Last night at WrestleMania 38, the incomparable Sami Zayn ran face first into a giant hand positioned ringside. How it got there and how he managed not to see it was never explained. Nor should it have been. The pratfall, certainly, is not a thing that needs to be over-intellectualized.
God help me, I cackled like a child. The same when Jackass patriarch Johnny Knoxville used an electric kicking machine to rack Zayn right in the balls. Twice as hard when he rolled a bowling ball into Sami’s crotch and when Wee Man body slammed him like a miniature Hulk Hogan.
I didn’t feel good about it. Inside, I was embarrassed for them, for the audience, and most of all for myself. I still laughed, right out loud. Not like when you type “LOL” with a deadly straight face on social media or in a text. Like, for real for real laughed like I was eight-years-old.
I’m really not okay.
There’s something about professional wrestling that makes me like this, something I can’t 100 percent explain. It’s the only art form that is slightly grotesque and awful at its very best and somehow still great when it’s at its worst.
Two wrestlers completely in sync, pantomiming an athletic contest are still vaguely ridiculous, Vegas magicians without the tigers in their act. The physical costs are undeniable, CTE and knee replacements the almost inevitable consequence of a life spent pretending to fight.
On the flipside, a TV stuntman and a preening jackass wrestler, each willing to debase themselves operating a giant human-sized mousetrap are otherworldly physical geniuses, somehow bringing joy where there should only be groans of dismay in a better world.
I can’t explain it. I’m just so happy to be a part of it all. If there’s something else that can make you feel both that dirty and that much joy, I want to know what it is so I can bottle it and make it last forever.
So ends another WrestleMania season, one of WWE’s strongest efforts in ages. They were in pure crowd-pleasing mode over the two nights, sending audiences home happy one night with the return of “Stone Cold” Steve Austin and in awe the next night as Roman Reigns continued his unprecedented dominance as the promotion’s top villain.
There have been dominant champions before—Hulk Hogan and Bruno Sammartino spring immediately to mind—but they were conquering heroes. Reigns is the baddie, and he’s supposed to face his comeuppance at some point. When that moment does finally come, it’s going to be one for the ages.
WrestleMania has become something more than a wrestling show. In the last several years it’s been a week-long celebration of the sport itself. In addition to WWE’s vast offerings (the Hall of Fame, NXT, Fan Fests galore and two nights of Mania), dozens of independent wrestlers descend on the host city to participate in their own matches and shows. All in all, it’s quite a spectacle.
Stupendous, you might say. Again. And again.
As great as it all was, it’s also leaves long-time fans like me with a feeling of frustration. It’s almost like a tease, WWE showing us all how amazing it can be, only to pull it away and go right back to their usual dreck every Monday.
Still, like all addicts, that taste is enough to keep me coming back for more. Inject it into my veins. I’m always ready.