By Paul Esau (The Cascade) – Email
Print Edition: February 22, 2012
There are nine of us here, outside the Abby Arts Center, waiting in the dark. Robert, with his wide grin and Irish cheer. Janet, his wife, dwarfed by her walker. A young girl, whose mother claims to know all the wrestlers on the ticket personally. Others. Me.
I’ve accidentally arrived an hour early, but my companions are worried. It might get cancelled, they say, if there isn’t a proper audience. They fuss a bit and remember the golden days, when even semi-pro events like this drew long lines.
I tell them not to worry, that I was at a ballet once in the same theatre that only drew eight people.
They stare at me, silent.
I was with a girl, I stammer, it’s the only reason I came.
Silence.
Welcome to wrestling, I think, welcome to a different world.
The hour passes, the crowd builds. I’m handed a brochure advertising Body by Vi protein shakes, and finally, reluctantly, am allowed entrance. The doors swing open and I see that place of suffering, that fount of glory: the wrestling ring.
It seems vaguely plain, sagging dusty towards the concrete–an artifact under fluorescent lights. Four posts, three ropes, the phantasmic roar of a timeless crowd. Will it rise again? I wonder, remembering the fanaticism of my fifth-grade classmates. Will it be as brutal, as ugly, as real as they claimed?
A table holds a dated collection of T-shirts, WWE figures, and hideous photography. Robert, Janet, and I sit down in the front row on the far side of the ring and watch the crowd filter between the promotions to their seats. A hundred people give or take. Better than eight, but not enough to make any real money.
The announcer, when he comes onstage, is wearing a sweater vest. Comments are voiced from the crowd at this small, bald man who seems too friendly to be associated with wrestling. He smiles, like a friendly pastor, and then announces that the first match is about to begin.
I have never seen a wrestling match; the tides of religion swept this opportunity from my childhood. Therefore, I am surprised when a fat man in a mask sweeps into the room and immediately threatens to lynch Janet. He is twirling a gaudy yellow noose around one pudgy arm. His name is The Texecutioner.
I learn later, on Wikipedia, that every scripted wrestling match has both a “heel” (villain) and a “babyface” (hero), which are established early for the benefit of the audience. The hero here is Toga Boy, whose Ceasar-esque laurels and draped attire clash with the ‘80s rock music played during his entrance. “You know where you are?” he shouts, pummeling the Texan, “You’re in the jungle, baby!”
He might as well have been talking to me.
I almost leave, already sick of this “kayfabe,” this pathetic slap of flesh, this showmanship in spandex clad. Robert is cheering happily and Janet is shouting, “You suck!” at the top of her fragile voice. She has already threatened to take her walker to The Texecutioner, and, even through my discomfort, I am proud of her bravery. She and her husband understand this spectacle, they believe in it, and thus they are part of it. Every wrestler this night will be forced to run Janet’s gauntlet of abuse on his or her entry to the ring. She is the crowd.
The next match “Old School vs. New School” is far better. The wrestlers use their intros to establish distinctive personalities: the arrogant, anxious veteran and the exuberant, yet naive challenger. This match is funny, a comedy sketch spiced with an occasional floor-vibrating smackdown. I can sense the chemistry, the ingenuity, although I still detest the medium. Is this art? Yes. No. It’s being held in an art centre, so maybe.
I imagine being one of the men (or women) behind the gaudy costumes and cheesy pseudonyms. What would motivate someone to bare themselves to the crowd, to the fickle jeers or cheers of the masses? I think of the hours of training, then the brutal, final vigil before the ring entrance. I think of The Great Kasaki and his painted samurai face, and wonder what financial compensation, if any, he receives for the spectacle he creates.
The main and final event of the night is the “Blizzard Battle Royale,” a twelve-man contest for a shot at the All Star Wrestling championship. By the time the cheers begin I’m already striding across the parking lot, back towards my car, and my life, and my sanity. I recommend this experience, as most things, once, and I know there are individuals like Robert and Janet who will always find great joy in the gladiatorial echo of the wrestling ring.
But it’s not for me.
