Holy Hulk Hogan’s moustache, I haven’t been this excited in a while.
The 400 plus crowd is chanting ‘Bod Squad’ as the lights turn low in the arena. As ‘Playboy’ John Atlas enters the scene, he struts around the ring with a villainous bravado. Kids are whooping it up; parents are throwing their hands in the air. We’re all here for one thing: good old fashioned body slamming. Yes, folks – Rock Solid Wrestling is in the house. The main event: Ashton’s Army versus the Bod Squad. Things are about to get unruly.
Playboy locks eyes on me, points and says “I see you brought your lady to see a real man!” and explains that “she’ll be leaving with me by the end of the night.” I yell back something lame like “Yeah right, you suck.”
Already, I’m invested. It isn’t long before I’m booing when he slams his opponent Wheeler into the corner and slaps him across his chest, and cheering when Wheeler finally defeats him with a sunset flip.
Every good story needs conflict and this event is full of plotlines, plot twists, and good vs evil. The villains in Ashton’s Army are countered by the protagonist Bod Squad – Shakespearian at every level. Except maybe the wrestling itself, which is full of chest slaps, rope-a-dopes, clotheslines and body slams. I don’t think you’ll find much of that in those crusty ol’ dramas you studied in school.
Everyone in here knows it’s fake, but that doesn’t stop us from getting involved emotionally. Hell, I know the movie Rudy is fake, but that doesn’t stop me from crying at the end.
So, yes it’s fake, let’s get that out of the way, but as an adult who’s aging body feels regular back pain, knee pain and sore muscles from mundane tasks, I also know how painful it must be to jump off the ropes and land on your side, have someone slap your chest, or break a table in two from impact. From our front row seats, I can see the hand marks left on their skin and the odd kick connect, and so it can’t be that fake. These are real athletes, and this is hard work. Don’t let anyone tell you different.
As the evening unfolds, I’m transported back to my youth. Even though I had very limited access to wrestling growing up, I still knew all the characters and all the moves. See, for a good chunk of my childhood, we only had one TV and one channel, and CBC wasn’t exactly playing WWF. And with pacifists for parents, anything that glorified violence wasn’t encouraged – that meant no wrestling, no Dukes of Hazzard, no toy guns, and no Rambo.
But what every parent knows is that you can limit that stuff in your own household, but once your kid steps foot in their friend’s place, all bets are off. Some of my friends had unfettered access to television, so I was able to get a glimpse into the world of Pro Wrestling and its clever characters, colourful costumes and epic tag-team mêlées. And what I realized then, and know now, is that this stuff is all about great storytelling. It’s easy to get wrapped up in the narratives. Each character has their own persona, backstory, alliances, enemies and sayings. Who’s never been asked: ‘Can you smell what the rock’s cooking?’ or seen an ‘Austin 3:16’ tee-shirt.
Even before the era of The Rock, Chyna, and Stone-Cold Steve Austin, there was Hogan, Andre the Giant, Macho Man Savage and Jake ‘The Snake’ Roberts: the wrestlers of my youth. I even scored a Hulk Hogan thumb wrestler, which was the coolest item in my possession at the age of ten. But sadly, I was never able to view a Wrestlemania live, so this Saturday night event in Collingwood was as close as I’d get. It had all the pageantry, all the conflict, all the rhetoric and all the passion. I watched 8-year-olds hurl insults that would make The Big Boss Man blush. I saw grown men square off face-to-face in faux ritualistic fashion with their fingers a waggin’ and mouths a spoutin’. And it wouldn’t be a night of wrestling without someone being hit with a chair. It was a real ‘soap opera for men’ as my partner called it.
I couldn’t disagree with her assessment – the night was chalk full of storylines involving a handful of interesting characters like El Tornado, The Salsa King, Scotty the Body, and Krystal Moon. The main host of the evening, though, was Asher Benjamin, and he played a villain as despicable as Ric Flair.
The wrestlers played celebrities for a night, poised for autographs and composed for photographs. My wife couldn’t resist a photo with Scotty the Body, his rippling muscles glistening under the arena lights as he carried the belt around from fan to fan, young and old. I was the chump taking the pic of this stud beside my partner – at least Playboy John Atlas wasn’t around to heckle me some more. Scotty would have shooed him away anyways, the gentleman that he was. He’d later lead the Bod Squad to victory after a gruelling, back breaking, chair swinging, chalk-in-the-face ten-person tag team elimination round.
It was mayhem in the final hour, but Asher’s Army was defeated that night when The Body finally pinned Anthony Darko behind an unconscious Benjamin amidst the remains of busted tables and chairs.
If you’re looking for a fun night out, and a different date experience than your typical movie and dinner combo, go see some Pro Wrestling care of Rock Solid Wrestling. I’ve never been so hyped to see grown men in their underwear slamming into each other and yelling at strangers.
And to be clear, Playboy John Atlas did not go home with my wife at the end of the night. We left together and drove home with smiles on our faces (maybe just mine) and my ten-year-old self was at peace knowing he’d come as close as he could to that Wrestlemania dream. Now if I could just track down the Castle of Grayskull, I could put to rest that other childhood regret.
Words Jesse Wilkinson
Photos John Fearnall of Good Noise
