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14 February 2011
About 20 years ago, my parents took my sisters and I into town. Summers at Pender Island were great, but for a young boy obsessed with sports, there wasn't a lot of action. So when the World Wrestling Federation paid a visit to the Memorial Arena, they decided to indulge us.
Despite my best efforts, I've never been able to find results of the card online - though they exist for almost every other WWE event held in the last 50 years.
I have tried, because that night literally changed my life. I won't pretend I hadn't been a wrestling fan, or that this was my first live event. (Nor even my fortieth.) But the main event was the best I have ever seen, before or since.
I hardly remember the rest of the card. I have a distinct memory of Demolition trying to get their tag titles back from the Brain Busters (Tully Blanchard and Arn Anderson), and my mother being perplexed the crowd would cheer for the bigger, face-painted and leather-wearing "bad men" rather than the clean-cut 'Busters. (She apparently felt Anderson and Blanchard's double-teaming and blatant rulebreaking was fair play.) I also think Jake Roberts made an appearance, as did his python.
I also remember my parents barely stifling polite giggles all night. Until, that is, the main event.
My idol and hometown icon Bret "Hitman" Hart took on Mr. Perfect (Curt Hennig) for the Intercontinental Title. Hart didn't win the belt that night - after a 20-minute, time limit draw, the title doesn't change hands.
But that's not the point.
Yes, wrestling is "fake." It's fake in exactly the same way acting is fake, but you never hear that said about, say, Brad Pitt. And when Pitt delivers a sublime performance (12 Monkeys, Fight Club, etc.) he is rightly praised for it.
So should Hart and Hennig.
For 20 minutes, they put on an incredible exhibition. They were impossibly crisp, smooth and fluid - they had the effect of making all the other matches seem half-speed and non-contact. I vividly remember Perfect swinging Bret across the ring by his HAIR, which drew gasps from the crowd and even made my father say (very quietly) "wow."
Afterward, my parents made their usual gentle jokes about my infatuation with wrestling, but admitted even they were impressed by the main event. Like someone who hates figure skating but can still marvel at the very best, there was no denying the skill and athleticism.
Why did this change my life? For the first time, I "got it." I happily explained to my parents, worried that I was disappointed Bret didn't win, that winning or losing wasn't the point. The point was to put on a great match and tell a story. Complaining that he didn't win is like complaining Hamlet dies at the end.
Last night, my wife and I went to see the WWE house show at the Save-On-Foods Memorial Centre - the first major wrestling event I've seen here since (I think) 1991.
Bizarrely, Bret's niece and nephew (Natalya Neidhart and David Hart Smith) performed, as did Mr. Perfect's son, using the name Michael McGillicutty. I felt very old, remarking to Melissa that I saw their dads (and uncle) wrestle here so long ago.
I used to worry not that I would lose interest in wrestling (if it happens, it happens) but that I would decide I *should*, because I would be embarrassed by it.
At 34, I don't worry about that anymore. I am who I am.
