By Robert Animikii Horton
Special to the Times
Sometimes in our world, heroes can be difficult to discover.
When we are children, discovering heroes beyond our parents can even be more so.
However, beyond the special place of reverence that the Babe Ruths, Darcy Tuckers, and Tie Domis stand upon, there is another class of action hero often overlooked and underestimated as they remain revered and treasured by countless.
I am referring to the Professional Wrestler.
The hero. The heel. Occasionally, the strange, dark, and mysterious. The Saturday morning gladiator.
I remember being a small child and finding that such towering personalities helped teach lessons of doing your best, of the difference between good and evil, of morality or cutting corners, and that someone could become a champion by staying committed to noble intentions regardless of insurmountable odds.
Make no mistake about it, these individuals and characters were as close to real-life superheroes, action stars, and larger-than-life rockstars that many of us could fathom in our younger years.
For those of us who may have been a bit shy, a bit awkward, more imaginative than we knew how to express, or coming from times of turbulence or loss, these storylines were havens and shelters to nestle within, safe and reasonably predictable (apart from a world that may have been less so).
Our beloved characters?
Unquestionable heroes in alternative universe comedies and tragedies with spotlights and entrance music. Ones that could protect us from any shadow, monster under the bed, or villain in our shared world (be it cheating managers like Mr. Fuji or a bully or a challenge).
This week’s unfortunate passing of Hulk Hogan conjured memories that remain poignant as they linger with love (which are never far from head or heart):
Mom often telling me that Bret “The Hitman” Hart, her Calgary-born crush sporting black and pink, reflective shades, and proudly carrying a Canadian Flag was my biological father ha ha.
Dad teaching me to put both middle fingers up (which he referred to as “the wrestling fingers”) and telling me it was only okay to only show them to villains (like Ted DiBiase, the Honky Tonk Man, and the Iron Sheik) when they were on the way down from the dressing room to the ring.
My best friend and I “borrowing” camcorders and tripods from school, setting up his family’s basement like an arena, both “walking out” to the “ring” to music (mine was always Incubus and Dan, Prong), and filming our own event filled with DDTs, Powerbombs, and post-“match” interviews as stars in our little world. One time, we used a hallway wall to slide a king size mattress to the basement (we didn’t have wrestling mats). However, it slid against the thermostat, unknowingly cranking it to the max, and during that summer heat wave, we almost blew up the furnace.
Regularly watching WWF matches at the former Met Centre arena in Bloomington, looking under the bleachers, seeing Kamala the Ugandan Giant, and going ballistic thinking that he was going to steal me when I was five.
More mornings than I can count watching Wrestlemania III with a plastic WWF “Sling ‘em, Fling ‘em” wrestling ring and countless LJN Wrestling Superstar action figures, acting out the matches and narration with the TV. Later, my best friend Dan and I would quote (and requote) phrases from Wrestlemania 8. We still do.
Crying and wailing when Macho Man Randy Savage “injured” Ricky the Dragon Streamboat’s throat when the “fourth-wall” dropped and the injury (followed by gurneys and security personnel) appeared all too real.
And of course, fasting in central Manitoba over a decade ago. Upon leaving, I stopped at a nearby gas station to fill-up to return home. At the next pump, former-WWF star Tito Santana stood. It was great to finally meet him, shake his hand, and tell him how much what he (and others did) meant – and still means to me.
Did you laugh?
Perhaps one of these memories have struck your heart like a ringside bell.
Wrestling has certainly changed since my younger years.
The line between babyface and heel (between good and evil) has blurred and given way to a degree of soap-opera ambiguity while the code of realism (kayfabe) and magic are harder to protect in the information age.
However, those of us who remember those velcro-shoed times of wonder still smile and find joy when our televised heroes would join us for breakfast cereal (a meal with our small plastic friends who we carried with us always).
Although some may not understand, it remains something very special to many, especially from the era described.
For many, it brought joy to our lives.
For some, it was very needed, appreciated, and brings smiles today when we remember yesterday.
Robert Horton is an educator, author, orator, and member of Rainy River First Nations.
