Wrestling is real. That’s right, it’s real. It means a lot to a lot of people, maybe it even means too much to too many people, but it is real. Like the girl who wrote a letter to a newspaper, asking if Santa Claus was real — yes, Virginia, wrestling is real.
If you ever saw Andre the Giant in person and wondered if the guy he flung across the ring was faking, you just don’t get it.
I was a bright kid, precocious, liked to read, went to a great college, but for a time my parents were worried that I was preoccupied with the low-rent-not-ready-for-prime-time world of professional wrestling. They mumbled to themselves, “he has to know it’s fake, right?” as I borrowed money to buy magazines detailing Texas Chain Matches, and Battle Royales where 50 guys entered the ring and only 1 was standing at the end.
The veil was lifted a long time ago, the presenters admitted the outcomes were scripted, but that changes nothing. I don’t keep up like I should, and I aspire to loftier forms of communicating my artistic vision, but if you get around some old school wrestling fans and start jawing about the classic fights, you’ll be hard pressed to have a better time reminiscing about anything. Keep it real guys. Talk to you soon.
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