Since June 2003, my priorities have shifted from writing wrestling columns to committing myself to a career change into the field of education that has not been easy.
Every once in awhile, however, I get the itch to come back and provide commentary on prevalent issues as they raise my ire. With everything that has transpired in the actual sports world this year — from baseball players throwing chairs into the stands to NBA players incapacitating fans — it is no wonder why professional wrestling garners top-tier ratings each and every week.
I became a wrestling fan in 1985; since that time, professional wrestling has been an integral part of my own personal popular culture landscape. Without a doubt, wrestling has experienced its share of booms and busts, from crossover talent who shine in all facets of the media to women and men who die more unceremoniously than a child who dreams of emulating his or her heroes could imagine. How many kids in the 1980s wanted to be like the British Bulldogs? How many of us saw Miss Elizabeth as the Princess Diana of professional wrestling? How many of us thought that Hulkamania really would last forever? How many of us thought that Andre would remain the immutable Giant until the end of time?
I guess the most pressing question is this: What happened to our heroes? I feel really bad for the new generation of professional wrestling fans — the same kids who must resort to rationalizing Sammy Sosa’s indiscretions and exaggerating Steve Bartman’s impact because they’ve grown up as fans of the Chicago Cubs; the same kids who see dollar signs as the most important paths to take in life; the same kids who wake up to a Smurf-less Saturday morning cartoon lineup — because they are stuck in the middle of a societal structure where Ron Artest and the fans who egged him on have become more the norms than the exceptions. Moreover, wrestlers who are juiced up on steroids become noteworthy in glimpses, only to succumb to injuries, broken bones, drug use, and domestic abuse. How many chances did we want to give Stone Cold Steve Austin, even though he was an alleged wifebeater? How many of us look past potential steroid use to cheer on the pumped up “boys in the back” because they came up with a catchy chant for what equates to a nanosecond of fame and fan acceptance?
Just like with all sports, professional wrestling no longer gives me that transcendent feeling that allows me to forget about life for awhile and escape into a world where perhaps the good guy can win as a result of hard work, heroism, and dedication. If this were still the case, then guys like Chris Benoit and Chris Jericho would have had more than a few sniffs at the World Heavyweight Championship over their careers. Instead, I am faced with a professional wrestling product that promulgates nepotism and encourages its roster to completely destroy their bodies for my own enjoyment. How many Von Erichs have to die before someone actually gets it through his or her thick head that this business is as unhealthy as the bottom of the sour cream jar at a local Taco Bell? How many admitted steroid users like Tony Atlas are currently traveling from city to city to wrestle in high school gyms for table scraps? You know who Tony Atlas is? Test in twenty years.
My overall point — and yes, there is one — is this. World Wrestling Entertainment can capitalize on the overreaction of sports talk radio stations across the country and mock the collective outcry towards the NFL and the NBA for their recent offenses. However, until WWE officials look themselves in the mirror and start to realize that their reflections are just as tainted as those societal ills they parody … Well, I guess I should spend my Monday and Thursday nights grading papers and developing assignments for my students, rather than watch a sports program whose owner fails to correct shortcomings that have permanently afflicted its revolving door of superstars and fans.
So, what happened to my heroes? Oh, that’s right … they gave birth to me, raised me, and set an example that I cherish even more since my career change in June 2003. Charles Barkley was right when he said, “I’m not a role model.” I can Artest — I mean attest — to that.
That’s all for now … PEACE.
Chris Biscuiti is a former columnist for 1wrestling and 411wrestling. Yes, he really did watch the Smurfs, and he really did have a crush on that blonde-haired blue chick … Send Chris useless bits of trivia (or column feedback) by emailing cbinsidepulse@yahoo.com.
