For the first time since one of the most grossly horrific moments of my young life, my brother and I enjoyed some wrestling.
WWE wrestling that is.
I’ll get to the disgusting part later.
Last night, I took advantage of some day job perks and took my brother to go watch the WWE Live at the new Qwest Center. They filmed episodes of Velocity and Smackdown! during the event, and from our plush (free) suite box, we both had a trashy good time.
My current favorite wrestler, Bob Holly, or Hardcore Holly as he is known now, put on a fine, bone-crushing performance. I think I’ve been a fan of his since the original ToughEnough series on MTV (the reality show where the kids competed to become a WWE wrestler). Single-handedly, he proved how hard wrestling actually is when he put the whuppin’ on one of the final contestants (and by whuppin’, I mean ass-kicking). The poor kid (Matt was his name) was bruised to hell for the final episodes, and he had to just suck it up (watch a clip from the aftermath). Reading this parlor about the beating, however, somewhat confirmed my theory: Bob was testing the front runners in the competition, because apparently, it isn’t as fake as it seems. There are some real sick guys out there who will be more than happy to torture your limbs, bones and safety in the ring. There goes the illusion of fake. Despite his injuries (or more than likely because of them), Matt ended up winning the competition.
That is the stuff that really interests me. I fell out of love with wrestling as a kid once I figured out it was fake. I fell back in love with it once I started reading and hearing how tough, mentally and emotionally, it is to be a wrestler. How precise you have to be in your movements, in your character development. Watching ToughEnough just enhanced how much I have grown to respect these people. These details, the ones behind the curtain, fascinate me.
Of course, last night confirmed that I need to finally write the great American wrestling graphic novel, the one I’ve been writing in my head for the last two years.
Now, back to the disgusting – the last time my brother and I saw wrestling in Omaha, it was at the Civic, and we ran to the entrance to slap Hulk Hogan a congratulatory pat on the back after defeating Macho Man Randy Savage once again in the ring. We got there just in time as he was descending into the entrance. We stretched our scrawny arms back in what seemed like slow motion and released, just in time for full on contact. Hulk turned and winked, giving us the thumbs up.
My brother and I grappled with the horror which was our hands, covered in sweat and baby oil. I swear my hand was greasy for week after that.
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