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It was 2006 when I met Mickey Rourke. I had friends in the professional wrestling industry and I would occasionally hang out with them at their shows. This particular time, we were in South Philadelphia, and I remember smoking a cigarette in the rear parking lot when a black, stretch limo pulled up. Limousines never pulled up to these kind of underground wrestling events, so I paid close attention to the person emerging from one of the passenger doors, figuring it would be some kind of wrestling star.
I was surprised when a man of medium build and height sauntered out of the vehicle. No entourage. No bodyguards. Not even someone to open his door. As this person came closer to the back entrance of the building, I suddenly realized who it was: Mickey F*cking Rourke. No one else around me even knew who he was, so I quietly held my glee inside.
When I took my seat backstage for the show, as I usually did, I looked to my left: there he was, quietly studying the action. I tried my best not to scream out like a teenage girl at a One Direction concert. I waited for a lull in the action during the main event to lean over to him and say, “Mickey, I’m a huge fan. I love your work.”
“Thanks, brother,” he said. It was perfect.
Immediately, I began thinking. What in the hell was he doing here? Where was he going? How did he end up in the slums of South Philadelphia after winning the hearts of every woman in the world during the 80s? Also, what happened to his face?
