Lucha libre in Northeast, Mexican pro wrestling draws a growing audience

It’s good vs. evil. Heroes vs. villains. Técnicos vs. rudos. It’s lucha libre Mexicana – Mexican pro wrestling – and it’s here in Northeast Minneapolis. 

A crowd of perhaps 100 people gathered in the former Antioch Church worship space in the Waterbury Building at Jackson and Broadway Streets to watch the south-of-the-border version of WWE on Saturday, Sept. 21. To say they were enthusiastic would be an understatement. They cheered, booed, jeered, cat-called, hissed, whistled, blew plastic horns and whistles and twisted wooden ratchets to encourage their favorite luchadores or distract their opponents as circumstances demanded. The sounds of bodies slamming onto the canvas-covered stage echoed throughout the room.

Lucha libre is the second-most popular spectator sport in Mexico, behind soccer. It has its roots in Greco-Roman wrestling, but wrestling was also popular among Indigenous peoples, long before European contact. 

According to the Oxford Research Encyclopedia, professional wrestling made its Mexican debut in the 1840s. It became wildly popular after the 1910 revolution, especially in small neighborhoods in larger cities, where improvised arenas would be set up.

Style sets lucha libre apart from American professional wrestling. U.S. wrestlers are muscular, bulked up (think Hulk Hogan). Luchadores don’t look overly muscular, but they’re more agile and acrobatic. Standing on the ropes and “flying” in and out of the arena is not uncommon. A favorite move is the Huracánrana, a flying scissors kick that knocks an opponent to the canvas and ends with his head pinned to the floor between the attacker’s knees.

Another distinction is the mask, or máscara. It originated in 1934 when a Mexican shoemaker was approached by American wrestler Cyclone McKay, who wanted to wrestle as “The Masked Marvel.” The resulting leather mask was soon replaced by more breathable cotton.

Today’s masks are made in variety of materials, many of them shiny or glittery. They lace up the back of the head like a tennis shoe. They may look like an ancient Aztec or Mayan face, or like a robot. To have an opponent remove your mask is a disgrace. If you remove the mask, you’re booed by the spectators. The masks are proprietary: Each wrestler designs their own. If someone copies their mask, the luchador can sue. The masks are also considered sacred; fans are not allowed to touch them. 

The mask provides the luchador with a different persona, separate from the person they are outside the ring. Mexican luchador Manuel “El León” Hernández has said, “These are ordinary people, they are normal people but in the moment they get dressed, that they wear a multi-colored mask, a mask that represents a character … they become … well they practically become immortal when they are up in the ring.”

“I wrestled with a mask for 35 years,” said Jesús de la Torre, the owner of Rudos Productions and the promoter of lucha libre in the Twin Cities. “I never told people who I am.”

De la Torre grew up in Durango, Mexico, where he would attend lucha libre matches at the local auditorium. He knew at a young age that he wanted to be a luchador, to appear on TV. 

Training to be a luchador can be rigorous. “When I first started, it took me a couple years,” said De la Torre. He now trains luchadores four days a week at his gym in the Waterbury Building, teaching them the secrets of the wrestling moves. He also teaches them how to protect each other, to prevent injuries. “It takes a lot of work to do the simple stuff. You practice a move a hundred times. When people see you in the ring, they think, ‘Oh, that’s easy. I can do that.’ We suffer more in training than we do in the shows.”

Gaston Perea was on hand to watch the Sept. 21 show. Like De la Torre, he had dreams of becoming a luchador after watching matches in his hometown of Ciudad Juarez in the Mexican state of Chihuahua. “I fell in love with lucha libre,” he said. He trained in Matamoros. “It hurts,” he said. “It’s a dangerous thing to do, even though the matches are choreographed. If you do something wrong … ”

De la Torre left Mexico 17 years of age. He worked as a professional boxer for three years. “I got knocked out twice,” he said. “They took my license away. Another knockout, I could have lost my life.” He felt the need to be active, found a lucha libre gym and began a wrestling career.

He brought lucha libre to Minnesota 25 years ago, after living for a time in Los Angeles.

“For a long time, only the Spanish community knew we had lucha libre here,” De la Torre said. “Two or three years ago, we started loading videos on social media and we started to see a lot of Anglo people coming to see lucha libre, to the point where I have more Americans than Latinos coming to my shows.” (The majority of the September crowd was Latino.)

He said there are perhaps ten local luchadores, but not all of them wrestle for him. “I’m a serious company, I don’t play games. It’s not a joke. Being a luchador to me is my life, and we have to respect the lucha libre. Some don’t want to follow my rules or the lucha libre rules.” He said they just want to wear a mask to show off.

There are two types of wrestlers, De la Torre said, a Heel and a Babyface. “The Heel is a rudo. Babyface is a técnico, the victim. The rudo is the aggressive guy. He can cheat. He can do whatever he wants. The técnico can’t do that, he has to take all the heat. The rudo’s job is to beat him up and make people angry.” When the rudo has the audience properly fired up against him, the técnico gets his chance for revenge. When a wrestler is pinned to the canvas for a count of three, the match is over.

The Sept. 21 show celebrated Rudos Productions’ fourth anniversary. It included rouletta Russa, in which ten luchadors were in the ring at the same time. One by one, they were vanquished, until only two remained. The prize, $5,000, would go to the winner. Celtic Wolf, an audience favorite, was masked. Ninja Kato was not. If Ninja Kato won, Celtic Wolf would have to surrender his mask. If Celtic Wolf won, Ninja Kato would lose his hair. He sobbed melodramatically as Celtic Wolf took a battery-operated shaver and ran it down the middle of his skull, removing his thick black hair.

During a “lumberjack” match, women staged at the four corners of the ring chased wrestlers who fell out of the ring, beating them mercilessly with wide belts (and laughing) until they got back into the fight. The crowd ate it up.

The show also included luchadoras, female wrestlers. “They take the same risks, they prepare the same, as a luchador,” De la Torre said. “They look so beautiful in the ring, with the lights,” he said. “Fans like how sexy they look.”

Billed as Las Toxicas (the Toxic Ones), the wrestlers who performed that evening were not as scantily clad as they looked; there were body stockings underneath those bikini bottoms. Sexy Star, Lady Marrella, Reyna Dorada (Golden Queen) and La Hiedra (Poison Ivy) strode around the room like they owned it, and acted as though the wolf whistles were their proper due. They did fewer body slams than the luchadors, and bounced around the arena like rubber balls. 

Lucha libre fan Meaghan Ruddy said she liked to watch all the wrestlers. “The gymnastics are absolutely incredible,” she said. “To see so many body sizes just float out of the ring!”

The kids in the audience, who see luchadores as superheros, have their favorites, of course. Twelve-year-old Angel likes Payaso Cocoliso, the clown. For 11-year-old Sergio, it’s Renegado. Why? “Because he’s my dad!”

The Northeaster asked two of the wrestlers why they do lucha libre. As with De la Torre and Perea, Reyna Dorada said she watched the sport as a kid growing up in Mexico. Celtic Wolf said, “Why do people act in movies? It’s an art; it’s about storytelling. People who have a bad day can come here and see good guys and bad guys and they feel better.”

“Lucha libre fans come here to take their stress out,” said De la Torre. “They call you whatever names they want. When you walk out, you’re going to feel different. You let all your stress go.”

Lucha libre classes for kids, youth and adults are offered Monday-Friday in the Waterbury Building, 1121 Jackson St. NE. Call 612-749-0834.