Moment of full disclosure: I love professional wrestling. Actual love. The type of love between a man and a woman or a man and a fine Cuban cigar. If we were in fifth grade, I would be in "like" like with wrestling. And it isn't in the sense of “I love the camp! Foreign objects rule!” or “It’s a parody of MMA" or “It’s so bad that it’s good,” much like how some worship Plan 9 From Outer Space or Jeph Loeb's run on Hulk.
No. I actually love the sport...to the point where I refer to it as “a sport."
I read the dirt sheets. I watch the occasional PPV. When I look at what John Cena has done to the WWE, I shed a single tear like the Indian Chief staring at a field of garbage. I fondly reminisce about the Attitude Era (the late ‘90s when the Rock, Austin, Angle, HHH, and Y2J were running wild) much like the Huffington Post does the Clinton years.
It combines Hollywood drama, larger than life icons and athletic ability (which is typically overshadowed by the staged finishes). These men and women are athletes. Get over it. I dare you to hit any of these moves without incurring brain damage. Let me put it this way: if someone were to attack Brock Lesnar in a darkened alley, he could probably fight his way out by using a few submission holds. Conversely, Houdini gets punched by some asshole and dies. Which goes to show you that wrestling is more real than magic.
Above the athletics, you have characters. True, they're manufactured by a writing staff and often over the top and racially questionable (read: Black Machismo, Latino Heat, the Squinty-Eyed Dragon), but they turn the ring work into an extension of the backstory.
Unlike sports, you're playing a part both in and out of the ring. It makes everything stronger when there's a backstory. You need a heel and a face. In the NBA, you can't be a villain. LeBron took a hit after "The Decision" from which his image will never recover. In wrestling, you can be the most hated man in the ring, and you're doing your job better than anyone else in the world. Basically the opposite of Congressional approval ratings.
It means that during every MMA bout, you can make jokes about Brock Lesnar knocking himself unconscious at Wrestlemania. On particularly trying days, it means waking up to Chris Jericho's entrance music for inspiration. It's the inherent knowledge that Bret Hart will be booed in every arena in the USA, yet hailed as a god in Canada. It's listening to CM Punk on Bill Simmons' podcast and understanding what it means to be a "Paul Heyman guy."
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As you can tell, I can go on for days on end about the intricacies of pro wrestling (and I haven't even touched on Edge and Christian, ECW, Marty Jannetty's Buckner-esque curse, or Mick Foley's contributions to American Literature). But there is another side of the business and another category of wrestling fans with whom I've gotten acquainted lately. Namely, t
These fans are the true believers. The people who decry the WWE as sell outs, Uncle Toms pandering their product to children for the sake of merchandising (WWE recently banned excessive profanity during promos and bleeding during matches). The ones who consider Ring of Honor to be the one, true promotion. The fans who value wrestlers over "sports entertainers."
I have always wanted to bring more people into this world. Wanted them to understand the beauty of ring psychology, selling injuries, the slow heel turn, mark out moments, and gaining heat.
So this past weekend, I bring a friend (concealing his identity, lets call him "Reinhold") along to a PWG event. Reinhold says he has absolutely no idea what to expect. Much like skydiving, buying a used car or dating an actress, that's the only way to experience the independent scene.
It's indy wrestling the way it is supposed to be exhibited: at the American Legion outpost #308 in Reseda; a seedy venue in a part of town populated by bail bondsmen and Korean markets. And in case you were wondering, yes, the American Legion has a liquor license. The fear for your life is compounded by the mandatory pat down at the door. It's a ballroom roughly the size of a high school gymnasium, holding maybe 200 rabid, drunk, Cena-hating goons; somewhere that Randy the Ram would feel comfortable performing. There were probably 12 other people wearing the same CM Punk shirt that I had on. It's as though you took a prize boxing match and filled the venue with the Daytona 500 infield.
Ah yes. My people.
I was particularly excited for this event since reigning ROH champ Davey Richards (who was maligned as “Jim Cornette’s wet dream," an insult only understood inside that ring) was wrestling Kevin Steen for the title. Davey ended up losing after a piledriver so dangerous that WWE has banned the move.
It's the most real that professional wrestling will ever get. The outcome might be staged, but they don't pull punches. There isn't an external story, just in-ring storytelling. We saw as a 250lb man hit a plancha over the turnbuckle, landing outside the ring, crushing a chair and then smashing his head against a table. There were top rope moonsaults, 450 splashes, men getting dropped on their heads, and a few sequences so well choreographed that they evoke comparisons to a dance (to misquote Jack Handy: "To me, boxing is like a ballet, except there's no music and the dancers hit each other").
If there is an art to the wrestling, there's an art to the crowd as well. Interacting with the crowd is part of the job. When someone started mocking the Quebec-born Kevin Steen with "Oh, Canada," Steen starts a "Shut the fuck up *clap clap clap clap clap*" chant that takes over the arena. The crowd chants "boo" during the villain's punch and "yay" for the hero's. It's a rabid, intimate crowd that you can't reproduce anywhere else. Much like any of your drunk uncle's anecdotes, you had to have been there to understand.
(Sidebar: I'm willing to go to a Hipster bar? Really? Granted, it has been well documented that I hate, loathe, despise, and am currently planning a mass genocide of hipsters. That doesn’t mean that I don’t enjoy seeing them in their natural habitat, the Flannelmal Kingdom. Also, I honestly enjoy PBR. Not because it’s ironic, which is an added perk.)
Instead, we drive past that bar and keep on keeping on towards the upscale part of Santa Monica. Felt like Michael riding with McCluskey and Sollozzo ("We're going to Jersey?").
We meet up with Reinhold's boys, who are dressed in blazers, topsiders and khakis. I’m not sure what their night included up to their point, but it either entailed a jaunt through the yacht club or preventing Flounder and Pinto from pledging their frat.
Go to a bar located on the top floor of a hotel. You walk out of the elevator and into a realm of trendy, hip people who actually belong to "a scene." Mainly out of work actors who spend whatever income is left after their SAG dues at Fred Segel. The sort of man who wears a scarf indoors during the Southern California summer. All of whom have their hair in an Jimmy Neutron faux hawk. It's a bar with a built-in 20 minute wait to get served a $15 drink (unless you have the FastPass of a pair of DDs). There are more sport coats and vests than a Hogwarts dining hall.
The sort of bar that I make jokes about not being allowed in. And for some reason, I'm inside.
As I'm equivocating the situation ("If Hemingway and Fitzgerald were still alive, is this the place they'd be frequenting?"), the others get situated at the bar, start chatting up prospects, scoping out the dance floor. As they disappear into the mass of Entourage extras, me and my B cups are still waiting at the bar (now at minute 12).
While attempting to make eye contact with any of the five bartenders, I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the many convenient mirrors situated nearby. I'm wearing a CM Punk shirt, checkboard Vans and a woven belt (note: I assure you, I’m not a hipster). I try to tuck my shirt into my jeans, hoping to seem classier. Doesn't help. Look like my dad on his way to play tennis.
And I realize something:
This entire bar is an exercise in loneliness.
People trying to avoid it.
People trying to prevent it.
And some people *ahem* wallowing in it.
It's one of the more uncomfortable moments in recent memory. Much like walking into the American Legion Outpost to watch independent wrestlers kick each other in the head while drunken rednecks scream "TAP OUT! KILL! KILL!"
One of those real world instances with so much unintended symbolism and parallelism that you understand exactly why LiveJournal was created.
At which point, the story turned into that of a man who absolutely hates the world that he sees...and desperately wants to be a part of it.
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Long story short, October 22. Steen v. Generico in a ladder match. Going to be epic. I haven't dragged anyone to a PWG show who didn't rave about it later. Who's in?
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