Making his way to the ring – weighing in at 235 pounds, standing at a made-up height and hailing from somewhere more recognisable than his real home town – is the reigning and defending champion of a pretend sport.

The could-be-6-foot-5 but most-likely-5-foot-10 champ struts purposefully to a vaguely familiar and generic theme song. Its heavy metal hooks were written specifically for him and had to be recognisable the second it hits the speakers.

Unlike his competitor – already standing in a ring made of plywood, canvas and iron chains wrapped in plastic tape – his expression is serious. Focussed. The perfect foil for the smirking smug boy leaning into the turnbuckles.

With one arm he cradles an oversized ornate title belt, its gold-plated facia and stiff black leather strap hoisted effortlessly over a shoulder. The other hand nonchalantly replies to the outstretched high-fives of adoring fans.

Once upon a time those fans were mostly male ranging from five to 65 years old. There was the occasional woman. But these days everyone is represented. All of them bursting full of unequivocal joy at the opportunity to be acknowledged by the champion.

Tens of thousands of fans scream, sing, chant. Some hurl insults, most lob adulation. Signs held high above heads – a mix of sharp-witted works of art and cheap jibes scrawled last minute in the queue for a beer. The sold-out-arena is filled with hazy off-white clouds. A cocktail of lingering pyrotechnic sulfur dioxide and dusty glycerin plumes poured from decade-old smoke machines.

The eruption of twinkling camera flashes of the 90s have been replaced by smartphones. They let the producers know exactly who the favourite is. Who gets the rub, the push, the t-shirts front and centre of the merchandise table.

Oiled up and gleaming they stand at opposite sides of the ring, in perfect position for the hard-cam. They get ready to face off.

The bell rings and – WHAM.

They collide with a thump and slap of bulging biceps. Left hand on the right side of the others’ neck, right hand gripping their opponents left-arm. Locked up. Testing strength; the match is underway.

You just can't help but marvel at the physical shape these human beings are in. Men, women, trans people, non-binary, the whole human spectrum is on show. Professional muscle-people with histories of bodybuilding, dancing, theatre, even a rock star or two.

The next 20 minutes are a show of acrobatics, choreography and strength.

And yet, nothing about it is real.

What happens in the ring is a story. The winner is decided beforehand by a team of professional writers scribbling away during office hours.

There is art, though. The best performers play off of each other like a delicate and perfectly-timed ballet of behemoths. An improvised Swan Lake of suplexes, chops and cheapshots.

How weird it must feel to perform the most potentially devastating of moves while protecting your opponent. Don’t you dare injure them. Keep them safe at all costs. Cause an injury – in this highly anticipated, heated rivalry, box-office fight – and you’ll lose your job.

Uproar as the smug Heel uses the ropes when he shouldn’t.

Cheers as the Face recovers, unbeknownst to the showboating bad-guy.

“Get him!”
“Hit him!”
“REF!”

“How can you like that rubbish? You know it’s fake, right?”

Of course. We’re all in on the joke: the wrestlers, the producers, the arena full of fans and all of us at home.

It’s a soap opera. The script is predetermined, the moves are rehearsed, polished, perfected. It has more in common with Coronation Street than it does legitimate competition.

And I love it.

There’s no heartbreak in its predictability. There’s no pain or disappointment.

When my favourite loses I know they’ll come back fighting, protecting a fake injury, to win next week.

In 2020, I thought more about pretend fighting, fake injuries and theatrical champions, than I care to admit. This year is up there with the worst. Everyone’s mental health is bloodied, bruised, and slumped against the ropes. The drudgery of daily life showboats, basking in our jeers.

And more and more I find myself gravitating toward the gratuitous grappling – a makeshift medication. Warm and nostalgic.

I won’t apologise.

He goes for the pin. The ref throws himself to the ground, slapping the canvas.

1
2
3

Victory.

The winner and STILL the champion. Still the good guy. T-shirts front and centre at the merchandise table for one more week, more high-fives, more screaming fans.

Bring me more of this warm, excellent, predictable joy.