Growing up, my friends constantly pressured me to get into wrestling. But try as they might, they just couldn’t get me to follow the sport. The appeal was not completely lost on me: colorful, larger-than-life figures flying across the screen, inflicting fake pain, and more drama than a daytime soap opera. It should have been something that I would have embraced. But, for some reason, the spark never came. Not long after, I learned about lucha libre, or Mexican wrestling. The mysterious masks, the underdog storylines, the culture- now THIS was something I could to get into. But it was just a tease. Finding matches on TV was an impossible task and there was also no chance in hell that my parents would let me attend a match. I eventually gave up.
Twenty five years later, I finally got my chance. A co-worker, promoting her friend’s band, told me of a show where her band was performing before and between lucha matches in a random Queens venue. After mentioning the wrestlers, she got as far as “Do you want…” before I blurted out,
“YEP! I’M DOWN!”
There were only two caveats if I wanted to take photos: avoid getting too close to the ring and supply the organizer with some of my images. I was also tasked with taking photos of the band while they played but between and after their sets I was free to roam the venue to take photos of whatever I wanted- including the wrestlers and their matches. I accepted. I would do my best to “try” and keep my distance. Truth be told, I initially had a few qualms about getting too close to the action anyways. I was content shooting from a safe distance. But that quickly changed. As soon as the first wrestler leapt from the turnbuckle and crashed onto the mat with a ear-ringing and resounding thud, I couldn’t help myself. The chaos reeled me in and I crept closer and closer.
The ring was a traditional four-sided ring, situated in the center of the dance floor of what was normally a nightclub. Surrounding that was another ring of metal security barriers four feet from the edge of the mat- which was about chest height from the floor . From there, rows of folding chairs radiated out to the bar, stage, and surrounding area. I found myself in the narrow space between the ring and the metal barriers where another photographer using a Canon DSLR and two videographers milled around the perimeter, quickly shifting and adjusting to the movements of the wrestlers. A few security guys positioned themselves around the first row of folding chairs but I made sure to raise my camera (I used the one with the bigger lens for greater effect) as I approached and, without hesitation, they pushed one of the barriers slightly ajar to let me through.
My heart began pounding harder and harder once I realized I actually made it through. I made a beeline towards the action and went straight to work. My first concern was staying out of the way of the other photographer and the videographers. I started a short distance away from the mat and when I saw an opening I scurried forward, snapped a handful of shots, then rushed back to the security barrier to reset and wait for the next moment. But as the night went on I took more and more risks and let the wrestlers get closer and closer. By the time intermission came around, I was arm deep in the ring with my elbows firmly planted on splotches of some poor luchador’s dried blood.
The first few matches were what you’d expect from undercards- fought by shorter, wiry fighters who took fewer acrobatic risks and whose punches and grapples were relatively tame. But each subsequent match featured higher and higher leaps, increasing melodrama, and beefier luchadors. By the halfway point, I was scrambling around the ring, running in a permanent squat trying to anticipate where the wrestlers would fling themselves and trying to get as close as possible without interfering or getting hit.
At one point, one wrestler, wearing only a pair of black and purple spandex briefs, positioned himself by the ropes closest to me while his opponent settled on the far side of the ring. Anticipating an epic confrontation at the center of the ring, I scurried up to the mat edge. The black and purple spandex briefs – which I quickly concluded was more mauve than purple- were now inches from my lens. I focused on the center of the ring and waited for the impending collision. Instead, as the two barreled towards each other, the black and purple wrestler pivoted at the last possible second and used his opponent’s momentum to fling him in my direction. Still looking through the viewfinder, I realized that I only had maybe a second or second and a half to react to a 200lb mass of sweat and (very) stretchy fabric. I waited as long as I could so I could get the shot and sidestepped just as the wrestler reached his cruising altitude. I was able to dodge the soggy flesh but the displaced air around the airborne wrestler flowed over me, forcing me to take in his “aroma” as his elbow and boot grazed my head. As the wrestler crashed down into the barrier I reoriented the camera and adjusted my settings as quickly as I could to get a few shots of him tangled up in the metal bars. Once my heart-rate came down to a reasonable level and the wrestler climbed back in, I went straight back to the mat’s edge.
I was hooked.
Once the adrenaline kicked in, it never abated. While wrestlers launched themselves higher and higher from the turnbuckle, I duckwalked laps around the ring, trying to follow the action while trying to avoid the video guys or the wrestlers themselves. Things went well for the first several matches but eventually the perpetual and exhausting squatting caught up to me. I ran through my options while lactic acid slowly filled my quads. Standing up was out of the question- I didn’t feel like getting kicked out or kicked in the face. Sitting down was not an option either, unless I wanted to piss off security or the videographer. And god forbid if a wrestler were to go airborne above me, I’d be more likely to escape if I was on my feet. I either had to escape the area and rest my legs for a match or two or hope for some kind of intervention. As the crew prepared for the penultimate match, my legs trembling and losing stability, the crowd began to buzz. The energy changed dramatically in the room.
My intervention had arrived.
Fans craned their necks towards the stage on the opposite side of the room to get a better view of who was arriving. It was one of lucha’s legendary “exoticos”: La Pimpinela Escarlata. Exoticos, I quickly learned, are wrestlers who rely more on make-up, cross-dressing, and laughs than acrobatics and flying elbows to entertain the crowd. Fewer piledrivers, more playful butt grabbing. They were the comedic relief in a lineup chock full of hyper-aggressive competitors and the change in pace was something I welcomed with sore legs. I could finally able to catch my breath, lower my guard a bit, and study the spectacle before me. The “fight” was really a marvel. The ageless 49 year-old waltzed around the ring, affectionately chasing his opponent (whose attempts at resistance were questionable) Benny Hill style in his sparkly unitard. For the entirety of the round, La Pimpinela had the crowd in stitches.
By the end of the night, I was out of breath from the constant duckwalking and the laughing. But I didn’t care. My first lucha experience was a rousing success. The excitement, laid-back crowd, and treats (churros and elotes galore!) all left an indelible mark. And in the case of the 300 pound wrestler who almost decapitated me, an indelible, and especially fragrant, mark in my underpants.
