Thank You, Jimmy Miranda

The Courage to Step Out of Line & The Name Tag That Changed Everything 

(For my son, Mark Erlenwein, Jr., who is now the same age I was when this story began, yet already carries more courage, self-awareness, and moral clarity than I did at that moment in my life. You are living proof that growth is generational, and that failure is not something to fear, but something to learn from, revisit, and rise through. May you always trust your instincts, ask the questions that matter, and move through the world with an understanding of the power of people, that progress is rarely made alone, and that character, curiosity, connection, and the willingness to fail will carry you farther than confidence ever could.)

It was the Fall of 1992. I was 18 years old and a Freshman at SUNY (The State University of New York): University at Albany. Albany was a massive campus and I definitely prioritized attending this school based upon the notion that one of my (then) best friends would also be attending at that time. Of course he didn’t, and chose to stay in our hometown of Staten Island, New York, attending where I would eventually end up at the College of Staten Island, part of the City University of New York system. 

I very quickly upon arrival to our state capital began to have daily wrestling matches with homesickness, feeling lost, hoping to find purpose, wondering who I really was, what I would turn out to be, you know, all the existential stuff an 18-year-old introverted mega-nerd would feel in a post modern coming of age story. 

There was an urban legend that the campus was designed for Arizona, built to welcome wind. Walking those continuous massive open concrete plazas, I felt it immediately. I was built for a different climate too, dropped into a place where I’d have to fight my way forward and somehow fit in and function. My other, soon to be, close friend, Steve, also attended SUNY Albany, and upon finding one another amongst the maze of endless masonry, we soon transformed from high school acquaintances to close college buds.

Staying connected to friends and family in the early 90’s was still mostly a human-centered, low if not, a no-tech process. Beyond the landline telephone, the closest to hi-tech you could eventually add to your comms arsenal wouldn’t emerge until 1994 with the use of beepers; primitive pulses of urgency that sent you sprinting toward a payphone with a pocketful of quarters. In 1992, whatever passed for “the internet” lived quietly in the background of campus life, in a form that was more infrastructure than experience based. It existed in university basements and computer labs, accessible through clunky terminals, text-only commands, and systems you had to be taught how to use. It wasn’t something you wandered into out of curiosity or used to discover who you might become. There were no browsers, no search bars, no digital shortcuts to clarity. If you wanted to understand a career, crack open a creative industry, or even imagine a path forward, technology couldn’t help you. People could. You had to find them, talk to them, listen closely, and earn your way into whatever room they were willing to open.

And for me, that mattered, because the thing I was most curious and obsessed about wasn’t listed in any course catalog. Long before I ever walked the concrete plazas of SUNY Albany, professional wrestling was already part of who I was, not just as entertainment, but as a lens through which I understood story, identity, and community. From the late ’70s and early ’80s, I devoured WWF (World Wrestling Federation) broadcasts and chased every live show my dad could take me to, learning early that spectacle and connection mattered more than the wins and losses. That lifelong fandom would later shape how I led classrooms and whole schools nearly two decades down the road, but in 1992, at eighteen, it was still just a compass without a map. I arrived at Albany as an engineering major, quickly switched to business, and a year and a half later would transfer to the College of Staten Island, where I’d ultimately complete both my undergraduate and graduate degrees in English Rhetoric. Even then, though, wrestling wasn’t just what I watched, it was the question I wanted answered, “how do you get inside a world you love when there’s no guidebook and no search engine to walk you through the door?” 

I didn’t just love professional wrestling, I was fascinated by the machinations behind it. The stories, the characters, the creative decisions that made grown adults suspend disbelief on command. There was no major for that. No website to point me in the right direction. If I wanted to understand how wrestling actually worked, how stories were built and performers were shaped, I would have to do it the only way that existed back then: find the people who were already inside the business and ask them how they got there.

As an introverted mega-nerd who was also a rapidly budding musician and songwriter, confidence didn’t always arrive on cue. I still needed a fair amount of intestinal fortitude and the occasional gentle, well-intentioned smack on the back of my external occipital protuberance (a.k.a. “the back of the head,” courtesy of Gorilla Monsoon and Bobby “The Brain” Heenan) to step onto a stage and speak or perform, whether in front of a few people or a few hundred. Cold-walking up to strangers and cutting a promo about my future wasn’t exactly a natural extension of my skill set. Still, fate, timing, and serendipity have always had a funny way of finding me.

In the early 1990s, the WWF toured relentlessly, running shows up and down the East Coast, and as a young adult tasting independence and armed with a little disposable income, I found it remarkably easy to catch events throughout the Capital Region, the Hudson Valley, and Glens Falls—home of “Hacksaw” Jim Duggan (Hoooooo… had to). What made those shows special, and something that will never be replicated, was the chance to see arena-level, television-worthy talent performing in small to mid-sized high school gymnasiums and armories. That combination of access, frequency, and minimal investment of time and money created something rare; real proximity. And for someone searching for answers about the wrestling business, it felt like an open door waiting to be tested.

It was the fall of 1993, when Steve and I scored twenty-dollar, front-row tickets to a WWF show somewhere in the Albany region. I seem to remember it was inclement weather, though that detail hardly mattered. Snow, sleet, ice, rain, none of it stood a chance. If you were hanging with me, it was WWF or die.

What made that night especially surreal was the parking lot. Fans, wrestlers, and event staff all shared the same cracked asphalt, and suddenly the people who lived on my television were arriving in real life, rolling luggage behind them and digging through fanny packs for personal effects. Watching household names like The Undertaker, Yokozuna, Owen Hart, and the 1-2-3 Kid show up in street clothes was jarring in the best way. They weren’t wearing gear, but they were still working, carefully maintaining kayfabe, scanning the space to see who was near them, deciding whether the moment called for a snarl, a glare, a handshake, or a full stare-down depending on whether they were a babyface or a heel.

The image that’s permanently etched into my memory, though, happened inside the high school gymnasium’s cafeteria. I was standing in line, trapped within those floor-bolted stainless-steel crowd control stanchions that snake you past trays of candy, chips, soda, and mystery food, all overseen by a grizzled PTA mom guarding a cash box with far too few singles. In front of me, towering at what felt like eight feet tall and canonically hailing from Death Valley, was Mark Calaway, the Undertaker, wearing a long biker-style leather trench coat that would later evolve into his American Badass look. I gave him a subtle nod, a barely contained burst of excitement. He shot back a quick glance and a snarl, then calmly returned to the very human decision of whether dinner would be a hot dog or a cheeseburger. Yes. Dead men eat.

Behind me stood Sean Waltman, then known as the 1-2-3 Kid, years before DX would make him X-Pac. He was taller than I ever expected, at least compared to how he read on television, and he eventually left the cafeteria carrying one, two, three… yes, four hot dogs, plus an impressive haul of snacks and diet soda. 

The show hadn’t even started yet, and I had already absorbed an unreal dose of wrestling reality before ever reaching our seats or hearing the opening bell. Those seats, by the way, were front row, dead center, giving me my first true ringside experience. Sweat, spit, and the occasional swear came flying off backs, brows, and busted lips, raining down on us from start to finish. Interacting with the performers, sports entertainers, as they’re now known, was a next-level, two-way exchange that only exists in person and that close. It wasn’t just watching anymore; it was being part of the moment.

To this day, how we lucked into the best seats in the house through a door-sale ticket remains completely unfathomable. My earlier MSG and Meadowlands Arena trips with my dad had only ever gotten us as close as the eighth row, which was somehow still advertised as “ringside,” albeit ringside-adjacent at best. This was different. This was close enough to feel the impact, smell the canvas, and realize just how thin the line was between the spectacle I loved and the people creating it right in front of me.

Midway through the show, tradition held. Intermission. Bathroom runs, refreshments, merchandise. Steve was content to stay put, but I took the opportunity to wander. Even as a kid, tagging along with my dad to arena shows or smaller independent events tucked into Catholic school gymnasiums, I’d always been less interested in just what happened in the ring and more fascinated by the who, what, why, where, when, and how of professional wrestling. Growing up in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, I vividly remember the wrestling posters plastered across storefront windows, telephone poles, and anything that could hold tape or a staple. Always, in bold type, the same name appeared: “Tommy Dee Promotions.” I’d ask my dad who Tommy Dee was, and he’d explain that shows like these didn’t just happen, that someone had to promote them, that Tommy Dee was a smaller, local version of Vince McMahon. Even then, I understood McMahon was far more than the commentator I watched on Channel 9’s WWF Championship Wrestling late Saturday nights or Wrestling Challenge on Saturday mornings. He was the engine. He was Oz the Great (and Terrible).

That night, arriving at the venue, the confirmation felt almost poetic. On an inconspicuous piece of paper, haphazardly taped to the door, it read simply: “A Tommy Dee Promotion.” I was thrilled to see the show, but even more curious to spot the man behind it. It wasn’t difficult. He was up front, visible, wearing what appeared to be sunglasses at night, or maybe just heavily tinted lenses I’ve since mythologized. I watched everything. Who he spoke to. How he spoke to them. His constant attention to the money coming in. I noticed him stuffing cash into small white envelopes, presumably wrestler payoffs waiting for the night’s end. The matches were great, but what stayed with me were those small, behind-the-scenes details, the machinery that made the spectacle possible. Years later, when wrestling documentaries became popular, hearing WWE Hall of Famer Mick Foley casually name-check Tommy Dee as one of the early promoters he worked for felt like validation. That name stapled to Bensonhurst telephone poles wasn’t just local lore. It was a real rung on the ladder, part of the “pay your dues” era that helped launch someone who would eventually become a legend.

With the intermission clock ticking, I made my way to the merchandise table and waited on line, and took in the scene around me. There were plenty of people working. Some selling shirts, others restocking boxes, a few handling cash. It was organized chaos. But one person stood apart. His energy was different. Focused, friendly, constantly in motion. He spoke to everyone, staff and fans alike. He moved fluidly between the merchandise tables and the backstage area, disappearing through the curtain and reappearing moments later with bags or boxes in hand, then jumping right back into conversation as if he’d never left.

He was also the only person wearing a name tag, and it immediately caught my eye: James Miranda, Merchandise Agent. Suddenly, buying a T-shirt felt beside the point. For the first time I could remember, I felt an uncanny surge of courage, unfiltered and without reserve. When Jimmy hit a rare lull in his otherwise kinetic orbit, I stepped out of line, extended my hand, and introduced myself. “Hi, Mr. Miranda,” I said, proud enough to read and use his name. “I’m Mark Erlenwein. I’m a sophomore at SUNY Albany.” He smiled and corrected me instantly. “Please, call me Jimmy. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mark. Are you enjoying the show so far?”

What struck me most was how easy it was to start the conversation, and how instantly kind Jimmy was once it began. He wasn’t just polite. He was genuinely interested in whether I was enjoying myself and, as I would quickly learn, more than willing to indulge my curiosity. I excitedly shared every positive detail I could. The lifelong fandom. The miracle of front-row tickets. The surreal moment earlier that night where I found myself wedged between The Undertaker and the 1-2-3 Kid on the refreshment line. He laughed, shook his head in disbelief, and somehow made me feel like I mattered. Like my experience counted. I pivoted quickly and asked if I could pose a professional question. Jimmy didn’t hesitate. I wanted to know what his actual role was as a merchandising agent and, more importantly, how he found his way into the WWF in the first place. At the time, as a business major, I wasn’t drawn to the athletic or physical side of the industry. I was fascinated by the creative and operational machinery behind it all. The television, the pay-per-view, the unseen jobs I knew had to exist in what was then a growing entertainment company, still far removed from the globally licensed, distributed megaproduct that is WWE in 2025.

Jimmy’s answer surprised me, not because it was flashy, but because it was so grounded. He didn’t come in through merchandising at all. He came in the way many of the company’s quiet lifers did, by doing whatever needed to be done. He was road crew. He helped set up the ring. On some nights, he refereed or announced. On others, he tore down, loaded trucks, solved problems, filled gaps. If there was a need, Jimmy stepped into it. Long before he was overseeing merchandise tables and moving T-shirts by the thousands, he was a Swiss army knife employee, learning the business from the floor up, one folding chair, ring post, and late-night drive at a time.

I was genuinely grateful for the time Jimmy gave me. He clearly had work to get back to, but in those few minutes together I felt like I had just been handed a quiet masterclass. I returned to my seat with my head spinning, fully stoked for the main event. Undertaker versus Yokozuna. And now armed with one hell of a story to share with Steve on the ride back to campus, and another to save for my dad when I saw him next. True to his gentlemanly nature and professionalism, Jimmy caught my eye at the end of the night, made a point to wish me well, thanked me for the conversation, and said he hoped to see me again the next time the WWF looped through the Capital Region. Wow. Just, wow!

That wouldn’t be the last time I saw Jimmy. A few weeks later, at the Glens Falls Civic Center, I attended my first WWF television taping for Wrestling Challenge, which aired Saturday mornings. On October 19, 1993, they taped three weeks’ worth of episodes in one night, and it immediately became clear how WWF television was an amplified version of itself. Only half the arena was sold, with the unused seats draped in black cloth and every camera trained toward the crowd, creating the illusion of a packed house. At one point, the legendary announcer, Howard Finkel whipped us into action, explaining we’d play name association: he’d say a wrestler’s name, and we’d respond with cheers or boos on command. Afterward, he had us erupt wildly so the cameras could capture our reactions for future use. In that moment, a mystery from countless Saturday mornings clicked into place. I had just become part of a bona fide archive of canned cheers, jeers, boos, and chants. Instead of breaking the spell, pulling back the curtain only deepened my appreciation. The magic of wrestling didn’t disappear. It hooked me even more.

During a match I was less inclined to watch, I drifted toward the backstage area near the merchandise tables, hoping to find Jimmy. I didn’t have to look long. He spotted me first, greeted me warmly, and we immediately started talking wrasslin’. As I peppered him with questions, he explained that because this was my first WWF television taping, there were things I was about to witness that most fans hadn’t yet seen. Due to the frontloaded taping schedule, storylines hadn’t aired in sequence, and tonight marked the first appearance of Kona Crush in his new persona, following a heel turn that had occurred at the previous taping. That revelation suddenly made the manufactured cheers, boos, and chants make perfect sense. Audio had to be captured and shaped so reactions matched the storyline continuity when episodes finally aired. This was long before the internet’s immediacy spoiled everything in real time, unless you were subscribing to paper-based insider newsletters like Dave Meltzer’s Wrestling Observer, delivered weekly by mail. Walking back to my seat, I felt strangely privileged, carrying knowledge most of the audience didn’t yet have, and realizing that what looked chaotic on the surface was actually a carefully orchestrated performance behind the scenes.

I thanked Jimmy and headed back to my seat, processing everything he’d shared, only to notice another detail my location afforded me. Earlier that year, Lex Luger had turned babyface by slamming Yokozuna on the USS Intrepid on the Fourth of July, shedding his long-standing heel persona as The Narcissist. That night, he faced Ludvig Borga, an anti-American heel from Helsinki who entered to the Finnish national anthem, while Luger now wore American flag gear and was being positioned hard as the company’s next all-American hero. I wasn’t buying it. Having watched Luger as a self-absorbed heel in WCW since the mid-’80s, the transformation felt forced, and he himself seemed uncomfortable in the role. From my seat near the entrance curtain, I watched as Vince McMahon stepped halfway out from backstage during the match, eyes locked on the ring, studying the crowd’s reaction to Luger. His body language told the story. Disappointed. Frustrated. He soon disappeared behind the curtain after conferring with someone off-camera. Years later, the significance of that moment became clear. At a subsequent taping, in an unaired experiment, Luger was sent out holding the WWF Championship belt, not for storyline purposes but to test crowd psychology. The reaction was respectful, but not electric. The belt looked right on him. The response didn’t. And in that quiet data point, the company confirmed what it would soon accept in full: Lex Luger was over, but not champion-over.

Before leaving that night, I sought Jimmy out once more. We found each other again and parted the same way we began, with me thanking him for his kindness and time, and him assuring me we’d cross paths again at the next show. Not long after, I transferred back to Staten Island to attend college closer to home. Right at home, in fact. My obsession with wrestling didn’t fade. It simply relocated, now orbiting closer to the mecca itself, New York City and New Jersey.

Over the next year, I’d see Jimmy at countless events. Madison Square Garden. The Meadowlands. Hershey Sports Arena. Wherever I could carve out the time to attend, though finding him in the sprawl of the larger venues was never easy. One of the last times we spoke, Jimmy did something remarkably kind. He offered the most generous thing a young person deep in career exploration could receive. He handed me his business card and invited me to apply for the WWF intern program the following summer. In classic form, he crossed out the number on the card and carefully wrote in a new one, explaining he had just moved into a new office at Titan Sports in Connecticut. He smiled and told me to be persistent, that he wasn’t in the office often. This was still the pre-cell phone era. No pager. No shortcuts. Just a name, a number, and an open door, offered with sincerity.

I was persistent. I called. I left message after message. I never reconnected with Jimmy, and in truth, the WWF was rapidly outgrowing its own footprint. WrestleMania X arrived at Madison Square Garden, complete with the company’s first-ever Fan Fest, and of course I was there. But the circus had become enormous. Finding Jimmy in increasingly massive arenas became a gamble, often at the cost of missing the very shows I was paying more and more to attend. Still, my passion for wrestling never waned. As a form of entertainment, it has never left me. It has evolved and devolved, changed shape, and stayed familiar all at once, now shared with my wife and son, without hesitation traveling to Las Vegas for WrestleMania as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Though my career trajectory took me through Physical Therapy, then into education, and eventually to becoming principal of my high school alma mater, the lasting lesson gifted to me through Jimmy Miranda’s kindness, generosity, and willingness to share his time has stayed with me ever since. If you want something in life, no matter how big or small, you have to act on it by engaging with people directly. There is almost always someone out there who is doing, has done, or is working toward something you’re curious about, and their experience is often just a genuine ask away. That moment taught me early on that you learn, earn, and work your way up, down, in, out, and through the ladder of life. Sometimes laterally. Sometimes vertically. Always through effort, success, failure, love, loss, and a journey far more meaningful than the destination itself.

At the heart of it all is the power of curiosity, passion, talent, and a willingness to fail. To fail again. To fail more. And to understand that failure is not the opposite of success, but its prerequisite. Paired with the Power of People, it becomes a necessary marriage in an increasingly unforgiving, (d)evolving world. As my dear friend Bob Wolf, founder of HOPE^® Skills states through his, 3H Theory of Human Relations^®, “everyone you meet in life can Help, Hinder, or Hurt you, and that decision is shaped by your behavior.” First impressions matter. And I suppose my first approach to Jimmy was just enough to open the door to a conversation. Not bad for a self-described mega-geek, green introvert.

Years later, long after the arenas grew larger and the business louder, Jimmy Miranda’s name resurfaced in ways that stopped me cold. Through podcasts, documentaries, and longform conversations with the very people I once watched from the front row, I began hearing his name spoken with reverence. Stone Cold Steve Austin referenced Jimmy often, not casually, but deliberately, crediting him as an early believer and a sounding board during the birth of the now-legendary Austin 3:16 shirt. At a time when there was no grand merchandising plan and no certainty that the phrase would become an anthem, it was Jimmy who listened, encouraged, and helped turn an idea into a shirt. A simple black tee that would go on to reshape wrestling merchandising and culture itself. Austin has said that when he wanted to talk merch, he went to Jimmy. That alone says everything.

Then there was Ultimate Warrior, who stood on the Hall of Fame stage and proposed the “Jimmy Miranda Award,” an honor meant for the unsung, behind-the-scenes employees who carried the company long before the spotlight ever found them. Jimmy, it turns out, was never just my story. He was everyone’s.

When I later learned that Jimmy passed away in 2002, it somehow felt fitting that the company paused to honor him. Jim Ross and Jerry Lawler paid tribute to him on Monday Night RAW, not for championships or WrestleMania moments, but because he was beloved. Because he was dependable. Because he treated people well. That realization closed the loop for me. What I once thought was a fleeting, lucky conversation in a high school gym was actually a brush with a quiet legend. Jimmy Miranda never needed to step into the ring to leave a mark. He showed up, did the work, treated people with dignity, and helped others find their footing. And without ever knowing it, he taught me something I still carry. Sometimes the most important people in the room are the ones building the room itself. Thank you, Jimmy!