It’s a Saturday evening in 2004 and our eight-year-old son Dustin and I are watching a UFC fight. This is the first one he’s ever seen. Dustin is a wrestling fan. Not the boring kind of wrestling they do in the Olympics where a guy has someone in a hold for five minutes. No, he likes the REAL stuff. With blood, and chairs in the ring, and people being thrown over the top rope.
His favorite wrestler is Stone Cold Steve Austin. One Christmas I bought him a wall-sized tapestry of Stone Cold. We’ve been to several live events in the DC area including Summer Slam, Monday Night Raw, and one house show. Every Monday night is our special night to watch Raw and have nachos with cheese. He usually falls asleep about an hour in.
Growing up, my brother and I had a strained relationship with our dad. He was usually brooding and angry. Not affectionate in any way. I found out later that he had a rough childhood, being beat up by his own father who summarily left when he was a young boy, then later molested my grandmother’s second (brief) husband. In hindsight, I think he suffered from clinical depression among other things.
But on the rare occasions when things seemed normal, he would watch wrestling on TV. My grandpa also loved it and once in 1974, they both took me to the Olympic Auditorium in Los Angeles on a Friday night to see it live. Andre the Giant was on the card. He was huge!
On the even rarer occasions when my dad was happy, he would wrestle with my brother and me. Once, my mom wrestled too. Having the four of us together on the living room shag carpet was special. I think that was one of the few times my brother and I felt safe, stable, and happy.
It was during one of our wrestling matches that my dad pinned one of my arms down. My brother got behind him and got him in a chokehold. When he released my arm to grab my brother, I swung my newly freed arm and hit him across the bridge of the nose with a “Judo chop,” the finishing move of a wrestler named Professor Toru Tanaka.
My dad stopped, wiped the blood off and said the match was over and quietly left the room.
Later, he explained that wrestling wasn’t real, and I couldn’t hit for real. It was hard to fathom. Years earlier I found that Santa and the Tooth Fairy were fake. My childhood was quickly being stolen from me.
But I didn’t care. Wrestling was fun. I continued to watch it on and off for years. My grandpa and I went to see WrestleMania in Los Angeles where Hulk Hogan took on turncoat Sgt. Slaughter in 1991. I went with some shipmates to see it when the WWE came to Guam in 1994. Our favorite was The Undertaker who took on and beat Yokozuna. We all knew it was fake, but it was a great time!
And when Dustin was born, I knew we would be watching wrestling together. I couldn’t wait to share that experience with him. When we watched it together, on TV or in person, it was a dream come true for me. A part of the Munro legacy continues, albeit a strange one.
The UFC fight we’re watching is a slow one. Two grapplers writhing around on the octagon mat. I can tell Dustin is losing interest. Then, one of the fighters cracks the other with an overhand right and he drops like a stone. Dustin is shocked.
“Dad what’s wrong with these guys?” he asks. “He barely got hit and is unconscious. Wrestlers get hit with chairs and keep fighting.”
I’m speechless. I’m not prepared or ready to address this great mystery of life. Of the legitimacy of professional wrestling. But I must do it. It’s important.
I have “The Talk” with him. The one that says wrestling is staged. The same one my dad had with me.
He is shocked and disappointed. Just like I was.
But unlike me, he never watches wrestling again. Since wrestling isn’t real, it’s not worth his time. He is angry and I think disappointed in himself for falling so hard for wrestling. Dustin doesn’t so much as even mention wrestling again. And since he’s no longer interested, I guess I won’t be either. Our Monday Night Raw evenings are over.
It bothered me for a while. A long while. It was like something special I treasured meant nothing to him. If he has a son, he would, under no circumstance, take him to a wrestling match.
The older I get, the less childhood memories appear. It’s usually just small things as I’m writing a story or trying to put together a good analogy. But I still have vivid, glorious memories of growing up around wrestling. I suppose I always will.
A few months ago, Netflix released Mr. McMahon, a deep dive mini-series into WWE founder Vince McMahon. It was a look at the dark side of the man and the sport. As I watched it, it brought back so many memories from my childhood and Dustin’s. In hindsight, it was probably a bad idea to expose Dustin to this, but he grew up into a successful adult, so I guess it didn’t stunt his growth.
Then, Dustin called to tell me he watched Mr. McMahon. And the words I waited to hear.
“Watching it brought back some good memories Dad. Did it do the same for you?”
Of course it did. But him telling me he had good memories was the best news of all.
Wrestling was the glue that bonded us in Dustin’s early years. I’m so glad he remembers the best parts of it.
What experience did you have that you really want to share? If you’re a parent, introduce your children to it. Maybe the joy of that shared experience will reverberate through both of your lives. It certainly has for me.
And lucky for me, I have Netflix so if I choose to watch Monday Night Raw, I’ll be able to.
But I won’t. I got all I ever needed from wrestling. And I’m a better person for the experience.