Confessions of a rasslin' fan

Every couple has a story about how one of them passed the test.

You know -- the test.

The moment when your girlfriend or boyfriend asks, in the course of determining if you are truly marriage material, whether there's anything you want to declare.

Just one thing, I said to my beloved, Erin.

Without flinching and without shame, I told her, "I watch professional wrestling."

She took it well ... reasonably well.

Who am I kidding? She nearly knocked me over when she rolled her eyes.

She took a deep breath, mustered up her courage and said, "That's disturbing in so many ways, but I'll love you through it anyway."

So now, as newlyweds, I'm downstairs in the "man cave" watching rasslin' on Monday and Thursday nights, and Erin's upstairs -- curled up with a good book. Such marital bliss.

Over the years, telling friends and colleagues that I follow pro wrestling has raised hundreds of eyebrows. I've gotten my fair share of "that explains a lot about you, doesn't it?" comments.

So, the news that major-league professional wrestling, in the form of TNA Wrestling, is returning to Winston-Salem on Saturday after a five-year absence flooded me with memories.

Pro wrestling has been a constant companion in my life, playing a role in how I discerned good from evil, right from wrong, how I viewed betrayal and redemption.

That became easier to explain in 2002 when World Wrestling Federation changed its name to World Wrestling Entertainment and drew back the curtain to show its inner workings to the public. The name change was a tacit acknowledgement to the secrets of sports entertainment -- that matches are scripted and that championship-title reigns are frequently negotiated into employment contracts.

I spent many childhood Saturday afternoons bonding with my dad over pro wrestling on the television in his backyard cabin. It was a surreal experience, not exactly forbidden, but edgy and rebellious. The smells of gunpowder, which Daddy packed into his own shells, hung in the air, and he would occasionally nurse a cold Schlitz after a day plowing the garden or getting up the hay. Daddy was a "gentleman farmer"; he had a fulltime job and farmed for fun.

Fully enamored with all the drama, my friends and I built a ring out of three mattresses and some bungee cords, and practiced our body slams on each other. We hobbled away from these sessions with mysterious bruises that we had to explain away to our mothers.

Teenage years were spent with friends talking/conning our parents into using their hard-earned money on "we can't miss this" matches. We were completely oblivious to how we acted -- yelling at the top of our lungs, flexing our muscles (did we really have any then?), daring each other to run into the ring -- that it likely squashed any fleeting thoughts our mothers might have had about having any more children.

The wrestlers all appeared larger than life -- good guys such as Mil Mascaras, Johnny Weaver and the Mighty Igor and despicable bad guys such as Bulldog Brower, Rip Hawk and Abdullah the Butcher.

And then there were those we cheered and jeered as they walked the thin gray line between "heel" and "babyface." The best example, of course, is Ric Flair -- my all-time favorite wrestler.

Flair was so great at being bad with his promos and ringside style that his popularity became undeniable. He eventually had to be made into a good guy, because fans wouldn't reject him regardless of how much he tried his "dirtiest player in the game" character. The wrestler Triple H is following that path now.

As much as wrestlers have tried to mesmerize fans with their boisterous talk, it didn't take long for "true rasslin' connoisseurs" -- as we considered ourselves -- to figure out the tricks of the trade.

We spotted how the wrestlers hid small razor blades in their trunks or in their athletic tape. They would cut their foreheads just enough that, mixed with their sweat, it gave them that crimson badge of courage. We realized that the stomping of feet on the mat created a misdirection of sound that made a mighty fist narrowly missing a forehead look real.

Later, as adults, we learned about the dark side of pro wrestling. The violence and the pain can be all too real, with dozens of wrestlers incurring career-ending injuries, some becoming addicted to prescription drugs, some dying from overdoses or other health issues.

Still, we marvel at the athletic moves that defy logic and gravity, the alluring mix of choreography and aggression.

So here's to the return of major-league rasslin' to Winston-Salem.

The names and over-the-top characters have changed. For TNA, Kurt Angle has replaced Superstar Billy Graham and Jesse Ventura as the cerebral bad guy, and AJ Styles is this generation's high-flying version of Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka or Ricky Morton.

Yet, Saturday night, once again the overarching storyline will be the same: good vs. evil, right vs. wrong, betrayal and redemption.

And maybe, just maybe, someone at the annex will pass, you know, the test