Word: ringing
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Enter Road Dogg, a rather chubby but enthusiastic wrestler with a few missing teeth. He prances towards the ring, and, at the top of his lungs, shouts something loud and incomprehensible, but I'm sure very manly. I can only understand every fifth word he yells, but the pure volume of his five-minute-long rant pumps me up for his forthcoming match. His opponent is Chris Jericho, a leaner, and certainly less crude wrestler. I know the Dogg will win this one. He does. Not a spectacular fight, but you can't expect too much from the first match...
Next up is a tag team competition. Taka and Funaki, an Asian tagteam, run to the ring, waving a Japanese flag. They are instantly booed. Their opponents, who I do not recognize, enter the ring, receiving deafening shouts of praise. Not knowing which team to root for, I sit back and watch the spectacle. It's no contest. As Wrestler One mercilessly and repeatedly throws his fist into Taka's face and stomach, Wrestler Two stretches the corners of his eyes with his index fingers to form a "slanty-eyes" face, and skips around the ring...
...place, as the doors were late in opening. Even the Salvation Army Man had earphones on. I decided to check our tickets and see where we were sitting. First row, floor. I looked at Nate. He was practically giggling with glee, managing to sputter "five-feet from the ring!" I told him that I was going back outside to scalp my ticket, then going to the Prudential to buy a new holiday dress with my profit, and would meet him at the Park Street T stop at 11. I thought conceding the 2,000 words of my article for life...
...points-for-a-takedown crap. Gleeful, I tell Christina that Kurt Angle was an Olympic champion. She's doubtful, and certainly not impressed. Another invigorating fight matches The Godfather, wrestler and part-time pimp, against some no-name pretty boy. Smoothness personified, The Godfather literally dances around the ring while his "ho train" (a bevy of woman wearing some spandex and bikinis), cheer him on and jiggle. "Ugh!" Christina groans. I nod, but believe this guy to be the epitome of masculine authority--the women obey his every word, bow to his every whim. Secretly, I root for The Godfather...
...usual, my curiosity got the better of me and I settled into my seat, which was in spitting distance from the ring. (I only know this because some wrestling brute with tattoos that spread continuously from his right pinky to his left decided to demonstrate. I wanted to ask him if getting all those tattoos had hurt, but was afraid of being spit on again.) The first fight involved someone in yellow leather (or pleather? I couldn't be sure, even with our proximity) pants fighting a Dracula-esque character with fangs and blood spurting out of his mouth. Dracula...