Before he became a writer, Matt F’n Wallace was a professional wrestler. He is reluctant to discuss it, mostly because of the fierce secrecy that pervades that world, but I’ve heard enough to completely change my opinion of what professional wrestling is.

It’s not Greco-Roman wrestling. It’s not even really about being big or strong: physical ability is just the price of admission into the ring.

Professional wrestling, like its cousin Theater, is about drama.

Like an illusionist, the wrestler’s drama relies upon the audience’s belief, even superficially, that the events portrayed are real. It’s something like the magician’s code, but a lot more serious: magicians don’t go home bleeding after a performance.

Like a masochist, a wrestler’s success is defined by how much pain he can endure. And the good wrestlers seek it out: they bring the audience with them on their journey, until every person can feel every blow and share in every triumph.

Like a samurai, becoming a wrestler is not easy, and entrance to their ranks requires discipline and adherence to a code of honor. This seems almost obligatory, as each man holds the keys to every other man’s survival: if he is not at the top of his own game, he could injure or kill his ring partner. A bad performance might ruin the drama of an entire night, making every bruised bone for naught.

That’s the essence of a wrestler: they are willing to subject themselves to the extremes of punishment, if it means they are serving their craft.

Saying, “Wrestling’s fake” is like saying, “You’re not fooling me. I see what you’re doing there.” And the truth is: you don’t. Can’t, really. You don’t know them, you only know their performance. You were never handed a razor and taught how to cut yourself to simulate a serious head injury. You’ve never driven six hours to perform for twenty minutes and received thirty dollars for the effort.

When two wrestlers throw each other onto a concrete floor and bash each other with chairs, that’s not an illusion. They’re not trying to convince you it doesn’t hurt. They’re trying to convince you that, when they’re through beating the hell out of each other, they don’t go out for beers after.

They live a life of commitment to performance at the cost of pain. And that’s the crux of it: they spend their years “fighting enemies” for the pleasure of an audience, but after the applause and the autographs have faded, the only people who can appreciate their sacrifices are each other.