Wrestling Martyrs

Ron just Wrote: "I had given up by 1981".

I had just written: "I'm all at sea after 1978."

We're all the same.

Here we are, clearly articulate pensioners, probably much sharper youngsters way back then, yet we all came to the difficult but obviously inevitable decision to bin 10 or 15 years of our young lives, 80% or 90% of our aware years, as the the whole wrestling show became too difficult not merely to defend, but even to enjoy.

We suffered in our decision making. Well, I did.

Speaking 100% personally, and others will disagree, I hated Max Crabtree and his coarse dumbing down of the magnificent "business" that was professional wrestling. The hatred was deep, not a superficial graze. Here was I, a wrestling nut, appreciative all along of the efforts of all involved to make a serious go of it. Joining in, from my tiny, tiny perspective, as a committed fan.

Then somehow - I was largely unaware then, but my virginal judgment was unimpaired - this absolute OAF arrived and crashed the lot. Ok, there were challenges. A brain resolves and moves ahead, as the Yanks did. This OAF merely lined the pockets of his family with a short term plan based on Yorkshire greed.

And yet, in my twilight years, as I try to elevate the interests of my youth and analyse what excited me, I feel like a martyr. A believer whose belief was wiped out.

Oh, I don't mean belief that it was all real. We were too intelligent for that even without hindsight and 21st Century internet. We, and thousands like us, bought into a suspension of disbelief. It's weird. But on a larger scale, the Americans are still doing so with their wrestling. Look at the love for Hulk Hogan today.

What a shame no greater seventies brain appeared.

Am I alone?