In the span of just a few days, the world said goodbye to three icons from three very different corners of pop culture.

Hulk Hogan.

Ozzy Osbourne.

Malcolm-Jamal Warner.

Wrestling. Rock. Television.

For a generation who grew up in the glow of the 1980s and early ’90s, these weren’t just names — they were larger-than-life presences who helped shape what it meant to be entertained, to believe in something bigger, and to feel part of something electric.

Hogan’s death Thursday at the age of 71 delivered yet another emotional blow. Known for his red-and-yellow gear, signature poses, and thunderous “Whatcha gonna do, brother?!” catchphrase, Hogan wasn’t just a professional wrestler. He was professional wrestling.

In homes across the Lehigh Valley, Philadelphia, and beyond, Hogan was a Saturday morning fixture and a live-event sensation. He sold out the Spectrum in South Philly. He appeared regularly at WWF tapings in Allentown’s Agricultural Hall. He flexed and slammed his way into the memories of fans at venues like Stabler Arena in Bethlehem.

Before there was streaming, before YouTube, there was Hogan on your TV, in your lunchbox, and on your bedroom wall.

Like Ozzy Osbourne, whose death earlier this week marked the end of a wild and thunderous era in music, Hogan was a showman — brash, bold, sometimes controversial, and utterly unforgettable. And like Malcolm-Jamal Warner — the brilliant, grounded actor who brought soul and substance to The Cosby Show — Hogan had a way of connecting across households, generations, and cultures.

They all meant something different to different people. But they meant something — and that’s the power of icons.

Hogan, especially, redefined what it meant to be a star. He didn’t just wrestle; he told stories. He created drama. He made people care.

His persona helped launch WrestleMania. He ushered in the WWF’s golden era. He brought wrestling out of smoky venues and into the mainstream — on MTV, in movies, on cereal boxes. He blurred the line between athlete and entertainer, superhero and everyman.

And much like NASCAR legend Dale Earnhardt — another Southern-rooted, working-class hero — Hogan brought new fans to his sport. He made it matter. He made it feel real.

Of course, Hogan’s later years were marked by controversy and personal struggles. But the shadow of his influence never faded. Hulkamania may have quieted, but it never fully stopped running wild.

This week’s trio of losses feels different. Not just because of the names — but because of what they represented. A time when entertainment was less fragmented, when stars loomed larger, when moments felt collective.

These were the voices, the faces, and the figures that filled rooms and imaginations. That brought families together — even just once a week — around a TV, a concert, or a wrestling ring.

And now they’re gone.

But what they gave us endures — in memory, in influence, and in the moments that helped define a generation.

Because Hulk Hogan didn’t just wrestle.

Ozzy didn’t just sing.

And Malcolm-Jamal Warner didn’t just act.

They each meant something.

And that’s why their losses hit so hard.

From the roar of the crowd at the Spectrum to the glow of a tube TV in a Carbon County living room, Hogan was there — flexing, fighting, and reminding fans to believe in something bigger.

For those who grew up in that golden era, this week felt personal. And unforgettable.