This is a story about a love rekindled
My first exposure to the word of professional wrestling sounds, when written down,
like something the police should have got involved in. My Father was a hotel
manager and would often have meetings with others involved in the business. They
would arrive wearing suits and carrying almost identical briefcases. Just before one
such meeting in early 1992 one of the attendees took me to one side, opened up his
case and gave me a home taped VHS cassette.
“Here son, apparently this is what all the kids are watching these days”
Sky TV was in the early days of taking over UK television. Those formative years
were spent bringing significant parts of US culture over the Atlantic such as The
Simpsons, Cops and the World Wrestling Federation. Written down the white label of
the tape itself were the words ‘Royal 92’ in scribbled biro pen. Eleven-year-old me
went home and loaded it into the tape player that sat below the only television in the
house. Growing up in the UK meant I lacked any knowledge of the NWA or the
territory system. The 1992 Royal Rumble formed my entire introduction to wrestling.
It was love.
Within three seconds of him walking through the curtain I realised I hated Ric Flair.
Any man that walks around in a sparkling dressing gown like that was not to be
trusted. I was terrified of The Undertaker as he had the appearance of a man who
had walked through Hell whilst waving at the demons he met. Roddy Piper became
an instant favourite because there weren’t that many Scottish people to get behind
on TV. Wrestling was like nothing else I’d ever seen before, full of strange
characters doing battles like Gods atop Olympus.
Many meetings followed, each with a tape exchange, a new show on each one.
By 1993 our family had signed up to Sky TV ourselves. It was with great delight that I
could now watch WWF Mania and Superstars each week without having to rely on a
suited man turning up with a video tape. My Sister was delighted she could finally
watch The X-Files. Each to their own I suppose.
Agent Fox Mulder taunts an indy promoter to show him some smack-down moves
The land of Vince McMahon was the only wrestling I knew
The next four years were spent consuming all things WWF. Being in an age before
the internet had taken hold and the fact that WCW never truly had a great TV
presence in the UK, the land of Vince McMahon was the only wrestling I knew. It
didn’t matter to me though, not even WrestleMania 9 could put me off. I was there for
Hulk Hogan leaving, I was firmly behind Bret Hart as he won his first WWF title and
looked on in complete bemusement at how much America seemed to get along with
The Lex Express. At school it became known that I was well into ‘that wrestling stuff’
which didn’t exactly mean I was part of the popular crowd. Initially I didn’t care about
any of that but then my teenage years hit in earnest and the desire to be ‘part of the
crowd’ took over.
As 1996 came around I started to watch wrestling with a level of cynicism that had
never been present before. Every aspect of the presentation that I had previously
adored suddenly became the exact things that I would roll my eyes at. It was full of
over-the-top costumes, every interview was just a grown man shouting and there
was only a certain amount of times I could take Vince saying ‘Unbelievable!’ whilst
sat behind a commentary desk. It was during the Bret Hart versus Shawn Michaels
Iron Man Match at WrestleMania 12 that I decided enough was enough. It was
3:30am, I was tired and neither Bret nor Shawn were seemingly making any
progress. I wanted to be one of the cool kids. Wrestling had to go.
So it did.
Photo Courtesy: Zerpie_MD
I had fallen out of love. The breakup was swift and without mercy.
Dear reader, I did not become part of the cool gang. I spent the next few years with
wrestling firmly in my rear-view mirror. It was the thing I used to watch and I thought
those times would never be returning. I experienced the difficult navigation between
leaving school and trying to gain some kind of footing into the wide world outside of
the classroom. In a last-ditch attempt to end up doing something with my life I signed
up for the local art college. It was 1999, the world was on edge about the possible
effects of The Millenium Bug and I had started a media production course.
By the year 2000 Channel 4 had gained the rights to show Sunday Night Heat on
terrestrial television. Not only that but they were also screening the Royal Rumble
live that year. The life of a Media Production student wasn’t exactly the most hectic
so I gave it a go. At the very worst I’d be able to laugh about how stupid eleven-year-
old me was for actually watching this stuff.
There was a moment in the early hours of that morning that I looked across the room
at the ex and found myself falling in love again. It was the promo between Triple H
and Mick Foley on the go home Smackdown in which he goes from a beaten up and
bloodied Mankind to a vengeful Cactus Jack. When Foley utters the words ‘His first
act is to kick your teeth all over the city of Chicago’ I was back in. The following
Street Fight for the WWF Championship remains one of my favourite matches to this
day. It’s a performance that encapsulates the very essence of wrestling. It’s drama
through violence. Some of the best stories can be told between two men and a
barbed wire baseball bat.
Photo Courtesy: Zerpie_MD
After watching that match I figured that I wouldn’t be ashamed for liking wrestling
anymore. To hell with whatever anybody else thought. If being a wrestling fan meant
I was an outsider geek then so be it. For the last twenty-five years I’ve watched all
kind of wrestling from the US, UK, Mexico, Japan and Germany. Friends sometimes
consider it a bit strange but they often ask for match recommendations during quiet
moments. I write them whole lists and give them the background between each and
every entry. I love being ‘the wrestling guy’ in my social circle.
This is an ongoing story about love.
And I hope it never ends.
Art by Neon Ghost
Pictures Courtesy of Zerpie_MD
Zerpie_MD