OAXACA DE JUAREZ, MEXICO — “Oye, pendejo! Chinga tu madre!” [“Hey, idiot! F**k your mother!”] a guy in the audience yelled at the first luchador, Aguila Roja, who entered the ring arm-pumping to the Rammstein classic Du Hast. The audience laughed. “Como le di a la tuya?” [“Like I did yours last night?”] Aguila Roja responded. The crowd roared.
“Vamonos cabron!” [“Let’s go, a**hole!”] an audiencemember would yell out during lulls in the action. “Callate! No mames!” [“Shut up! Don’t suck my d**k!”] another luchador would respond to laughs. But the crowd was ruthless, knowing verbal jabs could be every bit as potent. When a girthy fighter named Pepe Cisneros Jr. entered the ring in the third round, spectators repeatedly antagonized him by referring to him as “chorizo,” the spicy Mexican sausage. He protested every time, every time to no avail.
The scene was every bit as much Mystery Science Theater 3000 as it was a fight. Welcome to lucha libre.
Lucha libre, which literally translates to “free fighting,” is a Mexican wrestling competition that’s grown so much in the past couple decades it is only eclipsed in popularity by soccer. American wrestling fans would be familiar with the basic dynamics of lucha libre. Two or more wrestlers facing off in a ring, trying to pin their opponent(s) for three seconds. Most matches have three rounds and tend to follow the same basic arc: the sides split the first two, and one side nearly loses the decisive third round before somehow defying the odds and prevailing.
But lucha libre also has many customs unfamiliar to American audiences. Most prominent is la máscara — the mask. Most luchadores fight with one, concealing their identities even in public. A wrestler’s mask is so sacred that removing an opponent’s mask is against the rules. When it happens, as in the video below, security often rushes in with a towel to hide the luchador’s face, though not before the audience has a chance to tell him that he’s “pinche feo!” [“F**king ugly!”]
In some ways, lucha libre reflects the machismo society so prevalent in Mexico. Wrestlers hurl insults and throw their bodies at one another in a (scripted) competition for physical superiority. On the other hand, the event is a surprisingly democratic affair, with nearly as many women in the audience as men. They weren’t dragged there by their husbands; the most enthusiastic fans (with some of the most cutting insults) are often women.
One can be forgiven for wondering if their 70 pesos (~$4.75) bought them entrance to a wrestling match or a comedy show. And less a Jerry Seinfeld routine than a Dave Chappelle one. Between the lewd roasts and the wrestler wearing a leotard emblazoned with swastikas, the point was to offend. Lucha libre is not for the thin-skinned.
Antagonizing between crowd and wrestler was so commonplace that one begins to imagine, like in some standup comedy, that hecklers were placed in the audience in order to keep the entire event light, fast-paced, and funny.
Of course, few would argue these outbursts fostered a “family-friendly” atmosphere. And yet, the foulest remarks often came from those with a child sitting in their lap. Indeed, even some kids no more than 12 years old got into the heckling, leading to laughter and surprise among other audiencemembers that kids can, in fact, say the same dirty remarks as everyone else.
I’ve watched professional wrestling on TV before. It’s fine. But the crowd dynamic, so integral to the enjoyment of lucha libre, can’t be replicated in your living room. Much like hockey, lucha libre (and wrestling in general) has one of the biggest gulfs between enjoyment watching on TV versus enjoyment watching in person.
The entire match is staged, of course, but that doesn’t mean it’s fake. In the course of three hours, I witnessed a broken rib, a gashing head wound, a luchador get his leg twisted in the meager fence separating audience from wrestler and have to get it dislodged by a security guard, the entrance ramp accidentally get smashed by a big slam, and more flying kicks to the chest than I could count. When obviously-fake punches were thrown, audience members would yell their vehement displeasure — “Lo dudo!” [“I doubt it!”] They wanted blood.
Nor is lucha libre a sport reserved for the young and dexterous. Some of the wrestlers were Nolan Ryans out there, pushing at least 50 years old and still fighting. Indeed, Challenger (pictured below) has been in the ring for nearly three decades, during which time he has undergone multiple surgeries after lucha-related injuries.
For the most important matches, luchadores often put stakes on the fight. If the loser wears a mask, he has to remove his it, reveal his face, and retire his former headwear. If he already fights sans mask, he often bets his hair, promising to shave it off if he doesn’t win.
Most matches feature a battle between two main archetypes: “rudos,” with stocky, brutish frames, versus “técnicos,” who are generally more athletic to make up for their smaller size. Bad versus good.
But perhaps most unique about lucha libre is the advent of a particular type of técnico: wrestlers dressed in drag, as seen above, known as “exóticos.”
It’s hard to know what to make of the exóticos. In one sense, the crowd was firmly behind Luz Clarita, the exótico, relishing his superior athleticism and comic delivery. (Every time he bodyslammed an opponent, he delivered his tagline, “todo está bien!” to which the audience often responded, “Otra! Otra! Otra!” demanding a repeat.) Exóticos are a significant deviation in an otherwise macho, testosterone-fueled event, much less society. It’s no stretch to wonder if lucha libre isn’t so much reflecting society as helping shape it.
At the same time, however, it seemed to invite the same sorts of unfortunate and over-sexualized references to LGBT people that have existed for too long. For example, in this clip, Luz Clarita and one of his partners team up to toss an opponent against the ropes. “Le gustó! Le gustó!” someone shouted from the audience. [“He liked it! He liked it!”]
Luz Clarita’s presence also made every “puto” — an insult roughly equivalent to “faggot,” though many Spanish-speakers insist it just means “weak man” — heckle even more cringe-worthy. Though for years many exóticos insisted their in-ring persona was just an act, a number have recently come out of the closet, as detailed in William Finnegan’s recent New Yorker article.
Perhaps the most delightful character in the ring wasn’t even a luchador, but the referee: El Checo. He entered the ring with as much pomp as the wrestlers, slapping his beer gut and two-stepping to random Mexican hits. The audience rode the ref as hard as the wrestlers. He was the friend you’re comfortable enough with to make fun of for no particular reason, other than he’s there and you like the sound of your voice. “Checo! Pare la lucha!” [“Checo! Stop the fight!”] “Checo, hueles a mierda!” [“Checo, you smell like s**t!”]
Ever mindful that lucha libre is equal parts entertainment and sporting event, it was not uncommon that Checo suddenly found himself a part of the fight. With little apparent reason, he would help fling wrestlers towards their opponent, and even find himself trying (and failing) to bodyslam a woozy luchador.
Though the rudos prevailed over the crowd favorites in Sunday’s title march, Luz Clarita wasn’t finished. He grabbed the mic and issued a new challenge to one of his opponents, Tony Cisneros Jr.: lucha libre, mano a mano, in two weeks time. The stakes: the loser’s hair. The crowd roared.