Yes, it was cold in Baltimore that night. But for the thousands of wrestling fans packed into the Baltimore Arena for the World Wrestling Federation's "Smackdown!", there was plenty of heat, thanks to what The Roooooooooccckkkkkk was cooking.
They came in droves -- beer-guzzling, trash-talking, plaid cut-off flannel shirt-wearing truck drivers. Bubble-jacketed fifth-graders with their parents at their heels. Young couples consisting of confused but politely smiling girlfriends and devoted fans/boyfriends.
They brought their signs -- to pay homage to The Rock, the star of the weekly WWF show "Smackdown!" that aired that night: "Rock my world!" "The People's Champion" and of course, "It doesn't matter what this sign says!" -- a spoof on the Rock's berating holler, "It doesn't matter what you think!"
Some signs professed loyalty to or distaste for favorite wrestlers, from Jericho -- "Hi, my name is Caesar and I'm a Jerichoholic," to the controversial female wrestler Chyna ("Fyne Chyna," "Chyna is a waste of money!").
And of course, other signs were made for the sole purpose of taunting friends on national television: "Frank is a candy ass," and "Sam is fat."
The fans were hyped, they were loud and they were angry. They also were driven by more testosterone than an army.
"We didn't realize how many more boys come to these things," said Angie Tennyson, an 18-year-old from southern Maryland and a first-time spectator of a live WWF show. "But it doesn't matter -- we know as much as the boys do. Although I guess the main difference is that we did come here primarily to see The Rock's ass."
Criticized as "fake" and "rehearsed" in the late 1980s, pro wrestling fell off the sports bandwagon as fans left and the organizations regrouped. Today, however, wrestling and the WWF in particular have helped television stations like TNT and TBS see ratings success -- and sometimes beat even the major networks' programming. Despite the controversy over the violence, the minimally clothed women and the lewd innuendo that adorns it, wrestling still has made a comeback, revamped in a glossier, showier form and appearing everywhere from in-house arena shows to pay-per-view specials such as "Wrestlemania."
The show started with two mediocre matches, an approach that predictably riled fans ready to see their name-brand heroes.
"Who are you?" shouted an enraged fan in the third row as the less-known wrestler Papi Chulo threw the lesser-known Inferno Kid about the ring. Tired of waiting for the real show to start, the fan then proceeded to put on his own show by taking off his shirt and flexing his flabby muscles for the audience.
"Sit down!" screamed a chubby little boy with glasses, sporting a Rock t-shirt bigger than he and an attitude big enough to appease the half-naked fan for at least a little while.
As the more famous wrestlers -- such as Cactus Jack and Triple H -- began to trickle out, the pyrotechnic explosions became brighter, the backdrop muted from blue to purple to red, and the action shifted to a mounted television screen where backstage action involving intense if poorly-delivered dialogue could be seen.
Next in the ring was Viscera -- a terrifying cross between Marilyn Manson and Missy Elliot -- and Hardcore Holly, a pretty blond wrestler with boots. Determined to keep the momentum going, fans provided cheers for every occasion, from singing "Sha na na- Say Goodbye" when a fellow fan was evicted from the arena, to screaming "Orioles suck!" -- an invitation to be attacked by the thousands of Baltimore locals.
Between each match, the announcer came out, hawking t-shirts, preparing fans for the next fight and wagging his finger at the aforementioned unruly fan, who continued to take off his off and shout obscenities at the ring. He only was quelled at the end, when the hairy gargantuan wrestler Prince Albert retorted "Shut up, fatty!" from the ring, hardly pausing as he placed the Big Bossman in a headlock.
"My favorite is Kane," said Nick Passalacqua, a 10-year-old from Columbia, Md., who solemnly pointed to his poster of the red-masked wrestler. "When we fight, I'm Kane and my dad is the Big Show," he explained as the same match-up unfolded in the ring. His dad, Tony Passalacqua, smiled -- that is until the Godfather came out, escorted by his scantily clad and affectionately dubbed "Ho Train."
Similar censorship problems arose outside the ring too, as parents tried to shield their wide-eyed kids from some of the less appropriate paraphernalia WWF sells.
"Daddy, I want that one," a little girl said as she pointed to the Rock's "Poontang Pie" t-shirt. "No. Just no," the father said shortly. "But why? What is it? What's a poontang pie?" the girl insisted as her father dragged her away.
After appearances by Gangrel, who rose through a burst of flames, Jericho, also known as Y2J, and Chyna, who shot an enormous flame-thrower-like machine gun at the audience, the real star of the show finally rolled out.
He stormed out in a fury, jumped in the ring and climbed on the ropes, sniffing at the screaming audience as the Brahma Bull emblazoned on his briefs snarled at the crowds behind him.
"As the people's champion, you will smell what The Rock ... is cooking!" he said, throwing in the hesitation move that drives everyone wild.
The Rock then proceeded to fight Rakishi Fatoo, a monstrous and fleshy wrestler whose costume was too scanty even for the Ho Train.
"This wasn't really a sporting event, it was more of sports entertainment," fourth-year Engineering student Amar Bhatia explained. "But it's fun to cheer for the characters. I came for the fans. And for the ruckus."
But no matter why they came, fans left the arena grinning and hoarse. Over two hours of choke slams, head locks and piledrives had shown them one thing -- they had just witnessed the smack being laid down.
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