My first instance of watching professional wrestling was Mid-South wrestling with my grandpa. I would go down to his house on Saturday morning because my grandma made the best country breakfast found anywhere. I would load up on biscuits and gravy, eggs, bacon, the works…then go back into the TV room and sit on the couch next to my grandpa. In all the years I had known him, I don’t think I’ve heard him say 20 words. I sat there one morning and made the mistake of calling wrestling fake because I had seen someone react to a punch that didn’t even come close to landing. My grandpa looked over at me and said, “If you don’t like it, you can leave.” From that moment on, I never missed a Saturday morning watching wrestling with my grandpa.

While I do not currently watch professional wrestling, I still defend it to this day whenever I hear someone calling it “fake”. Choreographed, yes, I will accept that, but not fake. The 1998 Hell in a Cell between Mick Foley and The Undertaker is, to me, the epitome of what some of these athletes will do for their craft.

I’ve seen wrestling grow and the athletes get more and more physical and daring during my many years of watching. I still respect the sport, but all of my favorites have gone, I can’t relate to the new ones, and I can buy into the storylines anymore. Therefore, since I didn’t like it, I left. Just as grandpa would have wanted.