Walking into an elementary school gymnasium in Carter Lake about 30 minutes before the match, we couldn’t help but be taken back by what was materializing before us. About a dozen people were moving about with purpose. Make-shift camera people, volunteer ticket takers, wanna-be announcers, and trinket peddling vendors were readying themselves for the big event–a title match between Rikki Reynolds and Vash Hartley.
Homespun to the nth degree, the sound system–a panasonic boombox with plug-in microphone–was ear drum shattering and completely inaudible. Technicians (my term) armed with low-end video cameras were capturing what would become three hours of the most blurry and underexposed footage in semi-pro wrestling history. The wrestlers? Well, these local heroes were laying it on thick for about 70 of the most die-hard mat fanatics you’d ever want to meet.
And the whole thing was glorious in its appeal.
Lost in a theater of the surreal, the night was absolutely magical. For more than three hours, in a flamboyant display of loosely choreographed wrestling maneuvers, hometown wrestlers gave everything they had. The fans heckled and cheered. They threw things. They high-fived. At times, they even sat in stunned disbelief at the events that unfolded before them. When the smoke finally cleared, Rikki Reynolds retained his championship belt for another week–and I left the arena in full understanding of the Rasputin-like effect that semi-pro wrestling has on the masses.
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