Part 1: The Debut
When my son was born, I felt anything and everything except prepared. Countless books on fatherhood all seemed to share the same message: instill your values in your child so they grow up to be a well-rounded and good person. At least that’s the condensed version of what I got from them. Most focused on things like responsibility and what it means to be a man in the modern era while also espoused the need to raise your child in a structured environment that had guiding principles and a roadmap to maturity. The foundation mostly referenced was religion. You needed to teach your child about the belief system you and your partner believed in.
Being a devout disbeliever, a firm questioner of anything that ascribes a “higher power” or “supreme being”, I needed to find out what I truly believe in.
When I was about 12, I came across wrestling on TV and was hooked. When I asked my best friend if he had ever watched wrestling his face lit up. He told me he had been watching it for years with his older brother but had never mentioned it to me or anyone else in our group out of fear of ridicule. Since this was the pre-Attitude/nWo era, when wrestling was still seen as a caricature of manliness and for some of the more garish of our wider friend group, the ones who used homophobic epithets when describing wrestling and anyone who dared consider themselves a fan, one didn’t just announce to the world their fandom. Naturally, my friend’s reasoning for not proclaiming his own love for wrestling was well-founded.
First, I was watching the World Wrestling Federation (WWF), which later became WWE, then even later TKO/WWE. It was still cartoony with short matches, and even though it was entertaining, it seemed more like a sugary snack than a filling meal. That satisfying feeling came from watching the competition: World Championship Wrestling (WCW). I can’t remember the story-lines that were going or what angles or matches stood out for me, but seeing “Surfer” Sting, Flair, and the 4 horsemen was absolutely amazing.
I had always been a sports fan. Like my big brother, I was into baseball. I watched the Reds as a kid with Pete Rose as the manager and then up until they swept the A’s in the World Series. The games were long, but since I was playing too, I could follow along and generally had an idea of the strategy behind most of it. But once I got a bit older, something in all sports really felt like it was starting to change. Like every true baseball fan, 1994 was a hard year. I had yet to develop my zeal for worker’s rights, but I didn’t buy into the whole idea that the players were being greedy when they went on strike. Money became the focal point with commentators shifting the discussions to player salaries, bonuses, and other absolutely boring (especially to an 11-year-old kid) aspects of an otherwise fun sport to watch.
All of this took its toll on my interest in organized sports. Then when I found wrestling, I began to question just how “legitimate” sports were in general.
In wrestling, there is a concept called “kayfabe.” In short, it is the art of keeping the show real for the marks. On the surface, it sounds like the negative carny term that it is, but for me as a kid I instantly saw it for what it was: magic. More of the slight-of-hand version than the mystical kind. It is the suspension of belief, the willful suspension of belief. In those years, the dirt sheets (wrestling rumor rags) weren’t big with us kids, so we never knew what was going to happen or how much a wrestler got paid (or was holding out for!). It was magical.
But for me, it was the suspension of belief, the willful suspension of belief.
After a couple of years of enjoying wrestling as our own shared secret, my friend and I would call each other on the phone so that when one of us was watching WCW’s “Nitro” Monday night show, the other one would have WWF’s “Raw” on. We’d tell each other what was going on and if the other should mash the “Recall” button and check it out. My dad, who never converted to a wrestling fan, would get annoyed by how loud and rambunctious we’d get on the phone. And as the mid-90s skidded toward the late 90s, those calls got wild!
Wrestling took off with Stone Cold Steve Austin, (now “Crow”) Sting, Hollywood Hulk Hogan, lighting up the weekly shows. All of a sudden wrestling wasn’t just cool, it was the “in” thing. My buddy and I were now joined by the rest of our friends who gathered around big TVs and cheered on the beatdowns, the run-ins, (way too many) chair shots, and the bloody carnage.
Not only did we all watch wrestling shows, but we were doing backyard wrestling, going to shows, and painting our faces proudly as fans. Nothing compares to the energy of a live wrestling show with friends. Wrestling did eventually cool, but a few friends and I stayed true believers.
Decades later, looking at my newborn, I find myself thinking, “How do I teach this tiny person right from wrong in life? ” “What religion or philosophy can I turn to for guidance?”
Wrestling.
But where do I start?
The debut of a wrestler is almost always a low-key thing. They rarely shoot out of the curtain as pre-packaged megastars. Instead, you get sent out and you do your best. Usually you’re just there in the beginning to get the tar pummeled out of you to enhance another big name talent. Your whole goal in your first match is to fail as convincingly as possible and to make your opponent look like a total killer. You will flail about; you will flop on your face and anything you throw at them won’t stop the onslaught of punishment. It says a lot about how you learn from life.
When you take your first steps as a father, you’re sure to make lots of mistakes. The very first test I had was the simple task of putting my newborn in the car-seat on the ride home from the hospital. It took me a solid twenty minutes to figure out how those stupid straps worked. We weren’t going to leave that parking lot until he was in there correctly.
In the first few weeks of parenthood, you know you’re unlikely to do things “right.” What you’re really afraid of isn’t that the world around you thinks you’re not the best dad in the world; no, the only thing on your mind is that you don’t want to drop the baby. You don’t want to lay them down too hard. You are constantly thinking about their safety.
A wrestler in their debut match is thinking the same thing: it may not look great, but it’s safe. There is a level of trust between the performers that needs to exist, or else it could be fatal for either of them—or even both of them. An experienced opponent in the ring wants you to do the things you can do safely. There is no reason to take risks if you’re green.
That, for me, was the same experience as being a first-time father. Everything was about safety. Starting there, I felt better. I knew I wasn’t going to be over with this kid right away. It takes time to win someone over. It also takes time to learn the craft. Most of all, it takes failure. You’re going to do things wrong when trying to do something you’ve never done. Looking back on those times, I remember how green I was, but today I’m proud to say that I can do a German suplex with my three-year-old and make it look like death without hurting the kid.
