There are a lot of things that I like to talk about, other things not. One of those things is that I, a college educated male, who holds a post-graduate degree, watches professional wrestling.
The way I reconcile this is that I don't watch it the way most other people do. I watch to see certain guys who are incredibly good, the guys who are incredibly good at what they do, in all respects. I watch because I want to see how a 60-year old man can make people in a live crowd believe he can defeat a man a 20 or 30 years younger, to watch how brilliantly an Olympic champion amateur has become an all-time great in a totally different endeavor. The great ones are just as much performers as any great theatre practitioner, because anyone watching knows that everything is just as scripted but makes you want to watch anyway.
Eddie Guerrero was one of those who made you want to watch him perform, because of the joy he obviously brought to his profession. Its a profession he was born into, one he was raised in, one his brothers and his nephew, who's actually only three years younger, were born into. He wrestled in Mexico and in Japan, he wrestled in the Bingo Hall known as the ECW Arena in Philadelphia, and then the dysfunctional enterprise called WCW. He became the first luchadore to hold a major American world title.
But what made Eddie Guerrero a great story, and what makes his death all the more tragic, is the personal demons he overcame. Guerrero wasn't a big man; he was 5'8", 220, according to coroner’s reports. He wasn't a steroid user. He was a recovering alcoholic, and like many wrestlers he fought battles against painkillers. Its that addiction that's felled an increasing number of wrestlers, from Bobby Duncum Jr., Davey Boy Smith and Curt Hennig, along with many others in recent years. It’s also a reality that despite the fact that it isn't a sport, no athletes perform the same daily travel schedule as wrestlers. No athletes are on the road more, and there's no off-season for wrestlers. It’s that addiction that Eddie Guerrero fought, and survived. He'd been sober for years, but as any recovering addict will tell you, you fight four-year's worth of one-day battles to stay sober.
What makes King Lear so tragic, the reason the real version wasn't performed for 300 years and replaced by the Tate version, is that for all of the mistakes he makes, the wrongs he commits, there seems to be a future. Goneril and Regan are gone, Albany, Edgar and Kent are triumphant, and all seems right. What seems most unfair is that its then that the hammer falls, that Lear is stripped of first that which he values and loves most, and then his life. Its we as the audience, and through the remaining characters onstage, that are left with the hole in the world. That's ultimately what makes Eddie Guerrero's death so tragic: He conquered his demons, only to be taken in the prime of his life, leaving a wife and two children. Now it’s his friends and family, and his fans, that go on wondering why.
Eddie Guerrero triumphed in an industry stacked against him. In a business that favors big, hulking monsters that are great on the mic, he was short and average sized, and spoke with an accent. Champions, the men who carried the business were supposed to be white and clean cut. Eddie was proudly Mexican-American, growing up in El Paso and just across the border, had a thin moustache and wore a mullet for a large portion of his career. At one point he, and a few other wrestlers like him, would have been shunted to the side, either labeled "vanilla midgets" (Kevin Nash's phrase for him, Chris Benoit and Dean Malenko) or given license to only play a stereotype, which he often had to do. Still, he rose to the top of his profession, he was as adaptable as anyone was, and he could play the good guy and the bad guy with equal brilliance. He made anyone who watched him appreciate that they were watching the consummate performer and professional. He was substance in a business almost all about style. What's sad is that people like him often have to leave so soon.
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