Confessions of a Middle-Aged Pro Wrestling Fan

I am a wrestling fan. I am turning 38 in a few months. It is slightly difficult, at such an age, to admit to still being fascinated with the world of sports entertainment.

In fact, my list of hobbies and interests probably reads more like a teenagers wet dream. To wit:

  • Professional wrestling
  • Video Games
  • Basketball
  • Boobs

I am a grown man that only grew physically. The rest of me is in a state of arrested development, fixated on Grand Theft Auto, German suplexes, ample cleavage and full court presses. In fact, that might be the title of my autobiography:

German Suplexes and Ample Cleavage: The Bloated Boy Story

Available at all good bookstores in 2038.

It isn’t easy to admit to others that I remain a fan of wrestling. In social situations I am treated like I’ve suffered some kind of horrible head injury and therefore need to be addressed accordingly. People like to look down their noses at the adult wrestling fan, as though we are beneath them somehow.

If they concede any kind of rasslin’ fandom, it’s the usual, tired old: I haven’t watched that since I was a kid! What was that guy’s name? Hulk someone? Hulk Horgan?


Being a wrestling fan at my age is akin to the individual stuck in the closet. I’m comfortable with who I am, but other people seem to have a tough time reconciling my choice of lifestyle. Never mind that they religiously watch – and ape, might I add – fictional characters on their television screens and in movie theaters. My sister-in-law openly mocks my love of WWE, yet bases her life around the crones from Sex and the City. Irony? You make the call.

The Royal Rumble was yesterday. For the uninitiated, the Rumble is a 30 man battle royal where competitors enter at regular intervals (generally 90 seconds) and are thrown over the top rope and onto the apron below. Both feet need to touch the ground for it to be deemed an elimination. The last man in the ring is declared the winner and then goes onto a title shot at WrestleMania.

My closest chum, also a 38 year old wrestling fan, came over to my place to watch the event. My wife took the opportunity to make light of this. She felt that it was slightly homoerotic for two middle-aged men to watch muscular athletes grapple with each other, poking and prodding in the name of healthy competition.

We’re an easy target, I can concede that much. Wrestling really is quite ridiculous. But it is entertaining, or at least it can be when it wants to. The Rumble itself was pretty bad. Daniel Bryan got bounced early, and the crowd was treading the line between bored and completely pissed off. Either way, it was flat once Bryan got eliminated. From there it was painfully obvious that Roman Reigns would win the event. The crowd could tell. We could tell. WWE Brass has crowned Reigns as the next big thing, and he’s clearly not ready. Heck, they had to rush The Rock out there to validate Reigns, and even he couldn’t salvage the mess! The Rock is usually a sure thing, but not on this night.

Philadelphian’s are notoriously tough on their athletes, but they had a point with their reaction yesterday. It really was horribly handled. A Mania main event of Reigns-Lesnar doesn’t exactly get me too psyched for the future of this company. I’d of preferred for Rollins to have won the title, then we could’ve had Rollins-Reigns-Ambrose main event Mania. Instead, we’re left with this.

My WWE Network subscription is up for renewal in a few weeks. I’m pretty sure I won’t be renewing.