Want more wrestling news, rumors, and results? Be sure to visit PWInsider.com and PWInsiderXtra.com.
As GCW sets up the barbed wire for the main event, I don’t know for certain if this will be the final match of Sabu’s career, but in my heart, I believe it’s the last time we’ll ever see him truly presented in the way that defined him—at the epicenter of the chaos, the embodiment of extreme.
To me, this feels like Shawn Michaels vs. Ric Flair at WrestleMania 24, at least in theory.
A symbolic farewell more than a formal one. A match where the performer may continue to exist, but the myth steps back into the shadows.
Sabu helped shape a movement—an era—and this may be our last chance to see that raw, over-the-top, push-the-boundaries version of professional wrestling come alive through him.
There are wrestlers I fell in love with not as a writer or a journalist or whatever you may term me to be, but as a fan and I love their work with all my heart. Terry Funk. Jushin Thunder Liger. Roddy Piper. And yes, Sabu.
I was there for a lot of major moments—the broken tables, the scars, the moonsaults that hit and the ones that missed, on purpose or not. The title wins. Barely Legal. Born To Be Wired. A true kaleidoscope of violence, creativity, trainwrecks and batshit nuttiness.
And I still remember the first time I saw Sabu on tape, on an FMW show wrestling Dr. Hannibal and Dr. Luther. It was like wrestlling creativity went from analog to HD. I can remember the first time I saw Sabu live: wrestling Konnan at John Arezzi’s Weekend of Champions Convention in 1993. He moonsaulted through a table, the match was stopped, and it was played like a legitimate injury. We all bought it. Hook, line, and sinker. That was the magic of Sabu. He didn’t just perform wrestling. He blurred the lines until you weren’t sure what was real anymore.
He was ECW’s big bang—the catalyst that made people believe in its insanity. The one who, if you caught him flipping channels at 2AM, made you stop and say, “What the hell is this?”
Everything Sabu did in that era was insane. Yet, you couldn’t look away. The Arabian Facebuster, where he jammed a steel chair under his leg and crushed someone’s face with a leg drop. The Arabian Press. The triple jump moonsaults. The springboards. The spots that made no sense but felt like lightning striking your brain. He wasn’t doing moves. He was conjuring chaos.
It didn’t matter if it always worked. In fact, sometimes he intentionally botched a spot—just to sell the desperation, to build the tension, to make the eventual success matter more.
He didn’t do it for fame, he came forth from The Original Sheik and did things all through his career that at times spiked his momentum and success. He didn’t do it for social media likes. He came from a different era where none of that matter. He did it because he was born into it, trained by his Uncle, driven by an old-school obsession with protecting the aura of wrestling. He rarely spoke. He pointed to the sky. He traveled in a smoke-filled Winnebago from Michigan to Philly, bringing with him a trail of destruction—and often younger talent he was helping out of his own pocket. He helped RVD. He helped Louie Spicolli. He gave to lots of others.
He wrestled in burning rings in Japan. Got his teeth knocked out by crashing into a chair that was flipped upside down by accident as he soared towards it. Got dumped on his head by Chris Benoit at November to Remember '94. But Sabu always came back. He always tried to give the audience every drop of what he had left, even when the mileage on his body begged him to stop. He had his issues, sure. He butted heads with Paul Heyman. Walked out on WWE. But he never stopped being Sabu. It was his greatest accolade and at times, his greatest detriment.
But, he was FN' Sabu and as a fan when I was 17 years old, that was all he needed to be, because being Sabu may not have made him rich, but at a certain point, it made him authentic and unique, the flagbearer for the idea that pro wrestling could be better than it was at the time.
As they set up the barbed wire, I sit here thinking of what he told Brett Lauderdale last week about this match, saying, “It’s going to be better than Born to Be Wired.”
That response terrifies me—and that’s the exact aura you want a guy like Sabu to have.
You can draw a straight line from what Sabu was doing in '94 to what AEW does now. The chaos, the relentless pace, the disregard for rules and gravity alike. But Sabu did it without a safety net, without corporate backing, without a billion-dollar TV deal. He was the outlaw blueprint. And everyone followed it—whether they admit it or not.
There was a time, if Sabu was working a show within driving distance, I was there. Whether it was Terry Funk, 2 Cold Scorpio, Mick Foley or Taz. Years later, from John Cena to Abyss to Rob Van Dam, from Nitro to Raw to TNA to the Tokyo Dome and back again..and now, all these years later, we were blessed with lots of crazy, fun performances and tonight, it means a lot to me to be here for what may be the final act.
Whether this is TRULY, actually the end or Sabu takes a payday down the line, there will never be another Sabu in terms of what he meant and what he created in his prime.
There can’t be. The business isn’t built for someone like him anymore. You can’t recreate that moment when the lights dimmed, the Jaws theme wailed, and he burst out, wearing a Hannibal Lecter mask on a gurney. You can’t rehearse the feeling of fear he gave fans in the crowd when he launched a chair at them and dove without hesitation into the crowd.
He was a myth in motion.
In his best moments, he was both a superhero and a super villain at the same time, the antidote for creative complacency in pro wrestling.
In a few minutes, when the bell rings in Las Vegas, I hope it all goes well. I hope Sabu gets the closure he wants. I hope Joey Janela gets to share the ring with one of his idols and come out the other side in one piece. I hope the fans chant his name until their voices give out.
Because Sabu is a once-in-a-generation talent. And we were lucky—so lucky—to see him at all. I know I was.
And no matter whether this is a complete wreck or a thing of barbed wire beauty, I am so psyched to be here.
"Under my skin and into my bones
I feel insanity begin to make its home
Into my vision and through my mouth
Somebody's working me to get me all strung out
It's alright, it's alright, it's alright
I'm just a little crazy
It's alright, it's alright, it's alright
I'm just a little crazy
There goes my reason
Where's all my hope
I'm just a puppet pulled by stings to make me cope
I'm seeing nothing
What's all this noise
Could someone give me something
Just to get me through this boy
It's alright, it's alright, it's alright
I'm just a little crazy"
- Crazy by Fight
Here we fn' go.
Sa FN' Bu.
If you enjoy PWInsider.com you can check out the AD-FREE PWInsider Elite section, which features exclusive audio updates, news, our critically acclaimed podcasts, interviews and more by clicking here!
Bang On Casino
