The lights never burned as bright for Scoot Andrews, but damn if he didn’t still bask in the glow.
Before there was AJ Styles in WWE or the cult of indie darlings marching into mainstream relevance, there was Andrew Warner—a.k.a. “The Black Nature Boy,” Scoot Andrews. He didn’t need a Rolex or a limousine. He rode to the ring in a rusted-out Chevy, popped the cassette out of his dashboard to throw a promo, and never once looked confused about who he was. He was sharp, he was athletic, and for a glorious flicker in time, he was the best damn wrestler you never saw.
Scoot Andrews was the kind of guy who showed up in the WWF Metal undercard just long enough to lose convincingly to Crash Holly. The kind of guy who was one Chris Daniels match away from a breakout—and the kind of guy who watched the door swing wide for everybody else, but always seemed to hit his own thumb when trying to wedge it open.
Let’s not sugarcoat it: Scoot Andrews’ career was the wrestling equivalent of a late-night Waffle House shift. It was rough, weird, badly lit, and filled with fights—but somehow, he made it unforgettable.
Florida Man With Flair
Born in 1967, Andrew Warner wasn’t supposed to become a pro wrestler. He was supposed to be an accountant. Or a pastor. Or maybe just the guy who ran the local car wash. But instead, he met Hack Meyers and Damien Lee, two journeyman brawlers who taught him how to suplex, suffer, and sell like rent was due tomorrow.
By the time Scoot debuted in 1994, he was already older than some of the guys now headlining AEW Dynamite. He didn’t care. He wrestled like a man double-parked: fast, dangerous, and fully aware that time was running out. He became a staple of Florida Championship Wrestling—not that FCW—and toured the sweaty southern loop with a string of promotions you needed a VCR and a lot of patience to find. Maryland Championship Wrestling, ECWA, NWA Wildside—you name it, he worked it.
Teaming with Mike Sullivan as “Naturally Marvellous” (a name that sounded like a rejected Prince album), Andrews found a groove. He had charisma, ring IQ, and cardio for days. He was the indie Ric Flair with a Tampa twist—a southern-fried technician in tights and attitude.
He was black, bold, and bling-free. And he still called himself Nature Boy.
Super 8, Super Close, Super Screwed
In 2000, Scoot Andrews stepped into the ECWA Super 8 tournament, a proving ground for indie greatness. Trent Acid? Pinned. Chad Collyer? Handled. But then, in the finals, he ran into that guy. Christopher Daniels. The guy who never looked like a star but somehow became one by being everywhere Scoot wasn’t.
Daniels won. Scoot went home.
It wouldn’t be the last time.
Later that year, Scoot popped up in Ted DiBiase’s WXO—an attempt at a Christian wrestling promotion that made TBN look like ECW. Scoot gave it his all. And then the promotion folded faster than a 1999 Napster lawsuit.
He was voted Florida’s Wrestler of the Year in 2000, which is kind of like being the best lifeguard in a hot tub. But to the diehards who knew talent when they saw it, Scoot was a master. And maybe—just maybe—he was going to get his due.
WWF and the Art of Losing Professionally
From 2000 to 2002, Andrews finally got national exposure. And by exposure, we mean he got beat up on cable. Essa Rios? Beat him. Crash Holly? Beat him. Tommy Dreamer and Spike Dudley? Tag team beatdown.
But Andrews was so good at making his opponents look great that fans started to notice. You don’t remember who wins on WWF Jakked, but you remember the guy who took that brainbuster like a champ and popped right up for more punishment. That was Scoot.
He appeared on Heat, Jakked, Metal, and even SmackDown in the early 2000s. He was the guy you booked to make rookies look real. And in a universe where perception is reality, Scoot Andrews looked a little too good at losing.
Ring of Honor and a Ringing Phone That Never Came
In 2002, Ring of Honor launched in a sweltering Philadelphia gym. Scoot Andrews, with his smooth offense and veteran polish, seemed like a natural. He wrestled on ROH’s first show—against Xavier. He lost. Again.
He kept grinding, though. Full Impact Pro. NWA Florida. IPW Hardcore. He even won titles—Light Heavyweight, Television, and Southern Heavyweight gold. He cut promos in gear too tight for comfort and held crowds in the palm of his wrist-taped hands.
And then, in 2005, he said enough. At a NWA Florida show, he told the crowd he was retiring. There was no WWE contract, no Hall of Fame video package, no Twitter farewell. Just a man who knew when the business was finished with him—and had the dignity to walk away before it took more than it gave.
Except it didn’t quite stick.
Scoot popped back in 2006 to manage D’Lo Brown. Then again in 2009. Then again until 2022. He was a hard habit to break—especially when you love the business more than it ever loved you.
The Indie OG Who Deserved Better
Scoot Andrews was the guy who gave the blueprint to guys like Cedric Alexander and Swerve Strickland. He was wrestling’s eternal “what if,” the man who could wrestle circles around most of his contemporaries and still got booked to go under.
He never needed pyros, fancy entrance music, or a Twitter blue check. He just needed a ring and a reason to fight.
In 2005, ECWA inducted him into their Hall of Fame. It was small. It was indie. And it meant everything.
That’s how it always was for Scoot.
Small shows. Big performances. No excuses.
Final Bell
There’s a quiet nobility in being the guy who never quite made it—but helped everybody else get there. Scoot Andrews was that guy.
No Netflix docuseries. No action figure. No WrestleMania moment.
But he made wrestling better by being in it. And in an industry where everyone’s working a gimmick, Scoot Andrews was the real deal.
The Black Nature Boy. The King of Jakked. The Champion of Almosts.
And that, brother, is pretty damn marvelous.