Eric Dane doesn't mince words. He's a two-time Hall of Famer and eleven-time World Champion—the man who built DEFIANCE into one of the most influential promotions of the last decade. And yet, for years, he vanished.

So like any good journalist, I had to find out what happened.

"The same thing that always happens," Dane told us, leaning back in his chair, the weight of his battles evident in his voice. "Personal demons. Imagine every demon there ever was deciding to gang up on you when things got tough. That was me. I had to step away before my poison spread to more than just DEFIANCE."

His reemergence wasn't in New York, Chicago, or Los Angeles—it was in Birmingham, Alabama.

"I was here getting my knee scoped. Again. I've bought Dr. Andrews at least two mansions in the last thirty years," Dane said with a half-smirk. But what started as a medical stopover became something more. "The city opened up to me. They accepted me as one of their own. I healed here—my body, my mind, my soul. When I looked around, I realized Birmingham gave me something back I hadn't had in a long time. So I started thinking about how I could repay it."

He found the answer in an abandoned factory: The Foundry.

"Grit, determination, blood, sweat, work—that's what the building said to me. And that's what it takes to make it in this business."

What Dane built inside those walls was the Star Forge—a punishing developmental program designed not to coddle but to harden.

"This game ain't for everyone," he explained. "It takes a special kind of psycho not only to endure but to pursue this line of work."

That ethos is felt in the locker room. Graysie Parker, the Iron Crown and WrestleZone Champion, framed it plainly:

"Eric didn't just give us a place to work—he gave us a place that demands respect. The Forge isn't easy. ICW isn't easy. And that's the point. If you survive here, you're ready for anywhere."

At first, the Forge was just a school. But with Dane, the itch to promote never really goes away.

"That thought is always lurking in the back of my head. Anybody who knows me knows that if I had the time and the funding, I'd be running territories all over the country—until it killed me from sheer exhaustion."

Instead of killing him, Birmingham has revived him. The Forge gave birth to Iron City Wrestling, and with it, a new proving ground not just for prospects but for the Dane legacy itself.

His son, Eric Dane Jr., is quick to point out the Forge wasn't designed as a family vanity project:

"People think I've got it easy because of my last name. Truth is, I'm grinding harder than anyone just to prove I belong here. The Old Man didn't build the Forge for me—he built it for the future. I've got to earn my place in it the same as everybody else."

The fans have bought into it, too. Commentator Angus Skaaland summed up the city's embrace:

"Dane could've gone and built some shiny, soulless warehouse in Orlando if he wanted. Instead, he took a busted old factory and turned it into a cathedral for hard-nosed wrestling. That's why folks in Birmingham love this place. It feels real."

And for the Class of 2025, the Forge is both trial and opportunity. Prospect Sunny Holliday didn't mince words:

"I've trained in a couple places, but nothing like this. The Forge doesn't let you hide. You're exposed, you're tested, and you either grow or you get chewed up. That's what makes it special—it feels like you're part of something that matters."

For Dane, that's the whole point.

"It's always been about my lasting effect on the business, even back to DEFIANCE. The idea is to leave it in a better way than you found it. This is me still trying to do just that."

The Foundry is alive now, fifty or five-hundred fans at a time, with the clang of steel and the sweat of hungry prospects. And at the heart of it, guiding the next generation, is Eric Dane—a man still chasing the only prize that ever mattered: shaping the future of wrestling.