I shocked the guys at work the other day. We were hanging out in studio, when a shot of Vince McMahon (chairman of the World Wrestling Entertainment juggernaut) came on the TV. They got to talking about Vince’s daughter Stephanie, who is a wrestler in her own right, when one of them wondered aloud, “Who is she engaged to …that wrestler…what’s his name again?”

Silence.

“Triple H.” I offered. They turned to look at me like I had suddenly sprouted a third arm, then used it to scratch a set of freshly-dropped testicles.

“We thought you hated sports!”

“I do, dumbass. This is wrestling.”

Don’t get me wrong, I understand that in pro wrestling there is an element of athleticism involved. I am not denying certain skills such as: learning how to fall, mastering various holds and knowing how to menacingly point a finger into a camera lens while issuing threats through a spray of saliva.

At the grassroots level, a wrestling match is a couple of guys in underoo-style gitch rolling around on a gym mat. To me, THAT is a sport (or maybe a movie you’d find in that curtained-off room at the video store). In the world of professional wrestling, those same guys are loaded up with sequined costumes, impossible brawn, a collection of rehearsed catch phrases, self-tanner and props (an innocent spiked ball and chain for instance). That is where I tuck and roll right off the “sports” bandwagon. But it’s all good, cuz I’m there for the entertainment not for the flawless execution of the the Figure Four.

When I was 9, my dad took me to see a WWF match at a local arena. Hulk Hogan was fighting The Iron Sheik. It was a classic showdown of massive proportion. The crowd was charged. The air was electric. In my eyes, they were more than men, they were giants – players in a fantasy world that I was now a part of. I stubbornly held my spot at the front of the surging crowd near the wrestlers’ entrance. I clutched my pen and paper, working up the courage to ask The Iron Sheik for an autograph when he finally burst his way through the crowd toward the ring.

Not surprisingly, he ignored my sorry ass. A bad guy is a bad guy, even when a 9 year old’s dignity hangs in the balance. But persona and gimmick are the crux of professional wrestling. Without a schtick, you’re just a sorry fat guy in sequined grape-smugglers. Who knows, I might have lost some respect for the Shiek had he taken the time to stop. If you can’t love a wrestler you simply love to hate him. The art of re-invention is a tried and true component of wrestling. In fact, years after I first saw him, Hulk Hogan breathed new life into his ailing career by shedding his good guy image for a sinister one. No one knows who Duane Johnson is, but nearly everyone recognizes the name, “The Rock” – who expanded his fan base as a movie star. Or Mick Foley, who used to suit up as alter-egos Mankind and Cactus Jack.

Professional wrestlers are actors who play character roles everyday. One fan describes wrestling as “a soap opera mixed with violence and low grade soft porn all during prime time”. An inconceivable plotline threads its way through the action while players vie for a dominant position using sheer muscle power. Well, muscle – the occasional 2 by 4, a chair, table, bowling ball, baby grand or whatever other trauma-inducing object is at hand. It’s a brand of creativity foreign to typical television soap operas. Sure, someone may have shot J.R, but did anyone ever think about staplegunning his ear to the floor?

My friend Ben says “it’s pure escapist fun, it’s got comedy and plenty of action and strange and unique characters”. And those characters aren’t just the ones in the ring. You haven’t seen loco ’til you’ve sat in the midst of 20 000 frenzied wrestling fans conflicted by adoration and hostility all at once. It’s a bipolar experience, en-masse. One moment, they’re cheering madly the next they’re hurling abuse down to the ring. They are a passionate bunch broadcasting their devotion to the spectacle any way they can: from t-shirts and hats to painted faces and outlandish costumes. It’s an entirely different show in the audience where fans joust unofficially to win the title of best insult and of course, the funniest sign ( “My wife’s waiting in the car”, “Chyna, you’re the man!” and “My sign = ratings!”)

My dad, who sparked my interest in wrestling, doesn’t follow it anymore. He says it’s become too much of a circus and that it’s all “fake” – from fake boobs to fake concussions right down to the big fat fake outcome.

I think, on a fundamental level that phoniness is the appeal. Wrestling is controlled mayhem and because of that, it is not likely that someone will end up eating through a tube as a result. That is why we give ourselves permission to hop along for the ride – to be part of the so-called circus and escape reality for a while. It’s enter-maim-ment without any authentic maiming and yet still satisfies our primal hunger for a good old-fashioned ass kickin’. Consider it the real world’s take on Sam the Sheepdog and Ralph the Wolf. At the end of the day, when the proverbial gloves come off, the players would rather be punching the clock than each other .