THIS WEEKEND, on September 20, Wrestlepalooza touches down at Gainbridge Fieldhouse, the second time WWE will take over Indy this year after Royal Rumble was held at Lucas Oil Stadium in February. The occasion is part of a partnership between WWE and the Indiana Sports Corp to bring major wrestling events to the city, with WrestleMania and SummerSlam slated to be hosted in future years. Wrestlepalooza is also one of the last opportunities for fans to see John Cena in the ring, as he plans to retire at the end of 2025.
Indy is a prime hosting city for WWE; Royal Rumble drew 70,347 fans, an all-time record for the event, making it the highest-grossing single-night WWE match in history, as well as giving it the greatest attendance numbers for any non-WrestleMania professional wrestling event in history.
In a city where spectacles like the NBA and WNBA All-Star weekends and the U.S. Olympic swimming trials and competitive teams like the Colts, the Pacers, and the Fever dominate the sports news cycle—and even lesser-known squads like the Eleven and the Indians have loyal fan bases and no problem packing stadium seats—who knew wrestling was such a draw?
But plenty of locals are in on the secret—and WWE doesn’t even have to be in town. Many get their fill of the sport at Indy’s own local wrestling promotion, the World Championship Wrestling Outlaws. On any given Friday night, you’ll find the organization’s arena on Kentucky Avenue just southwest of downtown jam-packed. Special events like Thunderstorm, held by WCWO this past January 31 in conjunction with Royal Rumble, can draw up to 1,000 ticket-holders.
Cue a replay of my jaw dropping to the floor inside the gym of Edison School of the Arts as local wrestler War Ready Maleko squares up to a smack-talking kid half his size, an intrepid young spectator. The two stand just outside the ring during Thunderstorm, exchanging heated words with nothing but a thin barrier separating them. Maleko towers over the boy with a scowl that could shrivel Captain America. My heart skips a beat. I move to the edge of my seat, my mom instinct kicking in as I calculate how long it would take me to hop over the barrier and challenge the powerful wrestler in the kid’s defense. Then I remember, Maleko is just acting right now. … Right?
What in the world am I doing imagining I can fight this big, mean guy? More importantly: Why am I imagining I can fight this big, mean guy? How have I, a 5-foot-1, middle-aged mom (whose current album on replay in the car is the soundtrack to KPop Demon Hunters), managed to forget that it’s all fake?
A lot of people are mystified by the enduring popularity of professional wrestling. Like reality TV, everyone knows the feuds happening in the ring and on their TV screens are fixed and that no one’s really getting hurt. So why do people accept the parody? Moreover, why do they love it, become obsessed with it?
Take a chance on just one live wrestling show, and the appeal is clear.
Maleko eventually backs off, as if the kid’s insults (very tame, no cussin’—don’t worry) have made him think twice. He continues his villainous strut around the ring, yelling jibes and making rude, PG-rated gestures at the audience. The boy turns around and runs to his dad. “I sure told him!” he announces, beaming.
Even though Maleko currently plays a heel (a bad guy in wrestling parlance) in the ring, in real life, there is no other way to describe him but as a babyface (also called a face—a good guy). He has a quietly cheerful demeanor and a kind smile. He says one of his earliest memories is watching wrestling on TV when he was around four.
Before deciding to enter the ring himself, he had never heard of WCWO. Started in 1987 by Dangerous Bull Don Basher, whose real name was Ron Owens, and his wife, Juanita, the promotion is now run by Joey “The Kidd” Owens, their son. Maleko was shocked to find everything he needed to start a career in wrestling right in Indianapolis—a place to train, a place to learn the ins and outs of the professional circuit, and a place to perform and gain a fan base all rolled into one. He’s begun to master the moves and build a loyal local following after only two years of being in the sport.
“My persona is a warrior mindset, looking to go out there and pick my opponent apart and inflict as much pain as possible on them. Sometimes I do it by any means necessary. Just very monster-like,” he says of his wrestling character. Of course, he’s not speaking literally. But he likes being a heel because giving the appearance of a brute, cold-hearted fighter who takes no prisoners—even when it comes to children—gets a better audience reaction. And that audience reaction is paramount. “If they’re not interacting with you, they might not be enjoying themselves,” he explains.
Squaring up against a kid isn’t just a bit of razzing. It helps develop the story Maleko is telling about his character. Involving the audience makes it more personal, more believable, more meaningful. The more passionately the audience engages with him, the better he knows he’s doing.
“It’s all about having your ears open at all times and waiting for the right moment to get someone’s attention. Figure out what’s making them upset and continue doing that to keep getting them upset,” Maleko laughs.
This is kayfabe—the tacit agreement between wrestling performers and fans that everything that’s happening should be treated as real. Because the fans aren’t just there to watch. They’re there to be a part of the show. Their engagement is a measure of the success for a wrestler or promotion, whether that engagement is positive or negative.
“[You have to give fans] the illusion that what they’re watching in the ring is real, that these two men in the ring hate each other. One of them is really a bad person. The other one is really a good person. And that there’s a real brawl happening out there,” says Reggie Edwards, a photographer, promoter, and announcer who joined WCWO in 2020 after he was asked to photograph a match. “I never thought in a million years I would be photographing a wrestling show ringside, let alone working backstage helping put the show together,” he muses.
But he was drawn in by the thrill and melodrama, eventually adopting his own in-ring persona as a heel. While he agrees with Maleko that being a heel is fun, he’s quick to add that audiences need someone to root for, as well.
“For every horrible, bad guy character, you have to have a good guy to balance that out. … When you have an even bigger good guy than bad guy, that’s when it turns into magic, into gold.”
Like in the Thunderstorm match between Chicago-based Missa Kate and Mexican luchadora Dayami Ho. Kate leans hard into the villain role. “What even is this place?” she screams out at the gymnasium as she climbs onto the rope. “I’m from Chicago, a real city. I don’t even know what this smelly little nowhere town is!”
She tells those who scream back to shut up and hocks a wad of spit at a teen. The spit is real, though it doesn’t touch him. The teen blinks in shock.
By contrast, diminutive Dayami comes across as almost coy, moving gracefully around the ring as she performs flips and then bows to the audience. Both women are athletic, but this is a chance for Dayami to show off her acrobatic skills. The match is full of dizzying spins, leaps, smacks, and slams, with Dayami spending half the time flying through the air to be caught by Kate. Victorious, Dayami leaves the ring with a busted nose—a real one—one hand held over her head by the ref, the other staunching a flow of blood. People stand to cheer her as she heads back behind the curtain.
It goes without saying, the stunts are another aspect of wrestling that make it captivating. They take a high level of skill and can be dangerous, even fatal, if a slip-up occurs. Sure, sometimes the punches, kicks, and chairs to the back don’t always look 100 percent real (though sometimes they look too real), but when you witness a German suplex or a moonsault in real life, you can’t help but be gobsmacked.
It’s hard to fathom that the wrestlers of WCWO are just ordinary people. Anyone can join. Before all else, WCWO is a wrestling school that trains students in safety and proper technique, not only how to perform certain moves without hurting anyone, but also how to fall and how to land. Edwards, who isn’t a wrestler, had to learn how to convincingly look like he’s getting beaten up.
There is no timetable; each student learns at their own pace and can participate in shows in other ways until Owens feels they’re ready to enter the ring. Some WCWO wrestlers get big enough to travel and enter more prominent promotions.
Despite the fact that most of the rivalries in wrestling are feigned and, yes, occasionally scripted (just take a look at WCWO’s Facebook page, which is brimming with content, including videos featuring smack talk and antics between wrestlers; the fun they’re having is palpable), one might be surprised to find that only some of the fights are choreographed beforehand, and the winner isn’t always predetermined. Often, the action and the crowd decide.
“‘Macho Man’ Randy Savage is famous for writing out his entire match move-for-move, step-by-step on a tablet backstage. Ricky Steamboat versus Savage—had that entire match choreographed for six months before the match. Then you have guys who know how to talk to each other in the ring, but quietly, to the point that nobody else can see it or hear it,” Edwards explains.
Owens, who has wrestled for decades, takes a different approach. “Say I talk about my match [with my opponent], and then I get out there and start doing it, and the fans don’t care. [They’re not engaged, and] all they see is how I finish. I’m not that way. I listen to the people. The people can guide me right through my match. The fans can feed you, literally tell you your story if you know how to wrestle.”
But he adds with a chuckle that his son, who wrestles as IK3, is a planner. “He’ll choreograph the whole thing.”
During Thunderstorm, IK3 takes on Rachel Armstrong, a fan favorite. IK3 dwarfs her. Shorter than me, Armstrong wears a bright smile and a colorful outfit that could have come from a Lisa Frank catalog (so you can bet I’m super into it), frequently turning to the crowd to drum up encouragement by lifting a single hand or shooting a smug look of knowing, like, “Y’all know I got this. Make some noise for me.”
While Maleko’s persona is the opposite of his real-life personality, Armstrong’s is a reflection of herself: “Happy. Smiley. Fun-sized bundle of energy. I just am my persona; I want to spread good energy to everyone.”
Though she’s pitted against a much larger man, it’s no surprise when she comes away from the fight triumphant—the crowd adores her. “I love how the crowd makes me feel inside,” she says. “To go through the curtain every time is a dream come true, but to feel the energy from the crowd really just makes it feel even more special.”
For both performers and fans, wrestling is the one performance craft where the crowd work is integral to the action, where you, as a fan, can influence the storyline and even the outcome of a fight. And you can watch people practically break their necks while you’re at it. It’s an art unto itself.
It’s the epitome of the phrase: You just have to be there.
“Go watch a local, independent show,” Maleko says. “Come to the WCWO show. It’s family-friendly. There’s something for everybody in pro wrestling. You’re gonna find somebody that you like, or you’re gonna find somebody that you love to hate.”
Witness the action for yourself with free admission to WCWO’s Fan Appreciation Night this Friday, September 19, at Outlaw Arena.
