I must’ve been 8 years old. And I was the only one left in my living room. So immediately I started sliding the channel changer switch down the dial. There was no remote. Just this box. Rectangle. With a switch that went left and right across the face of the thing. Then I stopped it. And there, scrapping it out in the middle of the ring was Hercules and the Junk Yard Dog.
I’d never seen anything like it. These characters already so indelible after watching only one match of theirs. But I had to switch it. Somebody was coming. So I caught just a couple minutes of these cartoonish Gods duking it out in some arena somewhere. I knew my parents weren’t so keen on me watching this stuff. But I was bit. I don’t know how I did it. But slowly I worked these incredible personas into my public life amongst my family members. Coliseum Home Video became my pipeline to everything behind the pay wall events.
Funny enough, my therapist at the time, I must’ve been 9, would see I’d bring in this huge binder full of wrestling magazine clippings, newspaper cutouts, and an assortment of other paraphernalia. During therapy, he’d have me reference this binder. Tell him about what’s going on in the wrestling world. What I didn’t know, was my considerable knowledge on the subject, brought him and his wrestling fan son closer together. Heavy trip for a 9 year old.
I only saw one live match. It was at the old Miami Arena (the destination for a future Royal Rumble). I remember watching Bret “The Hitman” Hart and the Big Boss Man, in person. The Hitman would give his reflective glasses to a fan before each match. The real ones were pink. My mom took me. It was an incredible evening. My toys come to life. Those 2D muscled images now in the third dimension. I did come back to the same arena for the biggest show in the profession, Wrestlemania 6. The main event, Hulk Hogan vs The Ultimate Warrior.
I was a Warrior fan. Wore a mask of what he painted on his face. Wore colorful arm ties like he did. That Jake “The Snake” testing The Ultimate Warrior by having him endure difficult and macabre trials storyline was legit terrifying. My friend, David, was a Warrior fan, too. It was he and me, 10 years old, cheering on our favorite while all the Hulkamaniacs around us booed us. It took major cojones to break away from Hulkamania. And there, on three huge screens suspended from the roof of the arena, The Ultimate Warrior became World Wrestling Champion. It was kinda quiet. Except for us.
As I got older, Randy “Macho Man” Savage became my favorite wrestler. He was smaller than most guys, but fire on the mic, and electric in the ring. His manager/sometimes wife Miss Elizabeth had been my first real crush. Their real-life relationship played out as story fodder for their professional narrative. They were even married on a pay-per-view. That was when you used to pay a one-time fee for a one-time event. Sadly, both Randy and Elizabeth died way before their time.
I think I stopped watching wrestling when I hit high school. High school was pro wrestling. Work out. Build a persona. Learn to grapple with others. Hopefully become popular. Use that popularity to leverage fortune. It wasn’t until maybe a couple of years after I graduated I would start hanging out with someone who was still watching wrestling. I couldn’t believe it was must-see TV for my friend. I was introduced to new characters like The Rock, “Stone Cold” Steve Austin, and Kane.
The thing is, it didn’t resonate with me like it used to. Was it different or was I? I still have the toys. They have spot-on likenesses. And perform the move they’re known for. I also had the wrestling ring the commercial referred to as sold separately, The plush action figures called “Wrestling Buddies” you could lock arms with or fold their arm up to hit you. Take the cushions off the couches, lay them on the floor, and have your own wrestling matches in your home.
I’d say 20 years have passed. And recently, I’ve started to do what the millennials call a deep dive. My wife can’t relate. I can imagine she’s thinking, “Travis Roig, why are you watching half-naked gym-soaked dudes slamming their sweaty bodies into one another?” It’s kinda fake but not really. And everybody’s in on it. There’s no converting her. But now as the middle-aged man my “man weight” tells me I am, I see these gentleman a lot differently.
What I see now is their sacrifice. These real people doing this very real job night after night sometimes 300 days out of the year. And then there are the weekly TV shows, the pay-per-views, the appearances, some making movies, and others having to wrestle in Japan to make more money. Or having to change wrestling organizations because where you’re at now has a thick glass ceiling in terms of money and advancement. Let alone, the steroids, the drugs, the women, the cars, the children, the houses, that came along with this profession’s global exposure.
I like watching these guys work. I like that this weird thing that everyone bought into was designed for the audience. Strictly, for the audience. The audience can create careers or destroy them. It’s live. Applause doesn’t lie. You may have heard the term “kayfabe”. In the wrestling world, it means no matter what, you stay in character. It’s that agreement that makes these people special. These grown-ass men. Putting on tights and make-up. Their family’s back home watching them that one time a week. There’s nothing fake about wrestling.
And… I’m a fan again.
P.S. I defy you not to cry at the end of Wrestlemania IV. It’s on Peacock. Go watch that entire show. Watch Macho Man work. It’s a thing of wonder.
