A Tall Man in a Short Attention Span Era
In a sport where larger-than-life is a prerequisite, William Morrissey, now known as Big Bill, remains one of the few legitimate giants who didn’t need camera tricks, lifts in his boots, or a borrowed Kevin Nash attitude to seem massive. Standing somewhere between Empire State and unemployed center for the Knicks, Bill was born in Queens, New York in 1986, back when Hulkamania was contagious and Vince McMahon still claimed wrestling was a sport.
Despite being built like a condo complex and having the jawline of a Greek statue who just got served an eviction notice, Morrissey’s early years were as grounded as a Brooklyn teenager on report card day. He played basketball for NYU, was co-captain of the team, and majored in economics—a noble major if your life plan involves disappointing your immigrant parents.
Instead, he chose pro wrestling. Not because he had to. Because God—and Johnny Rodz—blessed him with knees that hadn’t yet betrayed him and a heart full of masochistic ambition.
From Colin to Cass: Enter the Hype Machine
Trained at the World of Unpredictable Wrestling (which should’ve been renamed “World of Unbookable Gimmicks”), Morrissey debuted as “Big Bill Young,” a cowboy in Brooklyn. That’s not a typo. A cowboy. In Brooklyn. He may have been the first man to get booed in Bushwick for wearing boots ironically.
Fast-forward to 2011 and Morrissey signs with WWE—the land of opportunity and bad booking decisions. Rebranded as Colin Cassady, he showed up in NXT with all the personality of a human lamppost. That changed when he was paired with Enzo Amore, a walking episode of Jersey Shore who somehow learned to rhyme and yell simultaneously.
Together, Enzo and Cass were magic. Well, more like Red Bull and Mentos—fizzy, fun, and inevitably explosive. Enzo talked like he was running for office in Staten Island, and Cass just stood there, looking like the side of a building that occasionally said “SAWFT.”
The crowd loved them. WWE brass tolerated them. Eventually, Cass would come to realize that tagging with a man who dressed like a Slim Jim on ecstasy came with a price.
Big Cass Breaks Bad (and His ACL)
As soon as Cass was repackaged as Big Cass on the main roster, it was clear WWE was trying to see if the guy could hang solo. He couldn’t. But not for lack of trying.
Post-tag team breakup, Cass got a run as a singles heel. He turned on Enzo (to the crowd’s dismay and nobody’s surprise), got a feud with Daniel Bryan handed to him like an expired gift card, and then imploded faster than a Vince McMahon press conference.
Injuries, attitude problems, and a controversial beatdown on a Daniel Bryan impersonator (no, seriously) led to his firing. According to Sports Illustrated, Vince himself pulled the trigger after Cass disobeyed direct instructions. A big man with a small fuse, it seemed.
Big Cazz, Big Crash
Then came the post-WWE wilderness years—where gimmicks go to die and wrestlers find God or Impact Wrestling, or both.
Morrissey rebranded himself on the indies as Big Cazz, then CaZXL, then “guy who gave Jon Moxley a match before returning to rehab.” He suffered an epileptic seizure at a House of Hardcore show in 2018, collapsed at a merch table, and was treated by Tommy Dreamer like it was a backstage Grey’s Anatomy episode.
Addiction. Depression. A backstage altercation with Joey Janela that made Reddit threads longer than WrestleMania. It was ugly. Even Enzo stopped returning his texts.
But unlike many who never crawl out of wrestling’s gutter, Morrissey did the work. With the help of Diamond Dallas Page—wrestling’s unofficial patron saint of broken knees and broken spirits—Morrissey got sober. He got leaner. He got focused.
Then he got hired.
Impact’s W. Morrissey: One Scowl Away from Glory
In Impact Wrestling, now the Las Vegas of wrestling where second chances go to find meaning, he showed up as W. Morrissey—a reformed monster with a grudge and a haircut that screamed “I meditate now.”
Feuding with the likes of Eddie Edwards, Moose, and the last remaining shreds of Impact’s budget, Morrissey shined. Gone were the goofy promos and SAWFT catchphrases. Here was a man possessed, throwing lariats like he had rent due and no Venmo.
For the first time, people looked at Morrissey and saw potential fulfilled. Then he vanished—again.
AEW’s Big Bill: Redwood With A Redemption Arc
Cue the lights, cue the pyro, cue Tony Khan tossing money like confetti at a billionaire’s bachelor party.
Morrissey resurfaced in AEW as Big Bill, a name that sounds like a used car dealer but looks like a Bond villain with a protein powder habit. Initially brought in as a mystery opponent by MJF to feed to Wardlow, Bill took the pin but left an impression—specifically, a boot-shaped one on Wardlow’s chest.
Soon after, Big Bill signed full-time with AEW. He joined The Firm, a group so poorly booked it made Retribution look like the NWO. When The Firm quietly dissolved like AEW’s ranking system, Bill found a lifeline in the form of Ricky Starks. Together, they formed an odd-couple tag team that somehow worked.
And then… lightning struck. In October 2023, Big Bill and Ricky Starks beat FTR for the AEW World Tag Team Championship. A legit title reign. Not some pre-show prop, but a real belt. Bill had finally made it. After years of turmoil, alcohol, seizures, and promos that aged like milk, Big Bill stood tall—literally and metaphorically.
Their reign ended in February 2024 at the hands of Sting and Darby Allin, two men who weigh less than Bill’s boots combined. But the glory? The respect? That stayed.
The Learning Tree and Beyond: Branching Out
In 2024, Big Bill joined Chris Jericho’s Learning Tree, a stable that was half mentorship, half cult. Jericho dubbed him “The Redwood,” and for a while, it stuck. Until Bill realized Jericho mostly taught gaslighting and losing important matches. When Jericho bailed, Bill finally became his own man.
He teamed with Bryan Keith, bruised egos into submission, and started to forge something truly his: a legacy.
Big Bill went from a guy who forgot his lines on live TV, to a guy who forgot his demons in real life. He stopped chasing nostalgia and started chasing wins. He doesn’t need a catchphrase, a hype man, or a tag partner to be relevant anymore.
He’s not SAWFT. He’s not a joke. He’s not some cautionary tale in an article about addiction and wasted potential.
He’s Big Bill.
And brother, that’s a name you put on a championship plate—not a rehab form.