The other day I read an article that referenced a professional wrestling match, which then prompted me to spend the next hour and a half scouring Youtube for old videos of my favorite wrestlers. Each clip reminded me of my former deep, affection and dedication to the worldwide leader in entertainment.
I remember the exact day that I truly fell in love with that poetic philistine sport. The day was March 31st 1996. And I remember it because that was the day of Wrestlemania XII. A watershed moment in the life of Jacob Michael McLaughlin.
My neighbors had a window to their living room that directly mirrored our window to our own living room. They had two boys that were about five years older than I, and they would always buy the pay-per-view events (something my parents – frustratingly – would never commit to), which meant if their blinds were open I could see directly to their television and the magnificence of professional wrestling.
And with my chin fixed on the windowsill, not really hearing the phone ring moments previous, my mom came and told me that my neighbors had invited me and my best friend to join them in Wrestlemania XII. We sprinted over to now hear and see the most amazing and incredible event we were to ever witness in our young, impressionable lives.
The match that won me over was the title bout, the first ever Iron Man Match. An hour-long battle between challenger Shawn Michaels, and heavyweight champion Bret “The Hitman” Hart, with the victor being the one with the most pins during said hour. After an invigorating, brutal, breath taking, majestic sixty minutes of tortuous body beating, neither one had pinned the other. Hart believing that he had retained his title by default began to walk up the ramp when the announcer told everyone that the match would go into sudden death overtime!
The living room erupted with incredulous and anticipatory exclamations. This was so intense. You literally could not make up this type of drama. Ohmygoshthisissocrazy!
And then within a minute into the overtime, Michaels finding his fifth wind, and carrying the mental momentum landed a thunderbolt kick to the chin of The Hitman. Sweet chin music. Michaels collapsed on his opponent to get the pin, the victory, and the title.
My friend and I ran back home and I told my parents everything, with precise replication of all moves and maneuvers. From then on I was in love. Only wearing underwear, I would stand in front of the mirror flexing my in-proportionately sized biceps, mimicking artful poses of the squared-circle gladiators.
I don’t know exactly how the transition took place, but by the end of elementary school I knew that wrestling was “not real.” But I continued to watch it with regularity until the end of middle school when somehow for some Godawful reason, people assumed that fandom for professional wrestling was directly proportionate to intelligence – it had become stupid and childish…
At this point in my life wrestling does not hold its same captivating sway, and is viewed only with nostalgia. I cringe now whenever I hear the announcers proclaim hyperbole after hyperbole in a cheap attempt to create drama and action. It’s entertaining, it’s silly, and it has little substance. However, there is something quite genius about its simplicity and its ability to speak to the inherent desire and attraction for pure storytelling. God is the perfect author and there is no coincidence that he sent his words in the form of stories (what I would like to call, the Bible). I believe that professional wrestling exists to remind us what it truly means to have a childlike faith.
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