"I'm sorry. I love you."

I can’t pretend to know all of the ins and outs of Ric Flair’s storied 36-year wrestling career.

He started wrestling 14 years before I was born. He’d already won seven of his 16 world championships by the time I was 5 years old. Needless to say, I don’t remember much from when he was on top of his game.

I do remember how I felt about him in my adolescence, though.

I didn’t like him.

In fact, I hated him.

Not because he was a bad guy. I knew wrestling wasn’t real.

I loathed the man, not the character.

To a lot of wrestling fans, admitting this is like burning the Bible, pissing on it to put out the flames and wiping your ass with whatever is left over. It’s like being a rock fan and hating Elvis, the Beatles and the Stones all at the same time.

But it’s true. I hated Ric Flair.

Every time he showed up on my TV, I would cringe.

“What’s this guy still doing in the ring?” I’d say. “He’s been going gray since before I was born. Fuck you, Dick Hair. Retire, already!”

As far as I was concerned, old farts like Ric Flair had no place in wrestling. I craved excitement and athleticism. I wanted blood, backflips, chair shots and head drops. I didn’t want to see some geezer strutting around, wooing and rambling on and on about his high-flyin’, limousine-ridin’, kiss-stealin’, wheelin’ dealin’ ways.

And forget about watching him wrestle. The guy never left his boots! All he did was chop and trade holds! If a wrestler couldn’t do a moonsault or wasn’t willing to roll around in barbed wire, he wasn’t worth a damn to me back then.

Take that shit back to the 80's, old timer, I’d think. You’re all talk. I want action.

Over the years, I learned to respect him for all of the contributions he made to wrestling over the years, but a big part of me still thought he was just another old timer who didn’t know when to hang up his boots.

Let me squirt another bit of piss on that Bible: I felt this way until November 26, 2007.

On that Monday night’s episode of WWE RAW, the Ric Flair retirement storyline began.

The evil Mr. McMahon put a stipulation on every one-on-one match Flair had from that point on. If he lost a match in any way, he would be forced to retire from wrestling forever. If he was pinned, if he submitted, if he was disqualified, or if he was out of the ring for more than 10 seconds, there would be no more Ric Flair.

That night, after Chris Jericho provided the distraction that allowed Flair to give Randy Orton a low blow and pin his shoulders for the three count, something dawned on me. I had never known a wrestling world without Ric Flair.

Flair was like wrestling’s AC/DC. He had his prime before a lot of fans were born. He occasionally pulled out a gem afterward and he was a reliable nostalgia trip. There was something comforting about having him around. But that would all end soon.

Cut to March 20, 2008. Wrestlemania XXIV. The official main event was Edge vs. The Undertaker for the World Heavyweight Championship, but the emotional main event happened earlier in the night.

At 8:27 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, Ric Flair strutted to the ring to face down WWE icon Shawn Michaels.

At 8:49 p.m., after pulling out all of the stops, after putting on all of the signature holds, and after pulling all of the dirty tricks he could to stay in the game, he caught a swift sidekick to the face and went down hard.

Michaels stood hesitantly in the corner. He knew what he came to do, but couldn’t bring himself to finish the job.

Flair slowly stood up. He raised his hands to the guard position. Bring it on, his gestures said. He looked ready.

At 8:50 p.m., Shawn Michaels mouthed five words.

One kick and three seconds later, the greatest career in wrestling history ended.

I’m sorry, Ric. I love you.