Cultures breed universal experiences amongst the population. Within hobbies, interests, and jobs, you find yourself integrated into another culture. Amongst some of the professional wrestlers I know, there's the nightmare of being at a show, your music is playing, and you've not got your gear (the equivalent of the turning up to school naked dream, I suppose). Amongst the fans, everyone has their own individual moment that sparked their interest and sent them off to pursue a passion, for as far and wide a scope as they we were willing, or wanting, to take. I still remember the first full wrestling show I watched, because that first show was all it took to hook me.
The people I have to thank - and whom my mum "blames" - is my older sister, and her friends. We'd just gotten Sky. The ability to surf channels and still find nothing worth watching - amazing to an eight-year-old. This rabble of teenage girls came round one Friday, insisting that we watch Sky Sports. There was nothing else worth watching, so we acquiesced to the request.
*click* *click*
"RAW IS WAR" is on the screen; all red and black with rock music playing.
Over the course of two hours, we're introduced to characters and storylines through a combination of ringside and couchside commentary; most significantly, we were learning who we should be cheering for and who we should be booing. I only really remember the main event, or, more truthfully, I only remember how it ended: an arrogant, corporate sell-out, in a tracksuit, by the name of The Rock (I'm supposed to be booing him), is out in the ring. Next to him, lays a man in a mask that reminds me of a horror film I wasn't allowed to watch at that age; this man is called Mankind (I'm supposed to be cheering him). There's a group brawl at ringside (I'm supposed to be booing and cheering these men in equal measure). The camera shot is pulled back, framing both the men in the ring, and the men fighting on the outside; all of this backgrounded by a sea of people. But only for an instant. Then the glass shattered. And the mass of humanity, that was nothing more than background a few seconds ago, erupts into life. A man I'd never seen before walks to the ring, hits The Rock with a steel chair, puts Mankind on top of him, and walks out. "1! 2!" - that last second always seems to hang in the air - "3!" Everyone on the television is jumping up and down with joy. Everyone in a little living room in England is doing the same.
It's one of those moments I still play over in my head sometimes. And, reflecting on it, it's such a strange starting point for everything that followed. The three main players in this were: an over-the-top sports entertainer, who'd taken cockiness to the level of abandoning the first-person pronoun; a hardcore icon, who'd gained infamy in Japanese deathmatches; and a beer swilling, finger flipping, brawler, redneck. This trinity sent me off into the wild world occupied by Tiger Mask's and Dynamite Kid's; the New Japan Strong Style and the All Japan King's Road Style; the graceful El Santo and the technical Johnny Saint; the amazing joshi and the serious shoot style. It's a wonderful world out there, if you're willing to take a look around.
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