I’ve had a lot of hobbies come and go over the years. But one bizarre, body-slammed thread has somehow managed to keep working its way back into my life: professional wrestling.
It all started with WWA — Dick “The Bruiser” Afflis’ promotion out of Indianapolis. I was just a kid, lying on the floor Saturday mornings, in front of our big wood-paneled console TV, watching grown men in tights pretend to beat the tar out of each other. It was loud. It was chaotic. It made no sense. I was hooked.
Eventually I discovered the WWF (now WWE), then WCW, and my world got a little bigger — and a lot more ridiculous. I used to record Superstars of Wrestling on our first VCR so I wouldn’t miss a second. My dad took me to Market Square Arena to see Hulk Hogan fight Kamala the Ugandan Headhunter. Another time, it was Hogan vs. the dreaded Killer Khan. As an only child, I may or may not have tested a few of those moves on my cousin (sorry, Kristy).
And then there was that night — February 5, 1988 — when I sat inside Market Square Arena for the biggest televised wrestling event in American history: The Main Event. Over 33 million people watched it on NBC, but I was there in person when André the Giant controversially “pinned” Hulk Hogan, even though Hogan clearly had his shoulder up. Cue the evil twin referee reveal, Ted DiBiase’s scheme to buy the title, and WWF President Jack Tunney stepping in to declare the belt vacant. It was absolutely bonkers… and I loved every second of it.
Years later, I saw The Junkyard Dog at a WCW show at Columbus North Gymnasium — a small-town gym, a big-name legend, and a crowd that couldn’t have cared less that it wasn’t the Hoosier Dome. It’s one of those memories that sticks with you, especially knowing JYD passed not long after.
Like many of us, I drifted away from wrestling in adulthood. From my mid-20s until the pandemic, I didn’t pay much attention. But then the world shut down, and I suddenly had a lot more free time — and not a lot of great ideas on how to use it. So I started watching again. And I remembered why I liked it in the first place: the stories. The chaos. The drama. The complete and utter nonsense of it all.
Today, I’m a casual fan. I catch most of the Premium Live Events (that’s fancy talk for pay-per-views you already paid for), and I watch just enough of Monday and Friday night shows to keep up with who’s mad at who and why. I’ve been a guest ring announcer for WWE multiple times (in Muncie), and for Cincy-based Tri-State Wrestling (in Batesville) — all were a blast, and mildly terrifying.
And yes, I’ve been to not one but two WrestleManias. I was at WrestleMania VIII at the Hoosier Dome in ’92, where Ric Flair defended the heavyweight title against Randy “Macho Man” Savage, and Hulk Hogan faced Sid Justice in a match that somehow had four endings. Then in 2006, I was at WrestleMania 22 in Chicago, where Shawn Michaels and Mr. McMahon beat each other senseless in a No Holds Barred match that probably required a chiropractor and a therapist afterward.
People love to remind me that “wrestling isn’t real.” And to them I say: neither is Yellowstone, but you don’t hear me yelling at Kevin Costner.
No, it’s not a sport in the traditional sense. It’s sports entertainment. It’s a morality play with pyrotechnics. It’s part soap opera, part stunt show, part fever dream. And for reasons I can’t totally explain — maybe nostalgia, maybe just the sheer spectacle of it — I still kind of like it.
Go ahead and laugh. I do too. But I’ll be back next month, watching a 275-pound man leap off the top rope onto a folding table, and wondering why I ever left.