Painkillers became morphine. Morphine became something else. And life outside the ring? Even worse.

At one point, his wife took 100 pills in front of him just to make him understand what he’d become. He didn’t react.

Not because he didn’t care, but because he couldn’t. That’s how far gone things were.

The Comeback That Felt Like a Ghost Story

When Davey returned during the Attitude Era, it didn’t feel like a comeback. It felt like a haunting.

Same name. Same music. But something was… missing.

The energy was different. The timing was off. The wrestling world had moved on.

The Ending That Came Too Late to Fix Anything

In 2002, Davey Boy Smith died at 39.

Not from one thing. From everything.

Years of damage. Years of pushing through pain. Years of being almost what he should’ve been.

And the cruelest part?

Right before the end, he was getting better. Cleaner. Healthier. Training with his son. Looking forward again. And then he was just gone.

What Davey Boy Smith Really Was

He wasn’t just a great wrestler. He was a prototype. A glimpse of what wrestling would become: Big men who could move, Fast matches with real impact, Charisma that didn’t need a microphone He was too early and wrestling didn’t know how to protect guys like that yet.

There are wrestlers you remember because they were pushed.  There are wrestlers you remember because they were loud. Then there are wrestlers like Hercules Hernandez, the ones who don’t sit at the top of the mountain, but quietly hold the mountain up.

Hercules wasn’t always the main event. He was the reason the main event worked.

Before the Spotlight, There Was the Work

Ray Fernandez didn’t come into wrestling through a spotlight.  He took the long road, the version of the business you had to survive.

He trained under Hiro Matsuda, which already tells you everything you need to know. That wasn’t a school. That was a filter.  If you made it through Matsuda, you weren’t just trained, you were accepted.

From there, Hercules did what wrestlers used to do before national TV made everything neat and packaged. He worked everywhere: Florida. Texas. Kansas City. Japan.

Sometimes twice in a day. Sometimes against completely different styles of opponents in completely different environments.  One night you’re working a gritty southern crowd that wants a fight, the next you’re in front of a technical audience that wants precision.

That’s how Hercules was built durability.

A Name That Had to Carry Weight

“Hercules Hernandez” wasn’t ironic. It was a promise.

Back when posters didn’t always have photos, your name had to do the work. That name told fans exactly what they were getting: a massive, powerful, intimidating presence who was going to look like he belonged the second he stepped through the curtain. Herc absolutely did.

The physique was undeniable, thee presence was immediate, but what made him valuable wasn’t just how he looked, it was that he could actually work. That combination is rarer than people think.

The Territory Machine

In the territories, Hercules wasn’t a project. He was a solution.

Promoters could plug him into almost anything. He could tag, he could feud, he could headline smaller towns, he could work programs that mattered without needing to be protected like glass.

Hercules wrestled names like Harley Race and moved through systems where respect wasn’t given, it was quietly understood. That’s the key to understanding him. Hercules didn’t build his career on moments. He built it on volume and consistency.

WWF: Where Roles Became Reality

When Hercules hit the WWF, the game changed. This wasn’t the territories anymore. This was television. This was branding. This was hierarchy.

In that system, Hercules found his role almost immediately. He became the test.

If you were climbing the ladder, you went through Hercules.  If you beat him, it meant something to the means.  It meant you were ready for the next level.

He stood across from Hulk Hogan, and that alone tells you where he sat in the ecosystem. You don’t put just anyone in that position. You put someone reliable. Someone believable. Someone who won’t break the illusion. That was Hercules.

The Almost Breakthrough

For a moment, it looked like things might shift.

Power and Glory, his tag team with Paul Roma felt different.  They looked like something the company could build around.  They had chemistry, a distinct presentation, and offense that was ahead of its time.

You can still see pieces of what they were doing echo in modern tag wrestling, butthey weren’t the company’s idea. Unfortunately, that matters more than it should.

So instead of becoming a cornerstone, they became a footnote. Not because they failed, but because they were never fully allowed to succeed.

The Fade Isn’t Always Dramatic

Hercules didn’t rage quit. He didn’t implode. He didn’t become a cautionary tale. He just… drifted.

That’s the part of wrestling history that doesn’t get talked about enough. Not every career ends in tragedy or triumph. Some just taper off as the machine moves on to the next thing.

By the early 90s, the role he had mastered wasn’t needed in the same way anymore. The business was changing. The pace was changing. The presentation was changing.

And Hercules, who had spent his career adapting, finally reached a point where adaptation wasn’t enough to keep him central.

What He Actually Was

If you strip everything else away: gimmicks, booking, missed opportunities, you’re left with something pretty simple.

Hercules Hernandez was a professional wrestler in the purest sense of the term. Not a character first. Not a brand. A pro wrestler.

He could: Work anywhere, wrestle anyone, fill whatever role the show needed, and he did it without needing the industry to revolve around him.

Wrestling history tends to remember peak, but the business has never been built on peaks. It’s built on the people who make those peaks possible. Hercules was one of those people.

The guy who made wins matter. The guy who made stars look like stars.

The guy who could walk into any building, anywhere in the world, and do exactly what needed to be done.

Matthew Anoaʻi was born into one of the most dominant families in professional wrestling history. The Anoaʻi lineage produced icons, champions, and generational stars, but Rosey carved out something slightly different.

He wasn’t just another member of the Bloodline, he was one of the most versatile big men of his era.

Built for Football, Destined for Wrestling

Like many Samoan athletes, Rosey’s first love wasn’t wrestling. It was football.

A standout offensive lineman at Escambia High School in Florida, he played alongside future NFL legend Emmitt Smith before continuing his career at the University of Hawaii. At over 6’7” and 300 pounds, he had the size, athleticism, and pedigree to chase a professional career.

When the NFL didn’t materialize, Rosey faced a crossroads. Working as a floor manager at a strip club in New Orleans, he had a moment of clarity. Wrestling wasn’t a fallback plan. It was inevitable. By his mid 20s, he committed to the family business.

Learning Through Bloodlines

Rosey didn’t come up through wrestling the traditional way. He grew up in it.

With a ring in his backyard and a father like Sika guiding him, his “training” was less about learning fundamentals and more about refining instincts he already had.  Like many second generation wrestlers, he entered the business with a built-in understanding of movement, timing, and psychology.

As part of the Samoan Gangster Party, he worked across the U.S., Puerto Rico, ECW, and eventually Japan, where his career began to take shape.

Japan and the Evolution of a Big Man

In FMW, teaming with his cousin Eddie Fatu (later known as Umaga), Rosey developed into a more dynamic performer.

He wasn’t just a powerhouse… He could move.

He could strike. He could bump. He could keep pace in faster, more chaotic matches.

This period was crucial. While it didn’t bring mainstream exposure, it refined him into a more complete wrestler, something that would define his career moving forward.

Three Minute Warning: Controlled Chaos

Rosey arrived in WWE in 2002 as part of Three Minute Warning, alongside Jamal. Their role was simple: enforce chaos.

If something in the ring wasn’t “entertaining enough,” they were sent out to destroy it.

The gimmick leaned heavily into WWE’s early 2000s excess, but it worked because of their presence. Rosey, in particular, stood out as a rare kind of big man: physically imposing, but agile enough to make offense look explosive rather than slow.

His Samoan drop became one of the most visually impactful moves on the roster. BUT, just as quickly as the team gained momentum, it ended.

Jamal was released, and Rosey was left alone.

The Reinvention: Super Hero In Training

What came next could have derailed his career entirely. Instead, it became his most memorable run.

Paired with The Hurricane, Rosey was repackaged as a “Super Hero In Training”, a comedic sidekick to a comic book character.

On paper, it shouldn’t have worked. A 400-pound enforcer turned into a goofy apprentice superhero. However, Rosey made it work.

He embraced the role completely, leaning into the humor without losing his physical credibility. He could still dominate in the ring, but now he added personality, timing, and comedic instinct.

The result was a tag team that stood out in an era often dominated by seriousness.

Eventually, the duo captured the World Tag Team Championships, marking the peak of Rosey’s WWE career.

A Career of Adaptation

Throughout his time in wrestling, Rosey consistently adapted: From football player to wrestler From indie tag team specialist to international performer From destructive enforcer to comedic fan favorite

That kind of flexibility is rare, especially for a performer of his size. The downside? It also came with limitations.

He never received a sustained singles push. He was often defined by who he teamed with. And when the Hurricane pairing ended, his role diminished quickly.

By 2006, he was released from WWE.

Life After WWE and Final Years

Rosey continued wrestling internationally and on the independent scene, including a stint in All Japan Pro Wrestling, but injuries began to take their toll.

Chronic knee issues, hip problems, and weight struggles made it difficult to stay active. Over time, his health declined significantly.

In 2014, he was hospitalized with congestive heart failure. On April 17, 2017, Matthew Anoaʻi passed away at just 47 years old.

The Legacy of Rosey

Rosey’s career doesn’t fit neatly into a single category.

He wasn’t a top singles star. He wasn’t just a tag team wrestler. He wasn’t purely a comedy act. He was all of it.

He represented a type of performer that often gets overlooked: someone who could fill multiple roles, elevate others, and make any position on the card work.

For fans who grew up in the early 2000s, his run with The Hurricane remains a bright spot. For those who look deeper, his international work and tag team contributions tell a fuller story.

Within the Anoaʻi family legacy, he stands as something distinct: Not the most famous. Not the most decorated. But one of the most adaptable and one of the most genuinely memorable.