ABOUT MEN
Wrestling's body slams and jawbreakers just opera for men

By Ken Rickard
Advertiser Staff Writer

I was speaking to a class of elementary school students in Waipahu recently about what they wanted to do for a living. I asked them if they knew what they wanted to be when they grew up.

A hand enthusiastically sprang up from the far right. When I pointed back to him he said, "I want to be a wrestler."

"As in professional wrestler?" I asked.

"Yeah. Like R.V.D!"

I really didn't need an explanation to know who he meant by R.V.D (Rob Van Dam). In fact, I didn't need clarification on what he meant when he said he wanted to be a wrestler.

I'll admit it.

I can smell what the Rock is cooking.

I come from a time when fans of pro wrestling weren't sure if it was real or if it was staged.

Of course, I'm talking about the fifth grade.

Since small-kid time, I can remember rushing home on Saturday afternoons to watch World Wrestling Feder ..., I mean, Entertainment TV shows.

I cared when Ricky Steamboat got his throat crushed by Randy Savage.

I wished that the British Bulldogs would beat Demolition for the championship.

I even believed that the Masked Superstar was from Parts Unknown. (It's a small suburb in Kentucky, right?)

My friends and I would make a wrestling area in the living room after school with cushions from the couch to break our falls. And yes, I broke the sofa doing "Stinger splashes" in the corner.

However, it turned out to be all show. Not "fake" as some would claim, but a TV show. Not too far removed from other things on the networks.

Today is the new golden age of rasslin'. Guys like Steve Austin and Goldberg are mainstream celebrities. The WWF, I mean, WWE, sold out the Blaisdell in a few hours.

But what is the secret behind the guilty pleasure of the mat game, which draws a huge male fan base — even though most of us won't admit we follow it? (Kind of like Puff Daddy records. He sold millions of CDs. Do you know anybody who has one?)

Gentlemen, I'm sorry to say that WWE is simply soap operas for guys.

Think about it.

WWE boss Vince McMahon is like Susan Lucci on "All My Children." They've been on the box since the '70s, and you don't love them, but you know the show wouldn't be the same without them.

Tag teams are like married couples. They get along now, but you know one day they are going to get divorced. Or at least one of them will throw the other one into a pane of glass and blame them for losing the championship.

They eventually find a new tag team partner. And the ex always comes looking for revenge.

They both have cat fights, back-stabbing and the general B-grade intrigue that makes for decent TV.

Who shot J.R.? I ask, who ran over Stone Cold?

WWE has it all: melodrama, cliff-hangers and steel chairs.

And men in tights, but that's not why we watch it.

Reach Ken Rickard at krickard@honoluluadvertiser.com. Read "About Men" and "About Women" columns online at http://the.honoluluadvertiser.com/current/il/aboutmenwomen.