A Love Letter To Pro Wrestling

Finn Balor
Image Source: WWE

If you have ever liked professional wrestling, then you have almost definitely heard this:

“You know it’s not real, right?”

Yes, Mum, I know. Did you know that Walter White wasn’t actually cooking meth? Did you know that Friends was filmed in front of a live studio audience? Did you know that Boris Johnson is really a highly-trained Scandinavian circus clown?

Of course you do. But that doesn’t mean you have to enjoy them any less.

Wrestlemania 33 is fast approaching, and it is a time of rampant speculation and excitement, where the most hardcore of the hardcore fans, even the stout WWE deserters, come out of the woodwork to tune in to The Grandest Stage of Them All. That being the case, I’ve attempted to find out what attracted me to this crazy world we call Wrestling.

Image Source:
WWE.com

In the past, I’ve tried to pinpoint to myself why exactly it is I like wrestling, but could never quite put my finger on it. What was it that captured, and more importantly, held, my imagination for so much of my life? Especially at a younger time in my life when the only other sport you heard of as a kid growing up in England was football, or when you started being interested in cars, or heaven forbid you actually had a hobby or went to a social club (“No thanks, swimming is for losers!” said awkward boy Darryl, who at 25 has nearly drowned approximately 3 times.)

It never even crossed my mind back then that girls could be into wrestling. It was such a masculine, niche market, there was no way girls would want to watch it. They’d call it stupid, like all the football guys. It’s not my fault I don’t understand the ball kicking. It’s not my fault that whenever a red shirted team play a blue shirted team all I can think of is that I’m watching a live version of Table Football.

To be honest, in a way I think wrestling has always been a strange thing to admit liking. You have to seek out other wrestling fans, almost like tracking a wild boar in the woods. The tell-tale sign of a wrestling shirt worn in public. A Twitter bio proudly proclaiming ‘wresting fan’. Forget about the people who say “Yeah, I used to watch it when it was Stone Cold and The Rock.” Forget them! They’re dead to you now! They’ll never understand how happy we all felt when Michael Cole got F-5’d!

Brock Lesnar and Michael Cole
Image Source:
Cageside Seats

I remember a few years ago, when I started seeing my girlfriend, that one day I became suddenly nervous about something. I was genuinely anxious that I, so soon after meeting her, was going to have to come out. As a wrestling fan.

Aside from anything else, this was what my mind pushed as a make-or-break moment. “You like big, sweaty guys in their underwear, throwing each other around?” she would definitely ask.

“Do you watch it with lit scented candles, sat in front of an open fire?”

The answer to both was yes.

“I, uh, I should probably tell you, before this goes any further, that I, erm…  I like wrestling. Like, really like it. Big fan. The biggest fan,” I faltered, trying desperately not to channel my inner-Donald Trump.

“That’s cool.”

I stared in to her eyes, stunned. My mental capacity for criticism, already as weak as the gym weights I can’t lift, had not been damaged. My pride left untouched.

That’s really been one of the only times my wrestling passion had worried me. In nearly all other cases, I’ve found that if you meet someone who likes wrestling, and you find out that you both like wrestling, then you become friends forever. As if your mutual appreciation is a legally binding contract, of which to harm in any way is punishable by death.

Delving back even further, my earliest memory of wrestling was back in those ol’ glory days of the WWF, before the pandas came and messed everything up. They can fuck everything else except their own species. Good riddance, you adorable bastards.

Seeking out wrestling when I was growing up was a nigh-on impossible task of Herculean effort. In those times, wrestling was only available in the UK if you were one of the privileged few to have Sky television. Which my family didn’t. We were content with five channels. For wrestling fans, it was a difficult and barren age. There was a brief period of time, however, when Channel 4 showed Sunday Night Heat. I don’t remember the year exactly, but I remember the main event of that particular episode being Triple H vs Hardcore Holly. It was, by today’s standards, not a great match, but for my impressionable pre-teen mind, it was a spectacle like none I had ever seen before. There was something about the aesthetic, the adrenaline, the excitement from a live crowd and the physicality, at a time when other popular sports did nothing to interest me – this was incredible.

The Rock and Hulk Hogan
Image Source:
Munchee Daily

A friend of mine’s parents had Sky, and whenever I was round his house all I wanted was to catch but a glimpse of anything wrestling related. I was once lucky enough to see a promo, hyping up the February PPV No Way Out, back in 2001. What the hell was a 3 Stages of Hell match? It sounded so cool and like something I would definitely challenge the local arsehole cat who kept shitting in our garden to. Before that, the Royal Rumble of 2001 was being shown on Channel 4, and I was fortunate enough to get it taped. I’d never seen a Royal Rumble match before, and lost my tiny mind at the fact there were so many people in one match. (Little did I know, back then, how heartbroken I would be following Royal Rumble 2014, whilst fancy dressed as 3MB-era Heath Slater, using a crudely torn bin bag as a waist coat.)

I wasn’t able to completely comprehend what I had witnessed, but I knew I needed more. Without Sky, the only way to source WWF was either to hope your local Blockbuster had some tapes in (member Blockbuster? Ah I member!) or see what offerings Woolworths had.

The first wrestling VHS I owned was Wrestlemania 17. Many call it the greatest Mania of all time. I would be hard pressed to disagree. I watched that PPV more times than I could count. The triple-threat TLC match was the best thing I had ever seen, and won by a wrestler whose name was my surname.This was destiny and fate mouth kissing each other.

When I was in my first year of high school, me and my friend Troy went around recruiting other year 7s to be in our respective made-up wrestling factions to rival Raw and Smackdown. We came up with the most manly and fear-inducing show titles we could think of:

‘Powerhouse’ and ‘Meat Factory’.

They were halcyon days. I once Stone Cold Stunnered someone at lunch time. The dinner lady blew the whistle, and we all retreated to our classes. When I looked out the classroom window and out onto the field, that summer’s afternoon, he was still there, prone on the grass. Whether he was selling my Stunner like death, or legitimately hurt, I never found out. I had never felt more alive.

Edge and Batista
Image Source:
WWE

I pleaded with my Mother to take me to a house show, to which she eventually relented.
My first live event, the atmosphere was electric. Like nothing I had ever experienced before. It was music to my ears, and like heroin to my veins. And just as more-ish. I remember some of the matches were Edge vs Batista (the first match I ever saw live), Randy Orton vs Shelton Benjamin, Shawn Michaels vs Ric Flair, and the main event was Triple H battling Chris Benoit and Stevie Richards.

It wasn’t until I was older that I came to appreciate the storytelling aspect of the business. The in-ring work of the performers, the nuances and psychology. Nothing beat the live experience. Many further house shows led to eventually, through the wonderful tool of YouTube, discovering of whole different side of wrestling. From New Japan and Ring of Honor, to Botchamania (long may it sail) to in the last few years, stellar British promotion like PROGRESS, Insane Championship Wrestling and Revolution Pro Wrestling, to name but a select few.

To see the love and passion people across the UK and across the world had, and have, for wrestling was mind-blowing. It, to me, is truly an art form that transcends boundaries and pigeon-holed descriptions. It’s an athletic performance, an entertaining story told through a visual and physical medium, a soap opera for people who hate soap operas.

To this day, I still fangirl when I met wrestlers, who have never not been the nicest people. Jimmy Havoc, after NXT Takeover: London, mugged/persuaded me to give him the money in my wallet. All £1.60 of it.

Jimmy Havoc
Image Source:
Youtube

After a WWE house show in Nottingham, I ran round the back of the arena, just to try and see the wrestlers up close, maybe get an autograph, if fortune favoured me. I’ll never forget seeing The Undertaker in his civilian clothes, an orange polo shirt and light-brown slacks.

To this day it is the most haunting thing I have ever seen. And we all saw how Wrestlemania 30 went.

Yes, today we all fantasy book wrestling, and 9 times out of 10, we are going to be disappointed because either LOL CENA WINS or Vince McMahon tells us internet smarks to go fuck ourselves, again. But we still watch. I still watch. Heck, I’m an addict at this point. I need wrestling in my life. I need to tweet about it, read the rumours, become consumed by it.

I somehow got my girlfriend to come to shows. Granted, she’s more impressed by things like Rockstar Spud’s tan, and Matt Riddles hair, and if Jimmy Havoc might ever mug me again, but it’s a start.

From one wrestling fan to another, I ask only this: Watch wrestling. Go out and support a local show. Leave your minds at the door and be completely absorbed by something both strange and wonderful. Chant, cheer, boo, woo. Go lose yourself and find 500, 600, 700 new friends who will never judge you, who will laugh and cry on the same adventure.

I love wrestling. I really love wrestling.

And I know that, at Wrestlemania 33, Brock Lesnar is probably going to win the Universal Championship and then never defend it. And that Roman Reigns will likely beat The Undertaker and we’ll all be mad.

But I’ll still be watching.

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