Earlier today, I hosted a Lego Star Wars themed birthday party for my new friend Rafa. I had to dress up as a Jedi Knight, a sort-of-generic Luke Skywalker/Obi-Wan Kenobi amalgam, while wielding a blue Anakin Skywalker lightsaber.

I resembled what Jedi Knights might look like if they retire and stay out of action for a few years.

The whole night, the children, very loudly, kept calling me “Jedi Mikey”. “Jedi! Jedi!”, they’d shout, trying to grab my attention by challenging me to lightsaber duels, or to hand them their loot bags, or to reward them with prizes for games they didn’t win.

It felt pretty good. But it was not the highlight of the evening.

After the party, I was finally able to sit down, relax, and take off my gladiator boots. (They weren’t very comfortable.) I went to the bathroom to change into my civilian attire of sneakers, shorts, and a CM Punk shirt.

I walked back to the venue to grab my things before heading out. Kids were smiling, pointing, shouting “Jedi!” I smiled, waved, and kept walking.

Then there was this one kid. A fat boy. Fat boys are the best, because they remind me of me. His voice was almost in awe, in reverence, as he yelled “CM PUNK! THAT’S MY FAVORITE WRESTLER!”

I had to stop. I turned around, pointed at him, and said “Best in the world!”

“He’s my favorite,” he yelled again.

I laughed, grabbed my things, and went home happy. If a new generation of kids are into Star Wars AND wrestling, then I think there is hope for the future.