On a cold February day, I left Georgetown, my dignity and my “Vote Kerry” button behind. I traveled from the cerebral, complicated realm of academia to the MCI Center, where I found myself in a very different environment: a WWE event. Professional wrestling is a place where one can escape from reality into a magical domain where steroids are consumed like candy, all conflicts are settled in the ring and no entrance is complete without blaring heavy metal and blinding explosions.
As we found our way to the nosebleed section, I nervously surveyed my surroundings. Everywhere, even in the upper level, far away from the gaze of cameras, fans clutched homemade signs in hopes of achieving the American dream—television exposure. I eagerly awaited a cast of crude, archetypical characters, and I was not disappointed. There’s Trevor Murdoch, the token redneck, and Supercrazy, a Mexican who rode to the ring on a lawn mower. My favorite, though, was Tatanka, a “Native American” toting a tomahawk amd a headdress; he was subsequently broken like a treaty. An honorable mention for lack of character development has to go to the Boogeyman, supposedly an African medicine man. His gimmick? He eats worms. What more do you need?
Aside from the crude ploys and notoriously witty wordplay in the ring, the most entertaining part of the night was mocking the crowd. One of the defining moments of the night occurred when, as wrestler HHH launched into a monologue about “what it means to wear the title belt,” I watched the man next to me gleefully fitting his own plastic replica around his waist. He was roughly 35 years old, came to the event alone and sported the unkempt-beard-and-glasses look so in vogue among computer programmers. I may be going out on a limb here, but my guess is that he has yet to know a woman, in the biblical sense. Clearly, this man had what it takes to be a champion.
Two-and-a-half hours into the double-header, I realized that while wrestling may be fake, boredom is very real. The same tacky dialogue, exaggerated personalities and ridiculous plot I had initially found amusing were now tortuously tedious. The crowd’s enthusiasm, however, never wavered. Whether by cheering, jeering or defending the honor of their favorite wrestler when accused of the horrific offense of sucking, the fans savored all four glorious hours.
Would I do it again? Hell no! But at least I can take solace in knowing that in 60 years, while watching reruns on UPN, I can proudly say to my grandchildren, “I was there.”
