“This isn’t something a girl should be watching,” my mother used to say to me as I stared intently at the television screen every Monday evening from 9–11 p.m.
I tried my best to ignore her remarks and continued on my quest of becoming a devastatingly knowledgeable aficionado in everything WWE-related.
Not only did I learn as much about the professionals as I could, I mimicked their staggering personas to the point of near perfection. This is my life — I am, and always will be, an obnoxious wrestling fan.
To set the tone for how my lawless love for the sport came to be, I have to step back a few years. In hindsight, my mom was somewhat right about the whole intemperate fascination I had with wrestling. My passion was too strong and my judgment too weak, creating a severe imbalance in my ability to discern when I could and could not tell someone to “suck it!”
In my defence, I was only eight years old at that point and it was rather impossible to overlook the powerhouse that was D-Generation X. It was the Attitude Era after all.
Being the little badass that I was, I refused to comply with my older sister’s demands to stop performing the gesture in front of cars at stop signs. Although I had no idea what was being implied when I told someone to contract their lip and cheek muscles until I was 16, I doubt anyone has ever seen a more enthusiastic crossing of the arms on the crotch being delivered by a girl and I am pretty damn proud of that. Triple H and Shawn Michaels would have probably considered dumping the she-male known as Chyna for a chance to stand alongside me on the world’s greatest wrestling stage.
Watching wrestling was a big part of all my siblings’ childhoods. Every action resulted in an immediate reaction by one of us, whether it was a feeling of excitement, anger, or the sudden urge to put someone in a sharpshooter until they cried and tapped out.
As a proprietress to five kids, my mom has always been quick to spot changes in our behaviour and find where to lay the immediate blame.
Although it is easy to deny some of these allegations, there was absolutely no doubt when it came to our conduct after watching wrestling.
My brother’s aggression upon coming to Canada was attributed not to mockery in the schoolyard due to his inability to speak English, but rather his keen commitment to the Ultimate Warrior.
My sister, on the other hand, took on the role of household diva by emulating Miss Elizabeth, who she claims to have idolized until the star’s drug overdose and passing in 2003.
I never stood a chance against my sister, who was affectionately nicknamed the Helganator, when it came to being put in a headlock.
Fastforward a few years to when my infatuation with Ric Flair and Canada’s own Captain Charisma, Christian, became full-fledged. I enjoyed woo-offs with friends and remorselessly attacked a few of them with slanderous statements about their mothers.
I’m so sorry, Mom, but attempting to embrace your moral stance is no match for that of Stone Cold Steve Austin’s, which included legendarily ruthless pontificating.
Needing an outlet to help cope with all of the awesome angles running through my mind when I watched WWE Raw, I decided to document every minute of each episode. Speeches were dissected, quotes were taken down, and hilarious fan signs were scribbled in the margins of my Hilroy notebooks.
I idolized the Divas and wanted to be just like them. Then came a realization, and quite a disheartening one at that: my body was nowhere close to how theirs were sculpted.
On the elementary school soccer field, I pompously declared to my fellow wrestling fans that I would get breast implants if it meant they were my sole ticket to WWE Diva stardom.
After nearly two years of being completely committed to the wrestling logs, I began to grow tired of the WWE. Maybe it was because my 10-year-old brother told me it was fake, or maybe it was because My Chemical Romance had begun to take over my free time.
Years passed and friends came and went. Puerile elation had been vanquished.
One night I decided to skip writing an essay and tune in to watch wrestling. I was devastated to find that I was genuinely confused as to who was honing the mat and the microphone.
What happened to the girl who knew every wrestler and every move? I felt as if I had betrayed myself.
Then everything came rushing back to me. That was not a jobber Mexican wrestler on stage — it was Randy “RKO” Orton!
As for that huge Mayan-looking man, well I had no fucking clue. I thought to myself “the WWE must be really desperate for a ratings grab. Who does that douche think he is, the Ro-oh my God?”
The self-proclaimed people’s champion was back. I was forced to deal with multiple emotions coming over me simultaneously. I was happy to see him, but infuriated that he had the audacity to return to the ring he had abandoned all those years ago for a shameful life in Hollywood.
As soon as he started ripping on John Cena though, he won me over. The return of the Rock meant something far more than Dwayne Johnson making a appearance to repair the lull in superstar activity at the WWE.
Calling Cena a “Yabba Dabba Bitch” was the single best thing that has happened to Vince McMahon’s Holy Wrestling Empire since the introduction of Muhammed Hassan and his endless barrage of irate affirmations concerning his unwelcomed presence at the WWE, due in large part to his ethnic background.
If you didn’t get that joke, I don’t give a crap. My love affair with World Wrestling Entertainment had been rekindled in a matter of minutes, even though it had been destroyed for years.
As influential as it may be, I took a little more from the entertainment giant than my mother claims I did. Sure, I became slightly verbally abusive at times, but the hundreds of hours I spent watching wrestling provided me with something else, something ethereal. I became fearless with my interactions with others, hiding barely any feelings and always speaking my mind.
My first year of university proved to be no different. While strolling down Bloor Street one sunny afternoon, I was stopped by a volunteer from the World Wildlife Fund. I pretended to look genuinely interested for a moment, and then dropped a big one.
With conviction, I clearly let the man know that I did not “give a single shit about” him or his organization for the sole reason that they “stole the WWF’s identity.”
He looked at me in sheer confusion and attempted to mitigate the situation by claiming that the World Wrestling Federation was “greedy” and “did not want to share.”
Looking back, I wish I could have altered the way I handled that encounter. Instead of resorting to harsh criticism, letting him know my standpoint with a sickening amount of grace and refinement would have sufficed. A solid “suck it” would have made my point loud and clear.
