Mexican Wrestling in Guadalajara

When Rodrigo, my business partner and native Guadalajaran, had asked me what I wanted to do in Guadalajara, my answer was simple: Abuela-grade Mexican food. Weird cultural experiences. No museums or touristy stuff.

Which led to him scooping me up from my hotel that night, with Daniela, his girlfriend, and Cecilia, his coworker, riding in the back. Rodrigo was a big fan of lucha libre—Mexican wrestling—but the rest of us were first-timers. I didn’t expect much beyond a quirky cultural detour. How exciting could it possibly be? A bunch of men in tights fake-fighting in cheap masks?

After Rodrigo navigated streets that tourists never go to like a pro, a small boy flagged us down and guided us to a “parking spot.” One side of the car sat high on the curb, while the other side remained precariously in the street, facing oncoming traffic. This was the first sign that the night would be off-kilter.

Death Metal, Flashing Lights, Satan’s Cheerleaders

We walked into a slightly rundown arena. Overhead, ceiling art depicted legendary wrestlers. The ring itself was the sun in a solar system of flashing lights, booming death metal walk-on music, and goth girls dancing on stage like Satan’s cheerleaders.

The air crackled as a band played traditional songs, sometimes overlapping the death metal. Every sense was assaulted. Spotlights scattered across the ceiling and the music reverberated in my chest, louder than any conversation could hope to be. It was a full-body experience.

The Other Show: Ricos vs Pobres

We settled into a row just in front of bleachers fenced off with chain link. Almost immediately, voices from the stands above rained down rapid-fire Spanish. I speak Spanish pretty well, but in the middle of that chaos, it felt like trying to translate while spinning inside a washing machine. I turned to Daniela for help. She motioned to herself and Cecilia. “They’re calling us flat-chested. And they think Cecilia has a big nose.”

I wasn’t sure whether I should laugh it off or practice rolling my r’s to fire back mean things about their madres. But the faces of Rodrigo, Daniela, and Cecilia betrayed no tension. If they’re cool, I’m cool. The torrent of insults kept coming. Their preferred term for me was guero culero (“white guy a**hole”).

Why were these people yelling at us? Well, because we were seated in the very back row of the “rich people” (ricos) section. Behind us was the “poor people” (pobres) section. That’s where the yelling was coming from. But it was more than just yelling. I opened my phone in selfie mode to do some reconnaissance, where I witnessed a man wearing a mask of the Mexican president air humping chain link.

It turns out that this was the-show-inside-the-show. In Latin America, class tension and wealth disparity is enormous. Tonight, and every night at lucha libre, this divide finds a release valve. The pobres jeered at the ricos, and the ricos jeered right back. A ponytailed guy two rows in front of me would regularly stand up, face the pobres, and flash Italian-grade hand gestures.

“Creative” parking, masked wrestlers, goth cheerleaders. None of this was as weird to me as the ricos vs pobres yelling matches. I come from the U.S., where a poor person isn’t really poor. Their American dream just hasn’t started yet. Poor Americans believe they are pre-rich. So it felt surreal to be stuck in the middle of interclass yelling matches with masked dudes beating the shit out of each other in the background.

The Wrestling

There were two types of wrestlers. The tecnicos, the good guys, squared off against the rudos, the bad guys. The crowd roared in approval and disgust as the wrestlers did what they do best—beat the hell out of each other in ways that sometimes seemed real, sometimes gloriously fake.

But whether it was real or not was obviously not the point. People around us lost their minds as bodies hit the mat and the tension escalated with each new storyline (could I follow these stories? Nope.) The kids loved it. The grown men loved it. The women…were less consistent. Some loved it, some tolerated it, some looked bored out of their minds.

The wrestling crescendoed as the good guys defeated their enemies. Just after the climax, confetti exploded from the ceiling. As the evening wound down, the technicos lingered in the ring, posing for photos with the kids. I noticed fathers getting misty-eyed seeing their kids meet with the larger-than-life figures. Seeing this, I got a little choked up as well. Turns out even pretend conflict can can spark genuine emotion.

Just when I thought the night was over, it wasn’t. As we exited into the large lobby, the band from earlier had set up camp. A conga line had formed, and because this is Mexico, naturally, everyday people dance at professional level by U.S. standards. I did my best to not embarrass myself.

We walked back to our “parking spot.” Rodrigo eased the car off the curb and the wheels settled evenly on the asphalt. My perspective, however, would not return to equilibrium. I have spent the last fifteen years building and running entrepreneurship programs across the world, helping people start and grow businesses. This work connects to increasing someone’s quality of life, economic mobility, and livelihood. It is a direct response to a lack of economic opportunities. I had never considered that lucha libre might be a uniquely Mexican response to the exact same thing.

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Thanks to early readers: Brian Smith, Cansafis Foote, Amit Bhatia, Krishna Bahirwani