Before I get started…
It’s Thanksgiving Thursday. I have to be in bed within the next two hours because I have to gym the living heck out of it before work tomorrow. I can’t go after work because one of my best friends, Kate, is visiting home for the first time since she moved to Chicago back in August. I love Kate, and I wanna be there right away for her birthday spectacuganza (totally a real word) so my normal 2 hour gym sesh can’t happen after work.
Also, the gym has to happen because I’ve been single since 2003 (not a total shock considering I write for a wrestling website and will, on occasion, speak Huttese–Jabba The Hutt’s native, green slime covered tongue–when I’m alone in the house and am feeling particularly playful) and it absolutely sucks. Chicks don’t dig big fat guys. “But,” you say, “Confidence is key!” Well, you’re correct, but you know what I’ve discovered? Chicks don’t dig big fat confident guys either. So gym it I must. Good for my health and my heart, good for endorphins (mmm, endorphins…), and maybe I’ll put a big enough dent in the fat to get a chick to be all cutesy with me.
Word.
My point is, I have to be winding down soon. I should be watching episodes of The Wonder Years or the evening football game, or maybe even treat myself to an episode or 3 of Community. I should be mellowing out and relaxing and waiting for Mr. Sandman (the one that lulls you to sleep, not the one with the Singapore cane). Instead, I am writing my column because, dangit, I can. My laptop is here, my internet is on, I’m healthy, and my loyal readers deserve something good to read while they’re at work, or on the toilet, or waiting on line for a Black Friday sale item, or holding their girlfriend or wife’s purse while she shops.
So write I shall.
So write. I. Shall.
Suspension of Disbelief begins… Now!
When I was younger, I would often crawl into my grandparents bed as they were getting ready to head off to slumber. This would occur around 8:30pm, 8:45pm, and I would catch the end of Airwolf (if you know the theme song, now is the time to sing it: DA DADADADA DADADADA DA DADA DAAAA) and then see what was on next. On Monday nights, it was USA Prime Time Wrestling.
I would watch the WWF’s flagship show with Gorilla Monsoon and Bobby Heenan and I’d enjoy the squash matches and would get a kick out of the fights. My grandmother was particularly vocal in the way old Puerto Rican women are about wrestling. My grandfather enjoyed the matches for the Mano-A-Mano combat. It was a fantastic time and, even though I can’t remember ever staying awake for an entire broadcast, the impression was made and it became official.
I was hooked on Professional Wrestling.
I watched everything, WWF Wrestling Challenge, WWF Wrestling Superstars, NWA World Championship Wrestling (which my real old school heads will know was the name of the TBS wrestling show before it became the name of the organ-i-zation), , NWA Saturday Night, WWF Saturday Night’s Main Event, and even the USWA show that aired on ESPN way-hay-hayyyy back in the day.
I fell out of love with wrestling around the time Monday Night Raw debuted. I was a huge Hulkamaniac (um, still am) and his absence was too much for me to bear. Plus, wrestling got more cartoonish and I took up an interest in the four major U.S. sports. I checked in from time to time but didn’t return to the fold until maybe late September, early October 1997. Stone Cold Steve Austin was running roughshod, stunning everyone Owen Hart was defending his Intercontinental Championship against so that Owen had the belt when they met again. It was just before AustinMania began running wild and it became official: I was hooked on Professional Wrestling.
Again.
I haven’t fallen out of love with it, in fact I might love it more than ever. It’s not what it used to be–in both the good and bad ways. Still, every now and then, I once again become that little boy spending time with his grandparents. Every now and then I am a fan and I have suspended the fudge out of my disbelief and I am utterly enthralled by the action on the screen. Every now and then, “workers” become super heroes and I am drawn in completely and totally.
This past Sunday nite, during WWE Survivor Series, I underwent that transformation yet again.
After our pay-per-view crew’s (shout out to Noel, Amanda, Jon, Irv, Dan, Jay and Miss Heather) “Ghetto Thanksgiving” (no turkey, but there was Buffalo Chicken Dip and these awesome Sesame Seed Teriyaki Wings) and two bathroom breaks (again–buffalo chicken dip and sesame seed teriyaki wings), we settled in to watch the main event. We hunkered down to watch Awesome Truth (The Miz and R-Truth) vs John Cena and The Rock.
As the participants were being introduced myself, I shared a thought: “I wonder if The Rock is going to be rusty.” I had based this on the go-home Raw before this past April’s WrestleMania where Rocky went to do a kip-up and he ended up not being able to stick the landing (a mishap I will immediately go into denial about as soon as I’m done writing this sentence). I thought it was a fair question and, to be honest, I was scared poopless that he was gonna get out there and embarrass himself and I would be forced to go into exhile and return my “Boots To Asses” shirt.
And then the match started.
Rocky was in tip-top shape and his moves (aside from a couple of wiff-kicks) were crisp. My fears were assuaged and I loved his intensity. It was just a great time and a fun (if basic–I think El Patron, El Hombre de los Hombres, Pulse Glazer calls is “tag formula”) match. I found myself completely into the match. I was transported back 25 years, back to those Monday evenings, back to that bed that seemed so big, back to those super heroes.
I clapped and I ooh’d and ahh’d and I found myself outraged at the heel tactics of Miz and Truth. I put my love-hate relationship with John Cena aside and I felt for him as he played “good guy in peril.” I was rocking and rolling with The World’s Most Famous Arena, and along with the 17,000 screaming fans at Madison Square Garden, I was in the palm of The Rock’s hand as he hit The Most Electrifying Move In Sports Entertainment for the win in New York City.
I was completely satisfied with the match, my faith in The Rock as strong as ever, and with the exception of John Cena very loudly and very clearly saying, “I turn around, you give me the f**king rock bottom, and I’ll get outta here” at the end of the show, I had no qualms about the contest. Combine that with the incredible promo Rocky cut earlier in the show, and my decision to pay $22 in shipping for a $20 “Boots To Asses” shirt seemed like the easiest one I’ve ever made.
The nite made me happy as a fan, and it made comments like CM Punk’s from the other day (short version: he was bitching about how “hollywood” The Rock was and how he went from the limo to the dressing room to the ring and then the reverse without talking to the boys) seem ridiculous. WWE promotes wrestling shows. They promote, they sell tickets and t-shirts and toys, and that’s the hustle. That’s really all it is. Rocky came in, he sold PPVs, he sold t-shirts, he’ll help sell toys and video games and DVDs, and the company he works for makes money and pays him a share of it.
Reading Bret Hart’s book about Stu bringing in different guys to help sell tickets came to mind as I read Punk’s gripes. I thought about how dumb it was to complain about his attitude (he never said Rocky was rude or mean, he was whining because he didn’t get a handshake) or “aloofness.” Fact is, Rocky coming back was great for the WWE. It gets the people excited. It’s a reward for sticking with them. If Rock came back full-time it would eventually get stale and the internet folks would whine about how some random ass dude like Jey Uso was “…being held back” or “buried.” He has done all he needs to do and he shouldn’t be vilified for giving WWE a shot in the arm in a time when their attendance and PPV purchases are down.
*exhale*
Plus…
As much as I loved Summer of Punk, it only spoke to the Older Me. It only spoke to the part of me that was disillusioned and wanted something new and exciting. It didn’t speak to the little kid in me who fell in love with wrestling back when they still had the damn ice cream bars. Rocky’s match on Sunday did. The show him, and Cena, and Miz, and Truth put on had me rooting for heroic good guys to triumph over villainous rule-breakers (or rule-breaking villains, I didn’t know which way to go there–also, these aren’t notes to the editors, they’re random asides I put in because I think the parenthetic comments should be informative and entertaining) without any real pondering about “…where this is all headed.” I did something I wish more people did–be it because of lackluster content or raised expectations:
I enjoyed the show.
I enjoyed the show like my Grandma and Grandpa were right there with me, the way they were with us tonite at Thanksgiving dinner for the first time in, honestly? Maybe 20 years. They were there tonite to be the most amazing couple I’ve ever seen. They were there to talk to, and smile at, and love unconditionally, even though Alzheimer’s has robber my beautiful Grandmother of her memory of me.
But that’s the thing about love, and memories–be they of a super hero flying around a ring or of two people that shaped your life. It doesn’t matter how long they’re there for, or whether or not you know them, or even whether or not they know you. They have touched down in your life and have left an impression–a positive impression–on your heart.
So thanks, Rock, for taking me back to the days of Gorilla and Bobby.
Thank you for taking me back to the warm bed and warmer embraces of my grandparents.
Thank you for giving me happy memories and lots of love for the ones who brought forth my father, who then brought forth Mr. Rey Mundo.
Like them, it doesn’t matter how long you’re here for, or like my Grandma in specific, it doesn’t matter if you know who I am.
You gave me my childhood back for one nite.
And tonite I got to love, up close and in person, the ones who helped define it.
This has been Suspension of Disbelief.
–Rey
Rey Mundo should be Number One on everybody list and also has to resist the urge to “Hey Boo” Kelly Floyd almost daily.
