An Acquired Taste
The self-proclaimed “Heartbreak Kid” was a hero of sorts to me. From the first split-second his entrance music blared throughout the arena, his confidence shone. It was obvious that Michaels was always the favorite to win his matches. He was cocky, charming, and unafraid of getting physical. He was all the things I was not.
The WWF provided a different aspect of competition to young fans. There were simply things
that other sports did not have. I grew up imitating the throwing motions of Dan Marino, but never once did I hear the Dolphins legend call out an opposing defense. Michaels called out his peers on a weekly basis.
As years passed, “The Showstopper” got older, and naturally, I did as well.
Professional wrestling was no longer sport to me. It was more similar to a soap opera. It was merely entertainment.
Sunday night, for the first time in a long time, I watched a professional wrestling event. This time, however, I was in Newark, New Jersey as part of the Prudential Center’s live audience. Immediately after I stepped onto the arena’s surrounding property, I was mesmerized.
Fans from as far as five-hundred miles away traveled to see the show. Audience members ranged in age from three to eighty-three, and of course, they were all sporting the gear of their favorite performer. It wasn’t until after I sat down that I learned my boyhood idol was in the main event. Shawn Michaels was one of few names I recognized on the night’s card.
I watched match after match as I heard the crowd shout various chants. They cheered, jeered, and everything in between. It was very similar to, if not exactly the same as, being at a professional sporting event.
Professional wrestling is choreographed, it’s no secret, but how do you teach someone the mechanics of landing flat on your back after flying fifteen feet through the air? How do you lecture a grown man about the self-esteem level it takes to display himself in front of 20,000 hostile human beings?
Sunday night, I watched a man I revered for years defeat an opponent nearly fifteen years younger than he. I watched a forty-four year old man with hair down to his shoulders extend his leg to the jaw of another wrestler. He leapt, elbow first, onto a ring made of wooden planks and the thinnest of canvases. With every step he took, he put aside every regard for his well-being, and made sure those watching him said “ooh” and “aah.”
The fact of the matter is, no matter how staged professional wrestling is, and no matter how planned the outcomes may be, you can’t fake throwing your body around without a care. These men are more than just entertainers, they’re athletes.
And in the words of the great Shawn Michaels, “If you’re not down with that, we’ve got two words for ya!”
Don’t watch.
