You might not have noticed, but last week was Wrestlemania, the biggest event of the year for both the billion dollar professional wrestling industry and it’s millions of fans. The entire sports entertainment calendar revolves around Wrestlemania and the weekend is usually jam packed with celebrations, photo opportunities and charitable functions that bring legions of fans face-to-face with the top names in the industry. Once the action moves into the squared circle, every match is the culmination of weeks and even months of storytelling by the in ring talent and WWE’s creative architects. It’s Christmas for the wrestling world.
Though it’s been muted the last two years by the COVID-19 pandemic that has put a damper on the entire planet, Wrestlemania usually plays out in front of stadiums packed with record breaking numbers of delirious fans. Rock music blares through hundreds of high definition speakers, it isn’t unusual to see live orchestras playing a combatant’s theme music as they strut to the ring and the WWE usually spends more on fireworks and pyrotechnics during Wrestlemania than Bernie Madoff spent on defence attorneys.
It’s also the time of year that teases wrestling bashers out of the wood work the way a mountain of sugar attracts ravenous ants. The world is full of people who despise anything that brings others joy and Wrestlemania attracts haters the same way Free Comic Book Day, the Oscars, MCU movies and new Taylor Swift albums do.
It’s all fake! they scream. You’re stupid for liking it, they laugh. It’s entertainment for degenerates and losers! Recycled names and insults that were old decades ago.
(Having said all that, there are plenty of wrestling fans-just like every other fandom-who are beyond eccentric and some who are just plain toxic. That kind of behaviour is inexcusable, no matter what they’re passionate about.)
So here’s an unashamed confession. Professional wrestling will always have a special place in my heart.
I was a huge wrestling fan when I was a kid. I could name all the big stars in the then WWF (I didn’t discover the existence of other promotions until my early teens, mostly because they were never on TV where I lived) and gobbled up as much wrestling merch as my meagre budget would allow. I can’t tell you how many bags of chips I ate chasing the stickers of my favourite wrestlers (I think I choked down a thousand bags of ketchup and dill pickle before I finally managed to get my hands on an Ultimate Warrior). And TV? Don’t even ask. Once the cartoons called it quits, weekends literally belonged to pro wrestling (a bare minimum of channel surfing was needed to find wrestling on TV at any time during the weekend, usually a rehash of the stuff you just watched).
How big a fan was I? I distinctly remember eight year old me crying when my parents finally sat me down and informed me that it was “fake”, and the wrestlers were only pretending. That they were putting on a show. Yeah, I was that kid.
But how could I not eat it up? I was a lonely, socially clumsy and awkward looking kid who loved comic books and Saturday morning cartoons (not a whole lot has changed). And professional wrestling was full of bigger than life personalities. Good guys and bad. Heroes and villains. Icons and monsters. When the good guys didn’t claim victory, it was because their nefarious opponents usually cheated their asses off. Professional wrestling made me feel like all was right with the world, no matter what the evening news was telling me.
The hero almost always got the girl in the end and the only time the side of angels lost was because the bullies and the jerks were conniving cowards who gamed the system (kind of like Wall Street). And when the good guys did win (which I always cheered for), it was greeted with endless waves of thunderous applause (no matter how much spandex the champion of the hour was wearing).
But childhood nostalgia isn’t why a part of me will always love professional wrestling.
No, I will always love it because of my dad.
I wouldn’t describe my father as a fan per se, but we probably watched more wrestling together than anything else. I didn’t become a hockey fan until I turned thirteen (which made growing up in a place where the local hockey arena was the most important building in town even more complicated) and never became a fan of any of the other sports he liked to watch. And we had completely opposite tastes in anything else the boob tube offered. While I was making plans to watch shows about vampire cops he was binge watching British dramas on PBS.
I don’t think my father ever read a Stephen King or Arthur C. Clarke or book in his entire life while I had chewed through plenty by the 11th grade. And he had some very colourful adjectives to describe the music I listened to at the time. When I became old enough to develop my own political beliefs, well fair to say we didn’t always see eye to eye on that either.
Nor was he ever shy about trotting out the usual excuses about it being fake or absurd whenever I asked to attend the (very) rare shows that came to neighbouring cities (not to mention the money to buy tickets for said shows). But whenever the “poor man’s ballet” was on TV, he never hesitated to grab a seat.
I remember with crystal clarity how he would call me into the living room whenever something big was about to go down. I remember him loudly rooting for the same guys I was. I remember him booing the heels who regularly cheated to get the win. I remember him complimenting the wrestlers whenever someone pulled off a jaw dropping move. And when I managed to find a few kindred spirits, he put up with a house full of over-excited, teenage wrestling nerds on a regular basis (not too many other fathers would have tolerated so much hassle so often).
Mostly I remember enjoying it with him, and realizing now that I took those precious, fleeting moments for granted. Taking his company for granted.
In the few years since he passed away, I have grown to regret not enjoying more things with him. And regret not savouring the moments we did have enough. As corny and cheesy as it sounds, professional wrestling, with all it’s theatrics and hokiness, was one of the few things we bonded over. And for that, a part of me will always remain forever grateful.
While I check in every once in a while to see what’s going on in the business, I’m no longer a fan. Aside from the fifty something’s still performing, I don’t recognize a single name on the marquee these days. And the adult me has come to recognize the many flaws the business has. From how they treat their talent (when I compiled list of my ten favourite childhood wrestlers a few years ago, I was shocked at how many were no longer with us, most dying prematurely and of unnatural causes) to the WWE’s disturbing trend of axing multiple performer during their most profitable time of year.
But it turns out adults can keep two thoughts in their heads at once. And their hearts as well. For all it’s warts, professional wrestling figures into a lot of the pleasant memories I have of my formative years. And many of those cerebral snapshots include my dad. Whenever I stroll down memory lane, wrestling has one of the biggest houses on the street (second only to Christmas in nostalgic power) and it’s full of pictures of my father (and more than a few of my long suffering mother as well).
And for that, I will always be thankful.
Image www.sportbible.com
