Situation #1: Wrestlemania III (March 29, 1987)

It's Wrestlemania III and the mechanized cart that transports Andre the Giant to the ring has broken down midway through. I could tell the lead mechanic has no idea what he's doing and the entire historic show looks to be on the verge of collapse. Without Andre there is no main event against Hulk Hogan and without Hulk Hogan, many children in the late 80's would become malnourished atheists desperately holding out for a real American hero to idolize. I must act swiftly and with a courage that trumps any hesitation of mortal endangerment. The entire stadium'a world's record attendance that would stand uncontested for the next decade'watched confusedly as a strikingly tanned Asian man, no older than twenty, darts past the frazzled ring crew and throws his shoulder against the contraption with his entire weight. The force of this selfless act dislocates the shoulder from its socket and he lets out a guttural scream, but, also manages to override the cart's tiny motor from its moment of torpor. The crowd is grateful. I am relieved.

Prone on the aisle floor, I nervously watch Andre's magnificent eyes cast their frightful glare onto my vulnerable state, where I am little more than a wounded rabbit against an unpredictably dangerous grizzly bear. Just as I am about to plead for my life, a tear that could full a yogurt cup pushes through the giant's face and splashes atop my injury. To my surprise the saltine liquid actually cools the pain.

'Andre cry,'� the tamed monster says through his sobs. 'You help Andre! Cry big Andre!'�

'Yes,'� I reply breathlessly. 'But that's why Michael love Andre! Because Andre cry. . .'�

'Andre feel good.'�

Situation #2: Wrestlemania XX (March 14,2004)

Lillian Garcia, a ring announcer known for her short leather skirts and angelic voice, begins to sing " America the Beautiful" to a nearly cationic audience. An unsympathetic and profoundly unpatriotic audience member nudged my ribs with his arm.

'Ain't they supposed to sing the National Anthem?'�

'I don't care what she sings,'� I said aching with a schoolboy crush. 'As long as I'm alive to hear her.'�

'O beautiful, for spacious skies,'� Lilian crooned. 'For amber waves of grain. . .'�

Though Wrestlemania is only minutes away, I sit enthralled by every flawless note and cannot help but bounce in my plastic seat as her talent vibrates the arena's foundation. There is a moment in between the crescendo and the last haunting vestiges of her call to brotherhood from sea to shining sea, that her hazel eyes catch my own. I try to smile but Lillian closes herself to me and continues to message the final note out from her soul, a woman with so much to give to so many unworthy of her talents.

"Sing for me darling," I whisper to her poised wailing form. "Sing for me and only me. Let me be the flag around your shoulders as you give your voice to America."

After the show, we meet. The kiss we share while leaning over the barricade, becomes the talk of the professional wrestling industry, and eventually, our moment of love progresses into the hearts of America's enemies throughout the world. They too now understand.

Situation #3: Wrestlemania X (March 20, 1994)
The reigning champion known globally as the "Heartbreak Kid" Shawn Michaels has just tangled his ankle against the top rope. For nearly an hour, the good looking and charismatic wrestler has fought in a perilous match where the victor is the first person to scale a fifteen foot ladder and retrieve a title belt hanging precariously above their heads. His opponent, a Latino wrestler known for his thick accent and deadly powerbomb maneuver, had finally bested the spryer Shawn Michaels and threw him from the top of the ladder's highest rung. In an effort to break his fall, Michaels aimed his foot for one of the ring ropes and attempted to bounce back at his foe like a rock from a slingshot.

Unfortunately such a creative endeavor goes unrewarded and the Heartbreak Kid is now wildly panicking as the fight enters into its death throes.

I leap across the barricade and stealthily land behind the nearest security guard. Sprinting with a quiet urgency that rivaled even the most skilled of Apache braves, I approach Shawn Michaels and call out to him. The wrestler responds with a knowing smirk and his opponent, exasperated and severely winded, clung to the title belt for balance.

"I'm sorry Heartbreak," I said while cocking my fist like a piston. The Latino wrestler swungs anxiously in anticipation of my next action. "We need a new intercontinental champion."

My punch breaks through Shawn's arrogance, an aura impenetrable to all but the coolest of heads, and the fist bruises the bridge of his nose upon impact.

The challenger appeared to be just as struck by my turncoat attack as Michaels was, and I begin to adamantly point at the title belt, trying to shake his focus back to becoming the winner I felt destiny demanded him to be.

"Thank you," he said mouthing the words down to me. "You should be up here too."

"Just be a good champion," I spoke shakily as intense flashes of yellow pyrotechnics suddenly burned around the ring. "And I will feel like a champion too."


Situation #4: Wrestlemania XIII (March 23, 1997)

Brett Hart, a Canadian wrestler known for his technical abilities and superb conditioning, has just applied his signature leg lock the 'Sharpshooter'� in the center of the ring. Despite the move's sleek name, the leg lock visually appears as though Brett is attempting to vigorously warm his buttocks against another human being until the point of submission. His unfortunate opponent is Steve Austin, a foulmouthed Texan who would single handedly create an entire era of pro-wrestling devoted to attitude and the pain killing benefits of alcohol. Despite the bleeding laceration on his forehead, Austin is proving his toughness and refuses to be defeated by such a lame-looking move, an act of resilience that has subtly turned the crowd from politely cheering Brett Hart fans to absolutely insane Steve Austin fanatics.

'Someone's got to do something,'� I say to my friend sitting beside me. 'He can't win. We can't have another foreign champion.'�

'Dude,'� my friend replies. 'It's a fake sport. What you gonna do? Jump the barricade?'�

'I think I just might.'�

'Well I bet you $50 that the security guards will tackle you before you even make it to the ring.'�

I didn't have to verbally agree with his challenge as I barely heard it uttered as I leapt over seats of other fans. In my heart I knew that Steven Austin's grit would only lead to him falling unconscious and running the risk of sustaining considerable brain damage or worse.

'I'm coming Steve!'� I screamed as I bounded over the final guardrail. The drop to the area floor below was surprisingly steep and my body twisted into a boneless mass of limbs when I landed. As thousands of nerve endings simultaneously exploded, I realized how foolish I had been in agreeing to jump the barricade from the cheapest seats we could afford. Still, I remained untouched by members of the World Wrestling Federation security staff.

'I'm sorry I let you down Steve,'� I choked out through missing teeth. 'I think I just won fifty dollars.'�

Situation #5: Wrestlemania VI (April 1,1990)

There were few moments as iconic to professional wrestling fans as the transition of world titles between the infamous Hulk Hogan and his younger face-painted rival, the Ultimate Warrior. Three years had passed since Hulk had body slammed Andre the Giant and proclaimed himself the greatest entertainer in the World Wrestling Federation. In that time, Hogan's blonde hair had receded back into his bony skull, a follicle retreat that was quickly followed by any in-ring talent he once obtained. Artificial tanning beds morphed his skin into a tangerine peel, a steroid trial shrank his private 'Hulksters'�, and yet I could not help but fall madly in love with the orange goblin of virtue.

His opponent, a squat mass of horse muscle, feathered hair, and Halloween mascara, was primarily known for the neon tassels that strangled his biceps to the point of rupture, than any match or move. Naturally his status semi-worthlessness meant a potentially long run as world champion and WWF CEO Vince McMahon's desire to place the Ultimate Warrior over the long groomed Hulk Hogan was massive news during this time.

Their match became legend; emotions reserved for weddings and funerals, spilled into the area and carried two grown men in rainbow spandex to heights that Wrestlemania had yet to achieve. The final minutes saw Hogan miss his leg-drop, the Warrior counter with his body splash, and a three-count that shocked the wrestling world of virgins, mullet heads, and me.

'I want to rush the ring,'� I said to the security guard blocking the barricade with his girth. 'Please, it'll be amazing!'�

'I don't think so kid,'� the security guard sternly spoke. 'It's dangerous. Besides, you can be arrested.'�

'But it's my dream!'�

'It's everybody's dream kiddo,'� he laughed. 'Yours, mine, all these people here. . .'�

'Then let's do it together,'� I begged. There was a crack in my voice that came less from my pleading to join in on the new champion's celebration, and more from the desire to be a man. The barricade represent the authority, the establishment, and the barrier that separated dreams from reality. I planned on jumping it. 'We'll be a part of history.'�


'You're one annoying kid you know that.'�

'I know,'� I said smiling. 'Now take my hand we'll experience what it's like to win for once. You and I mister unnamed security guard! You and I can take this world together!'�

The security guard pondered at this. Ultimate Warrior's theme music, a collection of thunderous drums and fast fingered guitar work popular for the time, surged from the arena's speakers. My eyes begged him to listen to the music and feel it's siren call: We can be heroes too. Let's jump it. Let's change this world into something better than when we found it.

'I will hold your hand,'� the security finally said. 'My god, I will hold your hand.'�

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