I’m often asked what I do for a living. When I say that I’m a professional wrestling columnist, people stare at me in utter disbelief. They’re bewildered.
How can this mildly articulate (and handsome) young man like rasslin’?
That’s because, to the world at large, professional wrestling is a lesser art form at best — reserved for juveniles.
At worst, they assume I’m a cousin-loving neanderthal with body odor.
To those people, I have a little bit of sign language for you:
My love affair with pro wrestling began in my adolescence. My uncle was a genuine sycophant, frequenting message boards and trading VHS tapes of Sabu, prior to the advent of YouTube. He inherited his appreciation for the medium from my grandfather, who regularly attended Mid-Atlantic Championship Wrestling shows in the 1960s and 1970s. Even my older sister watched Monday Night “Raw” and Friday Night “SmackDown” at the height of the “Ruthless Aggression” era, if for no other reason than Jeff Hardy and Edge’s … magnetism.
For years, I was apprehensive to share my love for professional wrestling with the world. In my early twenties, I was a personal banker. After seven months, I finally requested PTO to attend an All Elite Wrestling event in Norfolk. When my supervisor caught wind of where I was going, he asked me the same question that every professional wrestling fan dreads:
“You know it’s fake, right?”
I was livid.
Of course, I know professional wrestling is fake, [Supervisors Name Redacted]. Are you fu**ing kidding me? When I was 11, my favorite wrestler was an undead wizard who could shoot lightning from his hands. You don’t think I got the hint?
Not only had he insulted my intelligence, but he validated every concern that professional wrestling fans fear.
I still face that harsh reality every time I tell someone that I’m a professional wrestling columnist.
What they don’t understand is that professional wrestling is the most exhilarating medium of storytelling in the world. Sure, the outcomes are predetermined, but so are all works of fiction. Have you ever seen The Undertaker throw Mankind off the “Hell in a Cell” cage? Have you heard The Rock interrupt a jabroni or Ric Flair brag about his late-night exploits? Have you seen The Road Warriors beckoned to the ring by the opening riff of Black Sabbath’s “Iron Man?” Can “The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives” or “The Summer I Turned Pretty” replicate the rush of endorphins that Will Ospreay’s entrance theme provides?
Over the last two decades, WWE has worked painstakingly hard to rechristen professional wrestling as “sports entertainment.” The phrase has become a catch-all term to distinguish the promotion from legitimate professional sports.
While I abhor it, sports entertainment is, if nothing else, accurate. After all, professional wrestling should be as immersive as sports — heightened to its logical extreme. Media conglomerates like ESPN – guess what the E in ESPN stands for – have tried mightily to heighten the drama of professional sports. In professional wrestling, that relationship between sports and entertainment is inherent.
Beneath all of the pomp and circumstance though, it is a uniquely demanding vocation. At its highest level, it requires extraordinary cardiovascular health, physical strength, speed, dexterity, and coordination. It also requires tremendous technical proficiency, leveraging the safety of themself and their opponent. After all, the risk of injury is ever-present.
While its presentation has become synonymous with WWE’s house style, professional wrestling is as stylistically diverse as it is multifarious. However, every discipline from lucha libre to Japanese strong style can trace its roots back to Greco-Roman or folkstyle wrestling. So, it’s only natural that the “sport of kings” has attracted amateur wrestling savants like Kurt Angle and Salman Hashimikov into the professional ranks. Pro wrestling has even played a role in the advent of mixed martial arts. Early pioneers like Ken Shamrock, Masakatsu Funaki and Kazushi Sakuraba all found their footing in professional wrestling.
It does have its discrepancies. While sports may be America’s most meritocratic institution, professional wrestling is uniquely democratic. Beyond a performer’s athletic ability or technical proficiency, their success is ultimately dictated by their ability to resonate with the audience. If a pro wrestler sells merchandise and attracts viewers, they’ll be rewarded commensurately.
Great professional wrestlers are more than just prizefighters or star quarterbacks, though. They’re entertainers, akin to leading men or women in cinema. In addition to their demands as performers, they have rigorous travel schedules and promotional obligations. On national television, they also have the added stress of promoting their own matches — before live audiences that exceed hundreds of thousands, if not millions. Pro wrestlers don’t have the benefit of film multiple takes or editing, either. Most nationally televised wrestling programs are filmed live, destined to live on in perpetuity.
What’s truly drawn me to professional wrestling, though, are the larger-than-life personalities. The art form necessitates authenticity. Professional wrestlers rarely succeed when they’re forced into unnatural roles. Ric Flair wasn’t portraying a character, as “The Nature Boy.” Instead, he portrayed a caricature of himself. “Stone Cold” Steve Austin really was a beer-drinking redneck that hated his boss, and he took that persona to the stratosphere. It’s no coincidence that he’s given the President of the United States the Stone Cold Stunner. Did Michael Jordan ever dunk on Bill Clinton? I think not.
Flair and Austin weren’t the only ones, though. Andre really was a jovial giant. Vince McMahon is actually a megalomaniacal sex addict.
At its core, though, professional wrestling is a morality play; an eternal struggle between good and evil. In pro wrestling, the heroes and villains are known as babyfaces and heels. Compare that to the UFC, for example. While I don’t support Jon Jones’ conduct outside of the octagon, I’m forced to accept the reality that he’s virtually inviolable in it. Whereas in professional wrestling, Jones would eventually be forced to face his reckoning, and the babyface would ultimately prevail. While it may be pure escapist fantasy, there’s something I find comforting about that.
I don’t want professional wrestling to be real. I love the artifice of pro wrestling. The theatrics, the pomp and circumstance, the sleight of hand, it resonates with people in a way that is universal — regardless of gender, race, class, or nationality.
As long as it stays that way, it will continue to transcend time itself.