Self Made
No Home but the Road
Professional Wrestling. Two words. Twenty-one letters. Hundreds of years of history. Millions of names.
To the outsiders— mainstream media, non-fans and the critics— professional wrestling is nothing more than a television show. Full of big, colourful characters and steroids. The name itself incites eye-rolling and sniggers, only ever discussed to humour that silly little world of big, oily men in tights.
But to those on the inside— the wrestlers, the fans, the bookers, the writers, the promoters— those who literally live for the business, it's more than a two-hour show on Monday nights. More than Vince McMahon and Hulk Hogan. It is a lifestyle. Us, the insiders, live, eat and breathe professional wrestling. It's inescapable. It can be your best friend or your worst enemy, but either way, it's the only thing you have at the end of the day. Once you're in, there's no getting out. Professional wrestling is your husband; your wife; your mother; your father; your child. And this is the life we choose. The thousands of bumps a year. The miles travelled. The sacrifices made. This is our life. The road is our home and our family are our co-workers and our fans.
There's no home but the road and I don't plan on ever pulling over.