I love professional wrestling, or "sports entertainment" as it is sometimes referred to. Saying this always feels like a confession. This particular form of entertainment is considered anathema to almost everyone I speak with. In my cerebral circles it is almost unheard of for an enlightened person to be an enthusiast of something like this. In addition to the lofty disdain from my peers, I also get the same tired response from the rest of the rabble: "its fake." Those who ejaculate this answer from their pedantic maws act as if they've just solved Fermat's last theorem. It's as if neither I, nor anyone else, has ever heard that response before. This litany is nearly as old as Luther's Catechism,but those who spout it think that they are the first to ever think of it. Thus, alas, it is something that every wrestling fan must deal with.
Words are very important, and one should take great care with their meanings. When they say that professional wrestling is "fake" they are correct in that the results of the matches are predetermined and that the performers take great care to not actually injure each other (although wrestlers do get hurt, sometimes severely). It would be more accurate to describe it as "scripted." This puts it in the same realm as everything else on television, even the so-called reality shows. There are programs on television that are advertised as reality, but are heavily scripted, and little more than vehicles for savvy proselytizers to dupe their marks. Quack quack. Professional wrestling takes the innate human desire for voyeuristic ritual combat,adds over the top theatrics, and draws its fans into hypothetical participatory involvement. The characters are larger than life, and represent human virtues or flaws writ large. At least, this has been the case in the past, but the industry is evolving. We now live in the "reality era" of professional wrestling, and many of the ludicrous theatrics and caricatures are fading away. In the vernacular of the biz, kayfabe is dead.
I personally am a huge fan of kayfabe. For those not in the know, kayfabe is the portraying of staged events as real or true. Wrestler A does not actually hate wrestler B, and wrestler B is not actually acting upon the orders of the Ayatollah, for example. When famed heel-turned-hero "Stone Cold" Steve Austin broke into rival Brian Pillman's home, causing Pillman to pull a gun and begin firing, we knew that it wasn't real,but we loved it anyway. More than this, if it had been real, I wouldn't like it. I have no desire to see grown men beating the shit out of each and causing actual bodily harm. I want to see a theatrical vehicle for exaggerated human conflict and know that it is presented with a wink. Professional wrestling is a guilty pleasure that takes me out of a world of real conflict and unpleasantness into a simpler one that is predictable and safe (at least for me watching at home). It requires a suspension of disbelief, which I feel is a healthy pastime.
This type of entertainment also invites spectator participation. Fans will acquire countless shirts from their favorite superstars, dress like them, and experiment with wrestling moves themselves. They will create and hold signs at live events, both elaborate and tatty. When people immerse themselves in this, they are trying to become part of the hero mythos that these wrestlers embody. Perhaps one day archaeologists will unearth Gilgamesh t-shirts and Enkidu action figures beneath the ruins of Uruk. Everyone wants to be a part of something larger than themselves, and identifying with heroes (or villains) is a chance to break out of the mindless routine of daily life.
The average height of a pro-wrestler is 6'2", and many of them are much taller. They are in peak physical condition, and go to great lengths to maintain these body types. I am 5'8" and of a slightly portly build. These genetics and my lifestyle preclude the career of wrestler for me, but there are other alternatives. I have decided to become a professional wrestling referee, at least part time. I have a background in acting, am easily distracted, and can count to three. Also, I have a great wealth of knowledge of the sport, and as mentioned in earlier blogs, a difficulty separating reality from fiction. It would be a great chance to be in the middle of the action for someone with no real hope of being the action itself. In addition to this I would get to wear real clothing, which is a win for everyone involved. It also seems to me that the occupation of referee is a noble calling. They are there to give the matches a sense of authenticity. Referees make sure the wrestlers aren't hurt, and when they are, call the match (and paramedics) accordingly. They are a vital and integral part of the business, but go to great lengths to stay out of the limelight.
In the amateur leagues, it would be a part-time weekend gig. Once I complete the training I would have to drive to random small towns across the Midwest to referee matches in high school gyms and community centres. This is professional wrestling at its purest, with no lights, pyrotechnics, or television cameras. The crowds are infinitesimal, and the action is close. There is something rather charming about his circuit, far removed from the polished, mega-million dollar industry that towers over it. That being said, my ultimate dream would be to get discovered and go to ref for the WWE. If this were to happen, my life would be one upon the road.
There is something tragically romantic about a life on the road. Or maybe I've just read too much Kerouac. I don't relish the idea of being away from my wife and modest living accommodations for such long periods of time, but the glory of becoming a traveling entertainer has a strong pull. The life of a postmodern gypsy isn't an easy one, but I find it strangely appealing, despite the fact that I'll probably hate it. It seems I must reinvent myself every few years, and this is Brian's latest iteration. In any event, it makes for an interesting daydream, which is all I ask for most of the time. I will have to make a playlist, including such songs as "Turn the Page" by Bob Seger and Jackson Browne's "The Load-Out." I'll need to get a Viking's hoard worth of underwear, and framed pictures of my beloved to put on the nightstand. However, if this becomes a reality, I would want Shawna to somehow travel with me. I think it would be the penultimate accomplishment for someone with a teaching degree and years in education.
It probably won't happen, and there is a strong possibility this obsession will burn out before it takes tangible shape, but for now it's real. I am preparing to attend a beginner's camp for pro-wrestlers (even refs have to get the gen eds out of the way), and will have a better idea of whether or not this is a good vocation for me. It is indeed a dangerous business going out your door, and this road may go ever on and on, but I'm willing to give it a try.
Also, to my eternal shame, I don't know how to play chess.
This is the first post I've written since 2011. Even then the blogs were just reheated versions of things I'd written earlier. When I look at old writings of mine I want to vomit, and wipe them from the face of the earth. When any amount of time has passed, all I see are mistakes and hokey devices. I suppose I'll leave them though, and add new pieces to the collection. I only hope that future Brian doesn't delete them either. By the same token, I hope that future Brian has transferred his katra to an indestructible android shell, thus achieving immortality.
No comments:
Post a Comment