Lucha Libre in Mexico City
Fuck the Museums. Go to Mexico City for the Wrestling
I hear the scene surrounding Arena Mexico on this Lucha Libre Friday before I see it. The sound of hawker’s yells mingles with the pulse of a thousand boomboxes, only to be drowned out by a cacophony of chants, car horns, and fireworks. The neighborhood itself is pulsing in rhythm with the music of the streets. The crowd crawls through the Doctores neighborhood, heading toward the stocky stadium all in lights. It’s Friday night and this is the heart of Mexico City
A vendor grabs my arm. I look and see he is selling headbands with the names of wrestlers competing this evening. The name “Maximo” in pink and black airbrush with glitter accents catches my eye. After making my purchase, I ask one of my friends who spends months at a time in Mexico City if I chose a good wrestler. She giggles but won’t say why. I give Maximo to my friend Lola, and buy “Super Porky” for myself.
The colors around Arena Mexico are exuberant: azure blues, sultry reds, the most opulent of golds. Light from the stadium and passing cars plays off the sequins and glitter on the replica masks, capes, and costumes. Police cars are everywhere, their blue-and-white’s swirling. The sensory overload becomes intoxicating. We gorge on merchandise. We promise each other we’ll be luchadors for many costume parties to come.
We buy our tickets through a “broker,” one of those friend of a friend of a friend things. He tells us to meet him about an hour before the match at the stadium. For 600 pesos ($30 USD), we buy front row seats. He gives us the tickets and says he’ll see us during the fight to collect.
We take our seats, and it’s not long before we realize we’re next to some sort of Lucha Libre Godfather. He is old, sitting with his adult grandson, and every few minutes another well dressed person comes up to shake his hand. My Spanish is crap, so I have no idea what they are saying, but it seems he’s the commissioner of Lucha Libre or something. Even the ring doctor pays his respects.
Because of him, we have the best seats in the house. Whenever a pivotal moment in the fight happens, it happens directly in front of us. I spill beer on an Aztec Warrior when he is thrown from the ring, over the retaining wall, and into my seat. We see little-people in animal costumes body slam one another, then pose and posture in our direction. A three-on-three match ends with all fighters out of the ring, slamming each other into the railing by our seats. All around us, the crowd punctuates the most violent collisions with wild cheers and rank profanities. We are spectators, but also part of the show.
When the broker comes to collect at halftime, I give him a hug.
American wrestling is a soap opera played out across a backdrop of muscle men and their women. Traditional masculinity and brute force rule, and the stakes of each match are defined by long-running feuds over contrived nonsense. Unless that’s your idea of a good time, American wrestling can be a difficult watch.
In contrast, Lucha Libre distills everything enjoyable about professional wrestling into its purest form. The approach is balletic. The style emphasizes aeronautics, jumps, and rope work. The wrestlers are generally on a human scale, without the preening brutes. There are helicopter collisions, back flips, and bodies flying from the ring in all directions at all times. Most of the matches involve at least six combatants, not including their various enablers and hangers-on. The referees are particularly feckless.
You may be wondering, “is it as fake as American wrestling?” The answer is yes, and no. Yes, their punches never land, and yes the outcomes appear predetermined based on whether the wrestler is a “Tecnico” (good guy) or “Rudo” (bad guy). But no, in the sense that you cannot fake the punishing shoulder throws, the acrobatic body slams, the leaps from the ropes, and the flying tackles that stupefy both tackler and tacklee. You also can’t fake the reaction in the stands, a mix of excitement, awe, and joy that becomes contagious across the faces of everyone in the crowd.
The night ends with el Torneo de Leyenda Azul (Tournament of the Blue Legend)— a king of the ring elimination match. During the introduction video before el Torneo, we learn that Maximo is the “gay” wrestler, and that he has a unique finishing move. He pins his weakened opponents against the turnbuckle, removes their mask, and French kisses them. We cheer for him wildly; I regret trading bands. He makes it to the final six, with two eliminations by French kiss.
The winner of el Torneo is El Ultimo Guerrero (the Ultimate Warrior, no relation to the late WWF star), the last man standing after 30 minutes of furious wrestling. He stands in the middle of the ring, basking in the adulation of the crowd. For a few minutes, the crowd is one: chanting, cheering, stomping. Suddenly, the in-ring action is over, and the crowd breaks. We surge toward the exits, part of a mass still raucous and pumping adrenaline, back into the streets of Doctores, ready for another round.
