Everything is Wrestling (to me)

I’ve finally found my secret wrestling identity. I’m the caped crusader of audience members. With the exception of my Justice League who sometimes attend events with me (completely devoid of irony I assure you…), I tend to not feel at home with other live wrestling fans (let alone the online ones), but I still love going to shows. My modus operandi tends to be the following:

Show up alone, typically with earbuds in
Quietly judge the conversations around me while simultaneously questioning my own life decisions
Find my seat or scope out a good GA standing spot
Find a balance between enjoying the show with my human eyes and taking photos/videos for posterity
React with characteristic silence and facial expressions that belie my actual excitement
Maybe say a few words to people, buy a shirt, take a rare selfie
Glide out after the show and melt away into the crowd, earbuds in, back to my car/house/hotel/AirBnB

This brings me to my first ever tv taping; my first AEW event; my second live wrestling event since pre pandemic times… call me a mark, a shill, a tribalist (but please don’t… Truth and Reconciliation my friends) but I don’t care what “issues” people had with this show. I had a blast, I got lost in the storytelling, the athleticism, the pageantry of this great sport.

A small, indie show in Ottawa aside, this was my first concert/event of any kind since the pandemic and I forgot exactly how early you needed to get there in order to be able to eat.

Lining up, I was quickly reminded of the love/hate relationship with wrasslin fans. Behind me, was a fan in a CM Punk BTIW shirt; I learned (with the aforementioned ear buds in and the volume of my music turned way down low) that not only was he unsure if anyone else would think to wear a Punk shirt to this show, he was more than a little “hammered” (his words) in the same way that was the whole reason for the SES to exist in the first place. Arena lineups at a wrestling show: where irony and ignorance are all but interchangeable.

During the long winding walk from the back of the line to inside the venue, I’m scanning for people I know (and know of) simultaneously hopeful and fearful of seeing anyone. Not 50 metres from the doors, I catch sight of two bearded gentlemen just hanging out casually against a post next to the winding line inside the Ricoh. Gaping like an idiot (in my mind), I debate dropping out of the line to say hi, but my social anxiety, definitely compounded by the 3 years of social isolation kept me walking, lemming like into the colosseum. Spotting a merch table, I got in line to see how much of my money I can waste on a shirt I may never wear. After having a nice conversation with a fellow masked attendee, I dropped $45 on a location specific shift and circled back to the line to enter the arena proper. However, I was pulled back to the doors where I could still see the individuals I was certain were SRS and Joel Pearl in the same place, with nobody approaching them.

Uncharacteristically, I walk backwards (not literally) through the doors and away from my seat and towards two relative giants of the incredibly niche pro wrasslin’ podcast community. Being the polite boy my parents raised, I awkwardly waiting sort of next to them as they finished up a conversation I pretended not to listen to. “Sean, Joel? Hi, big fan” somehow spilled from my lips (not like poison, Dave Rose) and my hand shot out for a surprisingly dry handshake. What followed was probably a predictably unwieldy conversation that went better than I could have expected it to go. Topics usually reserved for my one real wrasslin’ friend were broached, Toronto traffic was bemoaned, Toronto itself was praised, and I somehow had the wherewithal to make a keeping it kayfabe joke when I asked for a picture and Joel initially bowed out; “Get in here Joel… that is unless you’d rather keep it kayfabe. I know you’re beefing online,” This garnered what I will always pretend was a genuine laugh and I took what was probably the best selfie that didn’t involve my wife ever. The chat continued for a few more minutes, including two other people (both also sporting the same Freshly Squeezed shirt I was) popped in for a quick hello and the obligatory “nice shirt” comment. We kept talking behind the scenes Fightful stuff (including lamenting the inability for Alex to ever turn off his Sour Graps persona,  until they spotted people they (claimed) to actually know. Gracefully I thanked them for allowing me to monopolize their time for as long as I did. Another handshake and back pat, and I was headed back into the Ricoh to find my seat.   

The one thing I missed was the introduction of Tall Paul, Ian, and Daddy Magic on Dark Elevation commentary. Small price to pay for a successful social engagement. Sitting down in section 109, I was summarily thrust back into the world of the wrasslin fandom I’m used to. Mostly drunken men in their 30s, doing their best college kid in their 20s impression. Some of them dragged their significant others there who spent the entire show shopping for the most boring things on Amazon. The exceptions : Mox, Hangman, and OC coming out.

Now, there were actual human beings in my section as well, comprised of many genders who were as excited (and as masked) as I was. In order, the near unanimous support of the crowd was given to:
Jody Threat
Butcher, Blade, and Bunny
Serena Deeb
TK
Renee
Jungle Boy
WarJoe
FTR
Spears
The Acclaimed
Mox
Hangman
MJF (in the skybox)
Bryan
Jericho
Hayter
Shida
Toni
OC

I can only speak to my section, but it seemed like I was sitting in the chant factory that night. With the exception of the “We love healthcare” chant, most of the chants that caught on throughout the arena were started by “those guys” sitting in my section. The loudmouth, know it all, scream every (perceived) clever things that come to mind at the top of your lungs all night people who you don’t want to associate with outside the arena but who make for a memorable time inside the arena.

All of that said, I had a good a time as I could have dreamt to have. Outside of the Dark Order, and Eddie (who I was lucky enough to see in Ottawa), I pretty much saw all of my favourites, with the ultimate capper being my Day One AEW favourite, Orange Cassidy (the one wrestler I have the most shirts of by far in my disgustingly large collection) finally winning a major singles title since the Independent Wrestling Championship on a huge stage!

At the end of the night, the earbuds popped back in and I weaved my way in and out of the very happy crowd, back to my car and back into my normal life where hardly anyone understands this now not so secret life I love.
The capper? Days later, when I finally get a chance to watch Dynamite on TV, I catch myself on screen, NOT doing anything embarrassing, with my orange mask in plain view.

Whatever.