As anyone that knows me can tell you, I am a huge professional wrestling fan. And before you begin lighting torches and chasing me out of town, I'll address a couple of things.
First off, I know that wrestling is "fake." It's fake in the same way that bullfighting is staged. There is a huge margin for error, for injury, and in some cases, for death.
I have seen first hand, the life changing toll that pro wrestling can have on a life.
I was in attendance at Nassau Coliseum when on October 5, 1999, in the middle of the ring, former NFL defensive end and then-WWF superstar Darren Drozdov was dropped on his head during a improperly-executed powerbomb attempt and paralyzed from the neck down.
Even more recently, Japanese wrestling legend Mitsuharu Misawa lost consciousness in the ring after being suplexed and was pronounced dead a short time later. The cause of death was attributed to a cervical spine injury.
Second, I know that it's silly. It's a male soap opera. But in this soap opera, no one's sleeping with their enemies wife. Nor are they plotting against each other. And they certainly are not wearing outlandish outfits made to catch the eye.
Oh wait, they do all of those things. Forget that argument.
But none of that has ever really mattered to me. Even since I was five years old and saw my first then-WWF program on Saturday afternoon, I was hooked. I couldn't even tell you the reason why.
I still can't.
There was even a time when I wanted to be a pro wrestler. I spent hours putting my body through hell trying to perform the moves that I saw on TV in my friends' basement. Hitting my head over and over on a tile floor might account for my insanity now.
My best friend and I even performed periodically as a tag team at the summer camp that we worked at.
So call me what you will. I like professional wrestling, and I'm not ashamed to say it.
What I am ashamed of however, is that I have NEVER owned a pair of stretchy, ball-crushing tights.
I mean who doesn't look sexy as hell in those?
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