Sweat and she-males: the WWF Master's Tea

I was pretty excited when I heard about the WWF Master's Tea in Silliman. I know very little about professional wrestling, but I've formed some opinions about it--I know I really don't enjoy watching it. I was, however, interested to see what these "professional athletes" would be like outside of the ring.

I've got some friends who know pro wrestling, so during the day of the tea, I tell them what I'm doing and ask them for questions that might make me sound like I know what I'm talking about. But once I realize that I don't know what they are talking about, I scratch the whole idea.

I show up at Silliman at about 10 minutes to four, and people are already in a livestock round-up line around the Master's House. Luckily, some guys I talked to earlier about the whole thing are there as my contingency plan, and have saved me a spot in line. I push my way to the front.

Doors open and anxious college kids pour in. Nobody gives a shit about tea. Everyone sprints for the living room to grab a precious spot on the upholstery. All others must sit on the floor or stand.

Carlos Mena/YH Wrestler Hunter Hearst-Helmsley (Triple H)

The general mood is excited. I figure that while we wait for the wrestlers I'll get some quotes from people, since every article I read in Yale papers has a relevant and eloquent student sound bite.

Me: Got anything you want to say about this Master's Tea?

Howard Clark, BK '01: Wrestling was an integral part of my life growing up--practicing the piledriver, using the ropes, the camel clutch, and so on and so forth, with my older brother.

Me: What?

Howard Clark, BK '01: Are you going to quote me?

Me: What?

News flash. Some people are passing around a thin, glossy magazine filled with pictures of bleeding heads and oiled skin. The latest copy of WWF Raw. On the cover: Members of Degeneration X, including Hunter Hearst-Helmsley (Triple H) and Chyna, "the most manly woman in the world" according to a poster announcing the event in Silliman. On the inside: a black and white pictorial of Chyna wearing sweat, oil, and a shoelace. Mouths gape, heads turn. A rustling of feet, an opening of doors. Enter the aforementioned bulging bodies, heeling with reverent obedience to their creator, Vince McMahon.

Cheers erupt. There is that bloodlustful buzz of anticipated violence, much like the feeling of watching The Jerry Springer Show in a crowded room. Standing, Triple H is the first to speak, uttering a heavenly hash of language that sounds like English before concluding with a two-hand chop to the crotch and grunting, "Suck it!" The crowd goes wild.

From there, it's a frenzy. Vince confesses that his love for WWF was so great that he bought his father out of the business. Triple H openly disses pro bowlers and dart throwers. Chyna works with concentration to break in her leather pants. It's every male and she-male for [non-gender specific] self, and God help you if your name's Ted Turner.

But thank God for Ted Turner too, for without his well-bankrolled competition, WCW, we might never be witness to some of the brilliant acts of creation born just south of us in the WWF World Headquarters in Stamford. We might never enjoy the athletics, acrobatics, and audacious audibles of the Undertaker, Shawn Michaels, or "Stone Cold Steve Austin." We might never rest easy with the reassuring knowledge that WWF matches are being broadcast to our brethren in 40 countries, being translated into an astounding seven languages.

Most important, we might never realize the chilling disparity between use and abuse of performance-enhancing steroids. It's a good thing Ted's here to make sure these guys at WWF are doing their jobs.

Funny that the names I know from my youth--Hulk Hogan, Ric Flair, Rowdy Roddy Piper--have all migrated to WCW. McMahon gloats that he gets rid of his stars just as their bodies begin to "break down," letting Turner pay tomorrow's prices for yesterday's meat. But is Ted really behind the times, or is he simply providing a safe environment in which wrestling supernovas may comfortably convalesce?

Questions go unanswered. It's 5 p.m., and bodies have not yet been greased for the evening's activities. I make the mad scramble with the others in order to get closer to the stars, but I'm not sure why. Do I want a photograph, a handshake, an internship? What am I doing here?

Suddenly, in the fray of it all, I look towards Chyna. Almost as if it were scripted in one of the WWF matches, our eyes meet. My neck lengthens. Hers bulges. I smile. She smiles back. And I realize in this moment of raw emotion and overwhelming destiny that Vince McMahon is the smartest man in the world.

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