Prologue
Last November, I rashly bought a (rather expensive) ticket to Wrestlemania XXX , not knowing whether I would even be in America on the day in question: Sunday, April 6th 2014. As March drew to a close, I was still very much in Hyderabad, and it seemed as if the leap of faith was not going to pay off. Then, miraculously, I found myself staffed on a project that would take me to the US a mere week before Wrestlemania. It seemed like an act of providence, but it turned out to be an agonizing tease: a crucial meeting was scheduled for the day after Wrestlemania, and my presence became essential on the weekend. "The boyhood dream has slipped away!" I heard my inner Jim Ross lamenting.
I shook off the disappointment, and booked myself another (almost as expensive) ticket for the next pay-per-view: Extreme Rules in New Jersey. My project was coming along nicely, and apart from the awful Mania aberration, all my weekends had been free. I foresaw nothing that could stop me from finally achieving my decade-long dream. I could scarcely believe it when, just days before the event, a crucial meeting was scheduled for the day after Extreme Rules and my presence became essential on the weekend. Good ol' JR was going ballistic in my head. "Aw son of a bitch! It's too much! It's too much!"
Destiny was clearly a submission specialist, and every time my fingers seemed to be approaching the ropes, she was dragging me back to the center of the ring. "Ask him!" she was cackling. (Did You Know? Chris Jericho invented destiny) A lesser soul would have written off his losses and tapped out. But I was determined to get my Payback.
Well, one month later, I did.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Payback
If you want to understand what it is like to watch wrestling in the Allstate Arena in Chicago, picture a crowd with the old-school purism of Lord's and the fanaticism of Eden Gardens. This passion was evident even as I waited in line to enter the arena. It was a very hot evening, but that sold-out throng couldn't care less as they waited for the doors to open. Chants of "Whooooooo!" erupted every few minutes, because somebody (liar) had claimed to have seen Ric Flair enter the building. About 80% of the people were wearing wrestling merchandise, and this being a city that really knows its wrestling, obscure references and cheeky inside jokes abounded. "EAT. SLEEP. BANG SABLE. REPEAT." a tank top proclaimed.
I caught glimpses of wonderful madness. There was the father trying to bully his children into chanting "anything but Cena" while his wife looked on disapprovingly. There was a biker with a thick beard and dark glasses who was clearly choosing to live in a different era - he was sporting a Macho Man bandanna and a '90s Shawn Michael t-shirt. My favourite was a pregnant woman who had painted "Yes! Yes! Yes!" in fluorescent paint over her bare midriff.
I overheard snatches of conversation that made me chuckle. "The blood is fake," a teenager was telling his friends matter-of-factly. "I saw a video where Chris Jericho was given a capsule by the referee. It contains like artificial dye or something and they just bite on it and spit it out." The man in front of me began quivering with indignation on hearing this blasphemy, and started muttering furiously under his breath. His girfriend rubbed his shoulders anxiously to try and calm him down. Needless to say, I felt completely at home among this nutty group.
When we finally entered the building, I was taken aback by how much smaller it was than I had expected. I began to realize just how well WWE uses camera and lighting techniques to make the arena seem wider and taller than it really is. All of it works towards making the product seem larger than life for the television audience. Of course, that isn't to say the live experience is smaller in any way. Because its not the size of the arena that matters, it's the soul of the crowd, and oh, what a crowd it was.
I knew from the moment Sheamus walked out to a storm of boos that I was in for a special night. WWE crowds are becoming increasingly contrarian by cheering the heels (villains) and booing the babyfaces (heroes), but few do it with the wit and rabid intensity of the Chicago audience. 3MB, a comedy act whose sole function is to lose to everyone possible, received a hero's welcome. "SLATER'S GONNA SLATE YOU" one group sang to the tune of "JOE'S GONNA KILL YOU". On the other hand, Batista, who is leaving to promote his film 'Guardians of the Galaxy' (Yes, that one) soon was tormented by chants of "NAH NAH NAH NAH...NAH NAH NAH NAH...HEY HEY HEY GOODBYE!" later on in the night. It gave me chills to sit in that arena and be a part of that surreal sine wave of thunderous applause and vociferous jeers.
I likened the Allstate Arena to Eden Gardens earlier. They also have a Sourav Ganguly here, and they screamed for him all night long. With clock-like regularity, the sacred incantation would emanate from 18,000 people: "CM PUNK! CM PUNK! CM PUNK!" The Second City Saint may have fallen from grace in the eyes of a lot of fans (myself included) after walking out of the company in the middle of his contract and severing all ties with the business, but in his home town, he can do no wrong. They didn't care that he wasn't in the building: they were going to chant his name. They probably would not have cared even if had admitted to serially murdering puppies.
To WWE's credit, they handled the Punk situation cleverly once again. Each time the chants gained momentum, they would play a video or advertisement on the screen to distract the audience. It is incredible how well that ploy worked. Stephanie McMahon and Paul Heyman masterfully used CM Punk against the crowd, and boy, did it annoy us!
There are some stark differences to watching wrestling live as compared to on television. The sight of two 200-pound-plus men slamming into each other at a high speed is something that takes on a completely different complexion when you see it in the flesh, as does the sight of steel steps flying into a man's shoulder. The sheer physicality of the art form is something that just doesn't translate well to the screen.
One thing the live experience does miss is the commentary. I didn't fully appreciate how valuable commentary was to wrestling until I watched an entire three-hour event without it. We tend to take the announcers for granted, but they perform an invaluable function by selling the viewers on the storylines. Without the crutch of commentary, the performers have to work very hard to keep the live audience invested in the action, which is a terribly difficult thing to do. How do you manipulate thousands of attention spans without speaking? This is where the elusive art of "psychology" comes in, and it is what sets the pros apart. The best example I observed was during a slightly dull period early on in the Evolution vs. Shield match. The crowd was growing dangerously quiet, bored by the lack of action. Triple H whipped Dean Ambrose into the corner, and I saw him whisper something into the latter's ear. Seconds later, Ambrose tagged in Roman Reigns, and the crowd came to life. I fancy I saw a tiny smile flicker across Triple H's face.
Then there are those who just don't need psychology. We hear a lot about the "It" factor, but it is hard to appreciate what it really means until you experience it in person. Some performers just have an intangible quality that can mesmerize thousands, and it is impossible to look anywhere else when they are in the ring. John Cena unquestionably has that quality, as does Bray Wyatt. All members of Evolution and Shield crackle with presence too. It is not surprising that the names I just mentioned are WWE's top stars.
Speaking of top stars, there is nothing about Daniel Bryan that would invite a second look, but when his entrance music hit, I almost thought a bomb had gone off. It is hardly believable how much people adore that man. Nearly every match on the card saw some dueling chants - "RVD" vs"BNB", "Let's Go Cena" vs "Cena Sucks", "Kofi Kingston" vs. "We Bolieve" etc. - but everyone was united in their love for Bryan. It is a remarkable phenomenon.
Another person that merits special mention is John Cena. I don't think there is a wrestler who has a more genuine connection with his fanbase. Nearly every kid I saw was wearing a Cena t-shirt, headband or cap. You know he really represents something special to that age group when you see a young boy in a wheelchair proudly holding up a sign saying "Never Give Up". I was seated next to a child of about 8, who was accompanied by his older brother. I noticed that the little boy was sitting unusually quietly throughout the show. He seemed to be waiting for something. When John Cena came to the ring, the joy on the child's face was something to behold. He jumped up and down, clapping, but he still didn't say a word. It was then that I caught sight of his brother saying something to him - in sign language.
(I must somewhat shamefully admit that all this didn't prevent me from fulfilling my duties as an adult male member of the WWE Universe - I shouted "Cena Sucks" at the top of my voice)
I realize now that I have nearly come to the end of my shapeless rhapsody without actually talking about any of the actual wrestling. Curiously, I find that I can remember very little of the matches. Moments stand out - Cesaro swinging Sheamus, Brie Bella (who looked divine in person) slapping Stephanie McMahon, Seth Rollins jumping fifteen feet off the screen to the ramp below. At home, I would have dissected each match with a critical eye, but I was savouring the live experience too much to really absorb it. To paraphrase Maya Angelou, I may have forgotten what they did, I may have forgotten what they said, but I will never forget how those performers and that crowd made me feel.
PS - My crowning moment was patting the Shield on their shoulders as they entered the arena from the crowd, but the blasted cameras cut away to the ring just at that very moment. However, a blurred image of me can be seen at least once during the telecast. That's me in the red circle below:
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue
I have now convinced myself that it could not have happened any other way. Wrestlemania is a climactic pilgrimage: WWE's season finale, as it were. I did not understand it then, but there was no way it could have been my first live wrestling event. The script does not work in that manner. Journeys culminate at Wrestlemania - they must begin elsewhere. Extreme Rules suffered from the opposite problem - it just didn't have a big enough sense of occasion. The wrestling gods knew that I deserved a grander stage to lose my wrestling virginity. What they wanted was to give me not just the show I needed, but the one I deserved - a Goldilocks event that was just right. A minor pay-per-view in a major city was the perfect setting.
So what happened when I booked my ticket for WWE Payback in Chicago? A project shutdown was suddenly announced for the week preceding the event, meaning I would essentially get one week off. There were to be no last-minute meetings this time. But the moment I really knew the gods had smiled on me was when I checked into my hotel the week before the show and was allotted this room:
Oh hell yeah.
Last November, I rashly bought a (rather expensive) ticket to Wrestlemania XXX , not knowing whether I would even be in America on the day in question: Sunday, April 6th 2014. As March drew to a close, I was still very much in Hyderabad, and it seemed as if the leap of faith was not going to pay off. Then, miraculously, I found myself staffed on a project that would take me to the US a mere week before Wrestlemania. It seemed like an act of providence, but it turned out to be an agonizing tease: a crucial meeting was scheduled for the day after Wrestlemania, and my presence became essential on the weekend. "The boyhood dream has slipped away!" I heard my inner Jim Ross lamenting.
I shook off the disappointment, and booked myself another (almost as expensive) ticket for the next pay-per-view: Extreme Rules in New Jersey. My project was coming along nicely, and apart from the awful Mania aberration, all my weekends had been free. I foresaw nothing that could stop me from finally achieving my decade-long dream. I could scarcely believe it when, just days before the event, a crucial meeting was scheduled for the day after Extreme Rules and my presence became essential on the weekend. Good ol' JR was going ballistic in my head. "Aw son of a bitch! It's too much! It's too much!"
Destiny was clearly a submission specialist, and every time my fingers seemed to be approaching the ropes, she was dragging me back to the center of the ring. "Ask him!" she was cackling. (Did You Know? Chris Jericho invented destiny) A lesser soul would have written off his losses and tapped out. But I was determined to get my Payback.
Well, one month later, I did.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Payback
If you want to understand what it is like to watch wrestling in the Allstate Arena in Chicago, picture a crowd with the old-school purism of Lord's and the fanaticism of Eden Gardens. This passion was evident even as I waited in line to enter the arena. It was a very hot evening, but that sold-out throng couldn't care less as they waited for the doors to open. Chants of "Whooooooo!" erupted every few minutes, because somebody (liar) had claimed to have seen Ric Flair enter the building. About 80% of the people were wearing wrestling merchandise, and this being a city that really knows its wrestling, obscure references and cheeky inside jokes abounded. "EAT. SLEEP. BANG SABLE. REPEAT." a tank top proclaimed.
I caught glimpses of wonderful madness. There was the father trying to bully his children into chanting "anything but Cena" while his wife looked on disapprovingly. There was a biker with a thick beard and dark glasses who was clearly choosing to live in a different era - he was sporting a Macho Man bandanna and a '90s Shawn Michael t-shirt. My favourite was a pregnant woman who had painted "Yes! Yes! Yes!" in fluorescent paint over her bare midriff.
I overheard snatches of conversation that made me chuckle. "The blood is fake," a teenager was telling his friends matter-of-factly. "I saw a video where Chris Jericho was given a capsule by the referee. It contains like artificial dye or something and they just bite on it and spit it out." The man in front of me began quivering with indignation on hearing this blasphemy, and started muttering furiously under his breath. His girfriend rubbed his shoulders anxiously to try and calm him down. Needless to say, I felt completely at home among this nutty group.
When we finally entered the building, I was taken aback by how much smaller it was than I had expected. I began to realize just how well WWE uses camera and lighting techniques to make the arena seem wider and taller than it really is. All of it works towards making the product seem larger than life for the television audience. Of course, that isn't to say the live experience is smaller in any way. Because its not the size of the arena that matters, it's the soul of the crowd, and oh, what a crowd it was.
I knew from the moment Sheamus walked out to a storm of boos that I was in for a special night. WWE crowds are becoming increasingly contrarian by cheering the heels (villains) and booing the babyfaces (heroes), but few do it with the wit and rabid intensity of the Chicago audience. 3MB, a comedy act whose sole function is to lose to everyone possible, received a hero's welcome. "SLATER'S GONNA SLATE YOU" one group sang to the tune of "JOE'S GONNA KILL YOU". On the other hand, Batista, who is leaving to promote his film 'Guardians of the Galaxy' (Yes, that one) soon was tormented by chants of "NAH NAH NAH NAH...NAH NAH NAH NAH...HEY HEY HEY GOODBYE!" later on in the night. It gave me chills to sit in that arena and be a part of that surreal sine wave of thunderous applause and vociferous jeers.
I likened the Allstate Arena to Eden Gardens earlier. They also have a Sourav Ganguly here, and they screamed for him all night long. With clock-like regularity, the sacred incantation would emanate from 18,000 people: "CM PUNK! CM PUNK! CM PUNK!" The Second City Saint may have fallen from grace in the eyes of a lot of fans (myself included) after walking out of the company in the middle of his contract and severing all ties with the business, but in his home town, he can do no wrong. They didn't care that he wasn't in the building: they were going to chant his name. They probably would not have cared even if had admitted to serially murdering puppies.
To WWE's credit, they handled the Punk situation cleverly once again. Each time the chants gained momentum, they would play a video or advertisement on the screen to distract the audience. It is incredible how well that ploy worked. Stephanie McMahon and Paul Heyman masterfully used CM Punk against the crowd, and boy, did it annoy us!
There are some stark differences to watching wrestling live as compared to on television. The sight of two 200-pound-plus men slamming into each other at a high speed is something that takes on a completely different complexion when you see it in the flesh, as does the sight of steel steps flying into a man's shoulder. The sheer physicality of the art form is something that just doesn't translate well to the screen.
One thing the live experience does miss is the commentary. I didn't fully appreciate how valuable commentary was to wrestling until I watched an entire three-hour event without it. We tend to take the announcers for granted, but they perform an invaluable function by selling the viewers on the storylines. Without the crutch of commentary, the performers have to work very hard to keep the live audience invested in the action, which is a terribly difficult thing to do. How do you manipulate thousands of attention spans without speaking? This is where the elusive art of "psychology" comes in, and it is what sets the pros apart. The best example I observed was during a slightly dull period early on in the Evolution vs. Shield match. The crowd was growing dangerously quiet, bored by the lack of action. Triple H whipped Dean Ambrose into the corner, and I saw him whisper something into the latter's ear. Seconds later, Ambrose tagged in Roman Reigns, and the crowd came to life. I fancy I saw a tiny smile flicker across Triple H's face.
Then there are those who just don't need psychology. We hear a lot about the "It" factor, but it is hard to appreciate what it really means until you experience it in person. Some performers just have an intangible quality that can mesmerize thousands, and it is impossible to look anywhere else when they are in the ring. John Cena unquestionably has that quality, as does Bray Wyatt. All members of Evolution and Shield crackle with presence too. It is not surprising that the names I just mentioned are WWE's top stars.
Speaking of top stars, there is nothing about Daniel Bryan that would invite a second look, but when his entrance music hit, I almost thought a bomb had gone off. It is hardly believable how much people adore that man. Nearly every match on the card saw some dueling chants - "RVD" vs"BNB", "Let's Go Cena" vs "Cena Sucks", "Kofi Kingston" vs. "We Bolieve" etc. - but everyone was united in their love for Bryan. It is a remarkable phenomenon.
Another person that merits special mention is John Cena. I don't think there is a wrestler who has a more genuine connection with his fanbase. Nearly every kid I saw was wearing a Cena t-shirt, headband or cap. You know he really represents something special to that age group when you see a young boy in a wheelchair proudly holding up a sign saying "Never Give Up". I was seated next to a child of about 8, who was accompanied by his older brother. I noticed that the little boy was sitting unusually quietly throughout the show. He seemed to be waiting for something. When John Cena came to the ring, the joy on the child's face was something to behold. He jumped up and down, clapping, but he still didn't say a word. It was then that I caught sight of his brother saying something to him - in sign language.
(I must somewhat shamefully admit that all this didn't prevent me from fulfilling my duties as an adult male member of the WWE Universe - I shouted "Cena Sucks" at the top of my voice)
I realize now that I have nearly come to the end of my shapeless rhapsody without actually talking about any of the actual wrestling. Curiously, I find that I can remember very little of the matches. Moments stand out - Cesaro swinging Sheamus, Brie Bella (who looked divine in person) slapping Stephanie McMahon, Seth Rollins jumping fifteen feet off the screen to the ramp below. At home, I would have dissected each match with a critical eye, but I was savouring the live experience too much to really absorb it. To paraphrase Maya Angelou, I may have forgotten what they did, I may have forgotten what they said, but I will never forget how those performers and that crowd made me feel.
PS - My crowning moment was patting the Shield on their shoulders as they entered the arena from the crowd, but the blasted cameras cut away to the ring just at that very moment. However, a blurred image of me can be seen at least once during the telecast. That's me in the red circle below:
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue
I have now convinced myself that it could not have happened any other way. Wrestlemania is a climactic pilgrimage: WWE's season finale, as it were. I did not understand it then, but there was no way it could have been my first live wrestling event. The script does not work in that manner. Journeys culminate at Wrestlemania - they must begin elsewhere. Extreme Rules suffered from the opposite problem - it just didn't have a big enough sense of occasion. The wrestling gods knew that I deserved a grander stage to lose my wrestling virginity. What they wanted was to give me not just the show I needed, but the one I deserved - a Goldilocks event that was just right. A minor pay-per-view in a major city was the perfect setting.
So what happened when I booked my ticket for WWE Payback in Chicago? A project shutdown was suddenly announced for the week preceding the event, meaning I would essentially get one week off. There were to be no last-minute meetings this time. But the moment I really knew the gods had smiled on me was when I checked into my hotel the week before the show and was allotted this room:
Oh hell yeah.
