A Rasslin’ Eulogy That Refused to End in Tears
Mark Briscoe is not supposed to be here. Not like this.
For over two decades, Mark was the cackling, chair-swinging, barefooted yin to his late brother Jay Briscoe’s gravel-throated yang — half of the most criminally untelevised tag team in professional wrestling history. The Briscoe Brothers were to Ring of Honor what peanut butter is to jelly, if both condiments could brawl with barbed wire and cut violent, Shakespearean promos about God, guns, and chicken farming. Then, in January 2023, Jay was taken in a car crash, and suddenly the canvas was his alone.
In a world where tragedy writes final chapters in Sharpie, Mark Briscoe picked up the pen, dipped it in blood, and wrote a new beginning.
The Match That Shouldn’t Have Been
January 25, 2023. AEW Dynamite.
While most men would be curled up in grief or rage, Mark walked down the ramp alone. It was his AEW debut. Tony Khan, after months of network hesitation and whispered moral panic over old social media sins, had finally uncorked the Briscoe bottle — and it took Jay’s death to do it.
His opponent that night? Jay Lethal. Longtime friend, frequent foe. And for 13 minutes, the two men painted a eulogy with forearms and somersaults. No funeral, no sermon, no eulogist could match the sincerity of Mark hoisting Jay’s red tag title belt high after the final bell.
Mark Briscoe didn’t just debut that night. He cracked the sky.
A Rooster Among Wolves
Let’s be clear: Mark Briscoe was never supposed to be the singles star. He was the wild-eyed comic foil — the demented rooster to Jay’s road-hardened preacher. If Jay was delivering fire-and-brimstone from a pulpit made of plunder weapons, Mark was chasing chickens in the back, yelping “YAKKITY YAKKITY YEEE!”
But now, Mark was alone in AEW and Ring of Honor. And suddenly, this manic mountain goblin was holding the mic — and he didn’t stutter.
In a landscape of wrestlers cosplaying MMA fighters or whispering brooding nonsense into the camera, Mark showed up with a voice like a bootleg cassette tape recorded in a chicken coop. His promos were part gospel, part swamp magic, and 100% sincerity. You couldn’t look away — even when you didn’t understand a damn word he said.
A Star Among the Carnies
AEW is not short on talent. It’s a buffet of flip-kickers, brawlers, veterans, and upstarts, all trying to elbow their way into screen time between Tony Schiavone yells. But none of them are like Mark Briscoe.
He’s not a technician, though he can chain wrestle when the planets align. He’s not a high-flier, though he’ll moonsault off your family’s camper van if you dare him. And he’s certainly not marketable — not in the TV executive sense. He looks like a moonshiner got into your grandma’s spice rack and emerged quoting the Book of Revelation.
But fans? Fans love him.
Mark became an instant cult hero. Whether competing in chaotic AEW trios matches or throwing down in gritty Ring of Honor bouts, he radiated unteachable charisma. Not the Roman Reigns kind. Not the MJF kind. Something more… real. More untamed. He’s not performing a character. He is the character.
Ring of Honor: Jay’s Ghost, Mark’s Cross to Bear
Ring of Honor lives again under Tony Khan’s ownership, streaming out of a purgatory that resembles Universal Studios sound stages. It’s a far cry from the cramped VFW halls where Mark and Jay used to hurl bodies into folding chairs and call it art. But Mark carried on.
He fought Samoa Joe for the ROH TV Title. Lost. Fought Claudio Castagnoli for the ROH World Title. Lost. Faced off against Brian Cage and the Embassy. Lost again. But each match felt like progress. Like he wasn’t just defending his legacy — he was defining his own.
There were no more brotherly tags. No more dueling promos. No more “reach for the sky, boy” except in highlight reels. But Mark kept walking forward, barefoot, grinning, bleeding.
And finally — finally — in July 2023, at Death Before Dishonor, Mark Briscoe defeated Shane Taylor in an all-out war. His first major ROH singles victory under the new era. A long-overdue receipt for two decades of thankless greatness.
A Champion Without a Belt
To date, Mark hasn’t held a singles title in AEW or ROH. He doesn’t need to. He already holds something no belt can represent: honor.
In a company where the Young Bucks bury people with superkicks and the Blackpool Combat Club bleed recreationally every week, Mark Briscoe walks out, teeth missing, eyes twinkling, and heart on his sleeve. He wrestles because it’s who he is. Not for glory. Not for likes. Not for merch. For Jay. For the fans. For the art.
And somehow, he’s better than he’s ever been.
The Southern Fried Messiah
Maybe it’s the hair. Maybe it’s the accent. Maybe it’s the vibe of a man who could simultaneously fix your tractor and quote Psalms. But Mark Briscoe has, against every expectation, become something rare in pro wrestling: a pure babyface.
Not a cool anti-hero. Not a smirking egomaniac. Not a silent assassin. A genuine, lovable madman who laughs through pain and dances through sorrow. When he steps into the ring, you root for him because he is real.
He’s Terry Funk with ADHD. Dusty Rhodes with firecrackers. Mankind if he liked to fish. And in a world of scripted rage and performative nihilism, Mark Briscoe is the outlaw who found peace in the fire.
Epilogue: Reach for the Sky, Brother
There’s a world — a crueler one — where Mark Briscoe never made it out of ROH. Never got the AEW spotlight. Never had the chance to look straight into the camera and let millions hear the echo of his brother’s soul.
But that’s not this world.
In this world, Mark Briscoe is still standing. Still swinging chairs. Still doing elbow drops off ladders while grinning like a kid with a slingshot.
He’s not just a tribute to Jay. He’s not just the funny one. He’s the beating heart of Ring of Honor. The soul of Southern wrestling. The last real outlaw left standing barefoot in the mud.
And if you think he’s done?
YAKKITY YAKKITY YEEEEEE!
He’s just getting started.
