Wrestling Is Glorious

“The first time I ever went there, I was standing around learning curse words from nine year old kids.”  – Johnny Vegas

It is a right of passage for seven year old boys in America.  Someone – a father, an older brother, the ten year old next door, tries to ruin your young life with an unpleasant truth: Wrestling is fake.  What they mean by that, is that Professional Wrestling is choreographed.  The people going into that ring know who’s going to win. 

But that doesn’t mean it’s fake.  Shrek is fake.  Wrestlers are real physical specimens, actors who perform their stunts.  The muscles are real.  The bruises are real.  And because the winners are determined by the affection of the crowd, the competition is real too.  Certain elements of the show are scripted, but that doesn’t make it a fake sport: it makes it the realest theater you’ll ever watch.

And what do you know about reality anyway?  You thought Mark McGuire’s home run competition with Sammy Sosa was real, and the fact that they were both on steroids and that major league baseball needed that type of news story to repair the self-inflicted damage caused by a strike changed what, exactly?  

So it was that I found myself going to my first ever wrestling match at the tender age of 44.  My knowledge is scant.  Youthful memories of obsessively watching WWF before they got beat up by the panda people, and a short refresher course taught by friends under the influence of powerful non-prescription psychedelics.  There are apparently a number of local events, and national events happen frequently, but this website is dedicated to St. Louis Tradition and local events.  So I chose GLORY PRO WRESTLING (https://www.gloryprowrestling.com/).  Once a month the hardest motherfuckers you’ve ever seen throw down, jump up, and kick out the jams.

The staff is friendly.  Drunk Matt bought the tickets online a few weeks ago under a goofy name, but they give me a couple of chances to get it right.  The crowd does not disappoint.  They are spectators to the action, but participants in the play.  Remember, it’s their approval and joy that determines the winners.  Like the coliseum of Ancient Rome, but we are a collective Caesar.  

Every wrestler is a star.  The refs are stars.  One guy (and only one) has a manager character that comes out with him.  Star.  Every single one of the players has a meticulously developed character, reminiscent of media archetypes, subcultures, stereotypes, and sheer whimsy.  Hippie wrestlers, Pimp wrestlers, Miss America Wrestlers, Preppie Wrestlers, Goth Wrestlers, Animal Wrestlers, and plenty more, all in one show.

Some things seem to be vaguely off-limits.  One suspects that if allowed, gay slurs would quickly take over the atmosphere, so homosexuality is constantly inferred, but rarely mentioned.  Race play crosses the limits set by the woke, but remains within normal American limits – say what you want, but the racists are the bad guys.  If they win it’s a part of a normal heel play – piss the audience off so they’re even more excited next time when they lose.

The intensity is off the charts from the opening bell.  This ain’t no indie rock show where we’re all waiting for the headliner.  Every match matters.  Every match is a step ladder to the next, and the trail goes all the way to WWE’s Wrestlemania.  These local matches are a farm team to the big leagues for any performer, as long as the people want it.  Just ask Cody Rhodes.  Local matches are where legends are born.

The initial matches are standard fare for a bout, I’m told.  Black guy vs. White guy.  Two different types of black guys vs each other.  Tag team match featuring a lady!  Two very attractive women fighting like men.  Medium stars from other cities receiving a hero’s welcome.  Hometown stars with people chanting their names as soon as they appear.  Most of the matches end like you would hope or assume.  Meaning that when they don’t the emotional impact is real.  It is impossible to maintain distance.  It doesn’t matter to know that it’s staged.  This shit rules.

My personal favorite – this is how it works, everyone has a character they can identify with – is an out of towner named Ethan Price.  Clean cut, boyish looks, a fey attitude and appearance, god you just want to punch this guy.  I can relate.  Before he inevitably loses, he manages to entice the crowd into chants of “Big Strong Boy!”  This kid is going places.

And then it’s time for the main event.  The current beltholder is Warhorse.  He’s been on WWE!  He’s wrestled Cody Rhodes on TV!  The crowd knows this.  His mein is vaguely Nazi-esque.  No Swastikas or salutes but this is a mean bastard with red glasses and a military bearing.  It’s his job to lose and he’s not going to do it.  The challenger is Alex Shelley, a punk rock wrestler who’s been on and off TV for the past twenty years.  The crowd prefers Shelley.  And why not?  Warhorse is being a bastard on purpose.  The Heel is almost always a more impressive role – everyone wants to be liked, this job requires you to make people hate you.  About two thirds of the way during the bout, Shelley accidentally knocks out the ref.  No problem!  Replacement ref rushes in.  The remaining minutes are perfect, as Shelley gives the crowd it’s heart’s desire – victory over evil.

But wait!  At the last minute the knocked out ref wakes up and disqualifies Shelley!  Literally handing him defeat after he held the belt over his head!  The man on his third whiskey next to me is OUTRAGED.  Justice is denied.  There will be no appeal.  It doesn’t matter that it was an accident.  Our catharsis is denied.  The bad guys win.  If you want to see how the story goes, if you want to see the good guys win, if you want to watch Warhorse finally get his, well – you’ll have to come back next time.

“I Think Maggie Is Local”