In a worn red stadium seat, inside a mid-size arena, my hands rung with utter impatience and concern. My sons, Wheels, 8, and Malcolm, my 6 year old in the middle, sat between my English husband and their Kentucky bred Momma. Of the four of us, I was the only one who knew what was to come. The neon spotlights illuminated the bright white square at center floor, yet untouched. The black ropes glistened with fresh polish as the padded posts rose powerfully from each corner, prepared for their impending assault.

“Mom? Mom!? Is that what I think… MOM!?” squealed Malcolm, each word elevating to a higher pitch and frightening delight.

“What is it? Dude, what is,” Wheels so innocently queried.

“Yes sweetie, yes… It’s a wrastlin’ ring,” I sputtered in perfect Kentucky drawl.

Malcolm erupted in hoots, matching the seasoned onlookers yell for yell. Wheels stared puzzled at the ring, slowly drew himself into his hoodie, allowing only a vision slit to assess the situation safely, from inside.

Holy Crap! Jesus Sam, what were you thinking? You are so going to pay for this! One is going to practice what he sees on Stewie and the other will have nightmares for weeks.

The videos began recapping the previous week’s drama with Smackdown, and I felt an inner twerk.  A spark rumbling at the base of my voice box. A silent choke, preparing its extrication. I held it down, along with visions of familiar basements packed with faces unseen for 20 years and once again, became completely immersed in this new drama; for Raw was #undersiege by Smackdown and it was, the most important thing I’d heard all day.

I glanced to my right and noticed the boys felt the same. Malcolm stood speechless, his small body shifting foot to foot, hands in prayer with murmurs of Why? Why would they do that? Wheels face was at least slightly exposed, his fingers twizzling his bottom lip anxiously. I knew the story-lines would be his weakness.  Can’t drag that kid away from books or TV.

A warm up wrestling match entered the ring, providing the opportunity to reiterate the notions of fake, professionals, practice, theater, and entertainment.  Malcolm heard, but with each intricate flip-fighting sequence of Cedric, his jumping and shrieking blocked out half. Wheels, with his delicate soul and kind spirit, listened intently, wincing at each slap. Worried the wrestlers were actually in pain.   I encouraged him to watch their feet when they hit… he figured it out and was more at ease.

“Thirty seconds until Raw goes live!” boomed the slick announcer.

Malcolm lost it, counting down with the flashing numbers. 10, 9, 8, my pulse quickened, 7, 6, flashes of light, bumpin’ music, 5, 4, I could feel the natural inclination to rise to my feet and go nuts, 2, 1! But I didn’t. I kept it cool for Wheels and let my husband and Malcolm do their thing.

The lights downed, Medal music pounded our chests, and out struts Raw General Manager Kurt Angle. Playing cool, I explained to the boys who he was and how I used to watch him along with The Undertaker, Stone Cold, Goldberg, Sting, Ric Flair, and The Rock when I was a teenager (I left out the WWE/WCW rivalry for it makes no difference now). David locked eyes with me and mouthed Who are you?

I rolled my eyes, turning back to Wheels. I got this.  I am knowledgeable.  I am playing into Wheels’ love for story details and he can deal with Malcolm’s…

The lights suddenly extinguished on Angle, the glow of purple filled the arena and Welcome to the Queendom blared from every crevasse… meaning only one magnanimous fact… Stephanie McMahon was here!!!!

Cool, evaporated, and I unleashed a barrage of “There she is… AHH” and “Bow Down People” and “You better be worried, Kurt” like nobody else in our row. While she berated Angle, I laughed wickedly and told Wheels to “suck it up, its live TV! Live a little, my boy!” My 16 year old self had emerged for all to see and frankly, it felt good!

With threats accomplished, Stephanie traipsed, elegant and confident, upstage in her leather pants, high heels, and Peggy Bundy size ponytail. I looked to both my sons and breathlessly declared, “We should totally do this again!” Wheels nodded with shocked smiles while Malcolm agreed, “Yes MOMMA!  The knee-pads make you happy!”

Oh It’s True, It’s Damn True!