Pro Wrestling's Thin Line Between Fantasy and Reality

Nowadays it's harder and harder to tell what's real and what's fake in this crazy world of professional wrestling. I turn on my tube, almost nightly now, and I'm more confused than ever.

As a kid, some people would tell me that wrestling was dumb because it was fake. I knew that something about it wasn't real, but I wasn't sure what that something was.

The blows, the emotions, the outcomes...something.

It was probably fifth grade that I realized that every time someone whipped a muscle-bound guy into the corner and then did a 360 before rushing in, that it was probably going to me reversed. But that made it scripted, not fake.

Despite watching greats like Ric Flair and Dusty Rhodes bleeding night in and night out, doubters tried to convince me it was blood packs, not a six-inch gash, that painted their face a crimson red. But my only contemplation was how someone could think they could hide such a huge bag between short tights and taped wrist.

As I grew older, the world of real and make-believe only got more blurred. How could that be?

What was once labeled a sport soon became sports-entertainment. I'm not even sure I know what that means.

Still I watch on.

I cry foul when I hear that steroids are still running rampant in pro wrestling. Yet for years people ignore Steve-O's addiction to cocaine on the set of his movies, as long as he keeps the crazy stunts rolling. The same is said about credible actors and comedians as the long list of dead before 40 continues to roll. And still I watch on.

And if I know the matches are predetermined, why do I care who wins? I never walked away from a movie saying "man, I'm really glad that crew took out Alonzo (Denzel Washington) in the end of Training Day. The guy was a jerk." Yet I can't stand to see Triple H win...again.

I'm confused because a belt is more of a prop than a sense of greatness. And, yet again, I wonder why I care.

Wrestling is more real than anything else I know. You feel the pain as your favorite wrestler rips through a bitter rival. You taste his blood in defeat and his tears of joy as you applaud and cheer him on to championship victory.

You could very well see yourself in his shoes as he watches and encourages you on. But, again, the line between reality and fantasy is blurred.

I tried to make sense of it all by comparing it to my favorite hoop team, or would it be more like a great sitcom or TV drama? I'm not sure.

All I know is that the more I try and figure out why I watch this thing, night in and night out, why I devote my time writing and talking about it, and the more I think, I begin to understand...that I understand nothing at all.

And that's OK with me, for now. Wrestling is and will always be my escape from the everyday. It is both fantasy and reality. It's my fantality. And that's more than good enough for me.