We do Fuckers for about fifteen minutes, then move on to more drills: handsprings, back handsprings, falling flat on your back on the mat with a loud thwak for effect, bouncing off the ropes, trotting gingerly on your toes from side to side, back and forth, like a little kid spinning himself in circles for the buzz of it. I manage all of these with relative aplomb. Granted, I'm the worst in the ring, but I'm not making a fool of myself. But when Jesús has the fighters dive between the ropes of the ring, placing one hand on the outside of the mat and landing on their feet — outside the ring! — I draw the line. When I was nine, I jumped down ten steps and tore ligaments from my ankle to my knee — and ever since, I've known when to call it quits. Ever since when sober, that is, and watching the luchadores shoot through the air and out of the ring is about as sobering as it gets. Besides, by this point, two of the fighters' girlfriends have arrived, sipping Starbucks, and their nonstop pointing and chuckling has gotten all up in Águila Güero's head. Águila Güero's not ready for ridicule. Not here. Not now. The lesson is over.
As I climb out of the ring, the true luchadores step it up a notch, free from the restraints of a rookie fighter. The sight of them smoothly stringing together the moves I've clumsily struggled with is almost breathtaking. Lucha libre is more about acrobatic twists and turns than the basic hit and bumps of American wrestling, Jesús says, and seeing skilled luchadores like Picachu and Quantum apply their abilities at high speeds, witnessing the balance and symmetry of two bodies playing off each other so that both fly through the air and land with bombastic crashes, makes this seem more like an art than a sport. More like ballet than wrestling.
Jim J. Narcy
Two luchadores do battle while Mascara Meshika (right) flexes his formidable muscle.
Jim J. Narcy
Coach Jesús Hernandez (below) practices what he preaches.
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But coach Jesús's frequent exclamations of "Eso, cabrones, así!" reminds me that these are fighters, after all, and even though the activity is staged, the beefs fabricated, this is a game of blood, sweat and tears. And sometimes catastrophic injuries: The fact that Águila Güero is standing on the sidelines is testament to this fact. Still, watching the fighters, I can see how lucha libre becomes addictive.
When Jesús calls a break, we chat about the future of lucha libre in Colorado.
"My thing is, I'm not going to stop until lucha libre creates a home right here in Denver," he says. "And I want everyone to know that when it comes to lucha libre, I'm the one holding the events."
He talks excitedly about his plans for the future, telling me to make sure to list the IWF's website (www.iwfpromotions.com) and rattling off the names of the luchadores he's lining up for his February event. In addition to a litany of Mexican professionals, Quantum and Picachu will be there. Then a lightbulb goes off above his head.
"So, what did you think of today?" Jesús asks, gesturing toward the ring.
"It was fun," I tell him truthfully, kidney sore but with a newfound respect for wrestling. "Challenging, for sure."
"You think you're going to keep coming back?"
"I don't know, maybe," I say, knowing that I will never climb in that ring again.
"Because a Caucasian lucha libre fighter, that would be a big draw," he continues. "I don't think there's ever been anything like that. That would be like a kid wrestler or something."
I look over at Quantum and picture him wrestling in Mexico. He's smiling, nodding his head at his father's idea.
"Food for thought," I say, and take my leave.
But on the drive home, it's a meal I can't escape. If I table all extracurriculars and just focus on lucha training four to five days a week, I figure that within six months, I'll be ready to wrestle at an actual event. The accuracy of this timetable is completely debatable, but it's my fantasy, so I allow myself to run with it. And in my fantasy, word of Águila Güero spreads quickly throughout the land. Everyone flocks to see the villain, the gringo wrestler infiltrating a Mexican sport, taking it over just like white explorers took over their country so many years ago. The audiences will love to hate me, and in the flashy world of intrigue and drama that is lucha libre, a bad white boy will be a big draw. I'll play it up, too. Maybe I'll wear an American-flag wrestler mask, call myself Blanco Norte, White North, make mock Tancredo-like comments to inflame the throngs.
I start envisioning myself a year and a half down the road, picture myself in Mexico City, in front of a crowd 100,000 strong at the Estadio Azteca. The night's marquee matchup will be me versus whoever's hot in Mexico at the time, and it won't matter if I win or lose: That's not what lucha libre's about. It's about how good a show I can put on. And how many smoking-hot Latinas I manage to land while I'm down there. I know that I can put on a hell of a show, one of the best the sport has ever seen! Maybe I'll even find myself a Mexican bride, put an end to this cursed whiteness that has plagued my perpetually sunburned ancestry.
And as I drive south on I-25 toward home, these thoughts and more fill my mind, cries of "Lucha, lucha, lucha!" echoing back and forth across my skull.
