Here’s how I know I’m not a real fan of professional wrestling.
Because every now and again, when I’m at a wrestling show in Massachusetts, where I live—whether it’s a World Wrestling Entertainment event at the TD Garden, in Boston (19,000 people), or a Rad Pro Rasslin’ event at the Elks Lodge in Newburyport (78-ish people)—and I’m watching the wrestlers strut and grimace and go flying, and wedge themselves, red-faced, into a wrangle of limbs, and grab the mic and make their speeches, aggrieved or blustering or ramblingly odd, I’ll find myself thinking: Uh, couldn’t this, shouldn’t this, all be just a little bit, you know, better?
This thought would never occur to a real fan of pro wrestling.
But I’m sensing a furrow in the readerly brow: Pro wrestling ? Isn’t that the fake stuff? Rigged battles, hollow contests, the wrestlers cartoonishly lumbering and bellowing, the crowd in a low-rent delirium of suspended disbelief or hypertrophied half-belief or something? The tights, the glitz, the nonsense? Yes, it is; yes, it is. It’s also an extraordinary, and extraordinarily vital, cultural form.
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