READ: The Cruiserweight Classic - THIS. IS. WRESTLING.



Heartbroken and proud. Beaming with my head hung low. These are my general feelings after WWE's Cruiserweight Classic came to an end last evening. The tournament has been my weekly companion for the last 10 weeks, a go-to mid-week pleasure for my entertainment exhausted wrestling inclined mindset. For 2.5 months, no matter how disappointing RAW was (and there were some doozys), I had my mid-week friend to lift my spirits and remind me why I love this crazy sport we like to call wrestling. The field of 32, mostly unknown (at least to the common fan) competitors began as a mystery. Although none are household names, some of the greatest competitors in wrestling threw their hat into the Cruiserweight Classic. Kota Ibushi, Brian Kendrick, Tommaso Ciampa and Johnny Gargano all entered the Classic; but, this was intentionally built as a tournament of young, hungry, Rocky Balboas, eager to make a name in the sport they love, a sport that had so often ignored them due to their size and style.

Ironically it was the WWE: the Company which brought us the Herculean physiques of "Superstar" Billy Graham, Hulk Hogan, Triple H, and Brock Lesnar as the standard bearer for what a champion should look like, that was leaving this love offering at the feet of the wrestling fan who had so often endured the silliness of Doink the Clown (John Maloof and Ray Apollo, not Matt Osborne), the Gobbledy Gooker, and Mae Young's baby hand. This was for us, wrestling fans who put up with the shtick in between the wrestling, even when the shtick outgrew the wrestling and the wrestling caved in underneath the shtick and ran, unappreciated, into the shadows. You can't sell a wrestling match on a tee shirt.

It's terribly cliché; but, each wrestler set out with something to prove, something to demonstrate to the world of wrestling, which so often turned its head or closed its eyes to their immense amount of hidden talent. Each wrestler was successful in their endeavor, introducing themselves to the world with moves that many of us thought were impossible to execute and endure. The Cruiserweight Classic proved that the best wrestling of the summer didn't occur under the glitz and lights of SummerSlam; but, in a small Floridian venue in front of a subscription based television audience. I want to celebrate these gladiators and silence them at the same time. Can I show the world, while also putting my finger to my lips, "Hush!" Let this be our little secret. Let's keep this here, so that the WWE's team of daytime television script writers don't barge in with their silly ideas and corrupt this little island of purity we have stumbled upon. Let's be smart about who we tell, so corporate wrestling doesn't come in with their silly demands and silly business lingo to ruin the most wild and gorgeous lion in all the jungle. This is ours. This is wrestling.

The Cruiserweight Classic may have officially murdered the sports entertainer. He is, at the very least on life support, gasping for breath in between his scripted promos. At least that's a dream I like to have. The WWE Universe (this term probably makes you angry) was introduced to the likes of Zack Sabre, Jr., who could contort and bend his body in unhuman like fashion, more resembling a superhero like Plastic Man than anything we've ever beheld with our eyes in a wrestling ring. Then there was Jack Gallagher, a proper Englishman, who looks like the Vaudevillains long-lost brother, so tiny he could fit in the front pocket of someone's shirt; but, could make grown men wheeze and scream in pain at the exotic submissions he applied. Then there was Tony Neese who looked like Danzig and flew like a Zeppelin. There was the Cinderella story of Brian Kendrick, who returned to the Company that let him go years ago only to receive standing ovations as a proud WWE audience finally realized that he is invaluable as a competitor. There was an epic match between the tag team of Gargano and Ciampa, which reached heights of violence so intense, we never thought they'd reunite as a team. We were moved to tears when they embraced in the center of the ring, following Gargano's victory. Cedric Alexander and Kota Ibushi put on a match of the century candidate, literally, match of the century: go do yourself a favor and watch it (the WWE Network is only $9.99). Gran Metalik flew in the sky like a cocaine inspired comet, causing me to be really sour about all the cheap Gran Metalik impressions we've been getting all these years. I'm convinced that Rey Mysterio, Sin Cara, Kalisto are all just Gran Metalik impersonators unable to do anything more than a cheap impression of the real deal. The curtain has fallen on the so-called wizards. Gran Metalik is the unedited version of those three combined: untouched by corporate greed, untouched by the wear and tear of working 300 plus nights a year, untouched by gravity, perfect in the sky like a dragon or an angel or a god. No one pegged T.J. Perkins as the winner, which is what made his victory such a moving Cinderella story. Perkins, a wily veteran, at only 32 years of age has already been in the wrestling business for 18 years. He was once homeless; but, now resides among the stars as WWE's first ever Cruiserweight Classic winner and now Cruiserweight Champion. After beating Gran Metalik in the finals, Perkins claimed that the trophy wasn't about him; but, that it represented each of the 32 competitors in the tournament. He's right. Those of us who watched will see Perkins differently now. He is part Metalik, part Sabre, part Ibushi. They go with him everywhere he goes and his legacy is now theirs as well.

The heartbroken part of me will miss my weekly friend. Wednesday won't be the same. RAW will be judged more harshly without the knowledge of the mid-week bail out. The Cruiserweights will now move to Mondays to be corporatized, monopolized, put on an assembly line and stamped and sold. We had our moment and as fleeting as it was, nothing can ever take it away from us. It was beautiful. It was wrestling.



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