I grew up watching 'Taker, and he used to scare me as a kid, so I

“I grew up watching ’Taker, and he used to scare me as a kid, so I think it would only add to the excitement to be in a casket match with a guy like that. There’s definitely some jealousy.” So spoke Baron Corbin, warrior of the squared circle, reflecting upon the legend of The Undertaker, the Phenom who haunted generations with his shadowy presence. Though these words seem steeped in the theater of wrestling, they ring with deeper truths: of fear turned into courage, of heroes that shape us, of rivalry born of admiration, and of the eternal fire of jealousy that comes when one stands in the presence of greatness.

The meaning is layered. As a child, Corbin trembled before the dark aura of The Undertaker, a figure larger than life, cloaked in mystery and dread. That fear became memory, and that memory became fuel. To stand years later across the ring from such a man is not merely sport—it is the fulfillment of a journey. It is the story of how fear, when embraced, can transform into ambition. For what is more powerful than to face, in the flesh, the very presence that once haunted your dreams? Corbin’s words remind us that true excitement lies not in avoiding what once scared us, but in confronting it, even seeking it, so that fear itself may become our crown.

But his words also speak of jealousy. For where greatness shines, jealousy always follows. The Undertaker had long held the reverence of millions, his myth etched into the history of wrestling. To stand against such a figure is both an honor and a torment, for admiration stirs envy, and envy fuels the desire to prove oneself equal or greater. This is not petty jealousy, but the jealousy that pushes men to excel, to step beyond their limits. It is the kind of jealousy that transforms disciples into challengers, fans into warriors.

The ancients knew this well. Consider Alexander the Great, who grew up hearing of the exploits of Achilles. He slept with the Iliad beneath his pillow, idolizing the hero. Yet, within that admiration burned jealousy—the yearning not only to walk in Achilles’ shadow, but to surpass him, to become the greater legend. And so Alexander did not merely read of Troy; he carved his own conquests across the earth, his ambition fueled by the same dual fire Corbin describes: reverence and jealousy intertwined.

So too in art. The young Michelangelo studied the works of the great sculptors before him. He admired them, yet his heart was restless. He did not want only to copy, but to eclipse. Out of this jealousy was born the David, the Pietà, and the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Like Corbin staring across the ring at The Undertaker, Michelangelo looked upon the masters of old and thought: “One day, I shall stand among them.” Thus, admiration became rivalry, and rivalry became creation.

What lesson, then, must we draw? It is this: do not run from your fears, nor despise your jealousies. Fear reveals what matters most to you, and jealousy shows you the heights you long to reach. Instead of being enslaved by them, transform them. Let fear drive you to courage, and let jealousy drive you to greatness. The child who trembles before the hero may one day become the rival who stands before him as an equal.

So let us remember Baron Corbin’s words not merely as wrestling lore, but as eternal wisdom: “I grew up watching ’Taker... There’s definitely some jealousy.” For in every field—be it battle, art, or life itself—there are giants who came before us. We will fear them. We will envy them. But if we are wise, we will let that fear and envy sharpen us, mold us, and push us until we, too, stand as giants for those who come after. And in that moment, the circle of fear, admiration, jealousy, and triumph will be complete.