Wrestling athe Devil

Bodies fly in all directions, bouncing off the fighting ring’s ropes. Arms and legs are in a twist. Sweaty bare backs splash on the mat.

The four Mexican wrestlers in the ring--fighting in pairs--have become a blur. Men, women and children in the audience growl, laugh and scream.

“Dale duro!” (“Give it to him hard!”) a woman yells as if the outcome of the bout were a matter of life and death.

Finally, the referee throws himself to his knees and slaps the mat with his palm three times.

Once again, in a come-from-behind victory, the good guys have triumphed over the bad. And, while there was never much doubt that this would be so, the match was well-fought, and, for a time, it seemed possible that evil might somehow triumph.

The victors--Tawa and Sagrado--whose acrobatic style define them as tecnicos (scientific wrestlers) and good guys are the crowd’s heroes. The two adjust their masks and stay nearby to sign autographs for boys and girls, some of whom also wear fighter masks.

The two defeated wrestlers, Chilango and El Profeta, limp away. They are recognized as rudos (rule-breakers) and bad guys. Profeta clutches his head, holding onto his blood-drenched green mask, which had been humiliatingly loosened by Tawa.

Earlier, female wrestlers, as vicious in style and equal in skill to the men, fought the opening match. The next bout, the main event, featured three rudos and three tecnicos--including Mexican star Super Astro, known for his flashy acrobatics.

All this sporting action, or as one observer put it “all this theater,” takes place Sunday afternoons under a homemade tent in the parking lot of the Anaheim Marketplace, site of an indoor swap meet.

It’s the only place in Orange County--and one of the few places in Southern California--where for as little as $5, fans get their fix of Mexican wrestling, or lucha libre, “free fight.” In Mexico, lucha libre is a pastime second only to the country’s most revered national sport, futbol.

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The competing wrestling styles--rudos and tecnicos--and the power and mystique of the masks that most wrestlers wear are at the heart of lucha libre.

In Mexico, the matches have a six-decade history and are especially popular with working-class fans and the poor--many caught in the country’s political and economic strife--who pay a small price to see good triumph over evil. The escapism that lucha libre offers in Mexico isn’t much different from what it offers in the United States, where many of its fans are struggling to get ahead amid anti-immigrant sentiments.

“We come here to pass time and take our mind off of things,” says Anaheim resident Ignacio Angel, 26, who goes--with his wife, Ester, and their children--most Sundays to the 3-month-old matches billed as World Power Wrestling. “We come to see the voladas [flying moves]. . . . It’s fun and it’s inexpensive.”

Independent filmmaker Richard Salazar of Placentia, who just finished making a film on Mexican wrestling, says the cultural tradition behind lucha libre is a reflection of the social landscape.

“Whether it’s south of the border, or in our backyard, lucha libre is an expression of what people feel but cannot verbalize,” Salazar says. “The audience can exorcise their demons at a fight. They may not think about it as unreal, but when they cheer for the good guys to win, it’s like a prayer waiting to come true.”

It’s not unlike the instinctive knowledge readers and viewers have that comic-book and television heroes, even though caught in impossibly dangerous situations, will somehow pull through. Like lucha libre wrestlers, the masks worn by Zorro, Batman and others help give them strength.

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Pink Butterfly, 18, is a high school student in Claremont by day, an acrobatic body-bruising wrestler by night throughout Southern California. At age 14, she paid nearly $3,000 to a Mexican wrestling school in San Bernardino to learn how to become a pro. Like other female fighters, Pink Butterfly is not considered either rudo or tecnico. She’s a fighter, just like her father, just like her grandmother.

And like her predecessors, the mask-wearing luchadora doesn’t reveal her true identity.

“The mask is very important to a wrestler,” Pink Butterfly says. “There’s mystery that comes with it, and if my fans saw my face, why would they want to come see me fight later?”

In Mexican wrestling, masked fighters assume their character’s name. Their proper names become secondary.

The most famous Mexican wrestler in history--el inmortal luchador de plata, El Santo (the immortal silver wrestler, the Saint), whose professional career spanned nearly three decades--never took off his mask, not even for the dozens of films and television programs in which he appeared.

To lose your mask in battle is to lose face, Pink Butterfly says.

Wearing masks in combat for Mexicans is a ritual as ancient as Indian memory, and as recent as Chiapas rebel leader Subcomandante Marcos. His mask served as a symbol of his power, his secrecy, his evasion from federal troops. Many say that since Rafael Sebastian Guillen Vicente took off his ski mask, most of his magic has been lost.

“It will take a lot of money for me to take off my mask willingly,” says Pink Butterfly, who has declined doing television ads for Coca-Cola because she would have had to remove it.

Within the lucha libre tradition, masked wrestlers in bitter rivalries challenge each other to a match in which the loser must surrender his or her mask, forever discarding the character identified with it.

A duel for the mask is the best case that Mexican wrestling has to prove that it is a genuine sport.

“When we go in the ring, we don’t know who is going to win or lose,” says Super Boy, a masked 26-year-old rudo who has been fighting for six years. “I don’t want to lose my mask.”

Lucino Garcia, a lucha libre referee, who goes by the name of Gasparin, describes it as the equivalent of a championship match. “It’s the most exciting type of fight there can be. The loss of a mask is the end of an era for that fighter,” he says.

Anaheim organizers say the rivalry between tecnico Tawa and rudo El Profeta will probably end in a mask challenge.

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Mexican wrestling has had some presence in Southern California since the early 1970s, when an elite group of luchadores were paired up against American wrestlers--Mil Mascaras (A Thousand Masks) was the best-known Mexican wrestler in the United States.

Grapplers were licensed by the state Athletic Commission, the same government body that regulates boxing. By the mid-’80s, however, the American and Mexican styles of wrestling went their separate ways.

American wrestling became less about athleticism and more about body-building and comedy routines. Popularized by characters such as Hulk Hogan, it became a staple of entertainment television.

Mexican wrestling, popular on Spanish-language television, tried to keep athleticism and competition the focus of the “sport.” Even so, the outcome of the match was predictable.

Laws on the books in California stated that any event in which “the winner may have been selected before the performance commences” cannot be billed as a match or contest.

By 1989, California lawmakers ruled that professional wrestling, American or Mexican, is entertainment, not sport, and should not require government supervision.

Regardless of what lawmakers believe, however, lucha libre is real, fans, fighters and promoters say.

Ask any Mexican wrestler whether it’s real, and he or she will show you a scar or tell you a story that will make you do a double take.

One fighter lifts his shirt to expose a 6-inch scar across his belly. Another counts the lumps on his head. Fighters train to learn how to take falls and hits as much as deliver them.

“Maybe its 60% sport, 40% showmanship,” one fighter admits.

Adds Antonio Alvarez, 47, a promoter who runs the All Nations Gymnasium in East Los Angeles: “What would you have left if two guys went in and one started beating the other to a pulp? There has to be some aesthetic balance to have an event.”

The gym is one of two sites in Los Angeles that regularly hosts Mexican wresting matches; the other is El Zacatecano (United International Wrestling) in Compton. As in Anaheim, the matches are held Sundays.

Alvarez, a native of Mexico, is a 25-year grappler and is one of the driving forces behind lucha libre’s presence in the region. He imported his organizational knowledge from a successful fighting career in Mexico.

Promoters, he says, have taken up the responsibility of regulating the fights.

“Anyone who wants to can get in the ring, and they may have health problems. . . . With the commission, at least we had doctors checking the fighters,” he says ringside at All Nations Gymnasium, where Pink Butterfly and a number of other wrestlers train. “Now we set the rules.”

Alvarez, who boasts having removed the masks of seven luchadores, also brought his tailoring skills over the border: He provides masks for newcomers and for event merchandising.

“Super Astro’s mask is probably the most famous mask I’ve made,” says Alvarez, who also made the masks of Pink Butterfly and her father.

After lucha libre was deregulated in 1989, Alvarez formed the International Mexican Wrestling club in Los Angeles. Three years later, he helped organize wrestling matches in Santa Ana. However, that effort soon fizzled because of managerial and other problems.

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Bringing lucha libre back to Orange County this summer after a three-year absence was World Power Wrestling founder Martin Marin, 34, a Huntington Beach masked wrestler for eight years.

So far, the fights aren’t considered as high-quality as those found hours away in Tijuana or at an occasional L.A. Sports Arena event. But, says Marin, “the [local] fighters here have a chance to make a name for themselves while polishing their styles.”

The fights have drawn enough attention that there is talk of filming some bouts for the popular Tijuana-based “Lucha Libre” television show that airs locally.

While touring in Mexico, Marin bought a used wrestling ring with his earnings. At first, he kept the ring in his backyard so local wrestlers could train. He moved it to the Anaheim swap meet after he put together a free July 4 lucha libre that drew 1,000 spectators.

“The first time I told [the swap meet managers] I was going to charge admission, they said I wasn’t going to pull it off,” says Marin, who is recovering from a wrestling-match knee injury.

By the third time out, his event was drawing at least 200 people, paying $5 to $8 for adults and $2 for children. Reasonable prices, he says, compared with the $15 to $35 fans pay in Los Angeles.

The success has allowed him to attract big-name Mexican wrestlers such as Super Astro, who drew more than 300 fans. When another star, Vampiro Canadiense was featured, the event drew close to 500.

Marin doesn’t see lucha libre disappearing from Orange County a second time. With a home base at the swap meet, where about 15 local wrestlers train about three hours a day, Marin is now shopping for additional sites in Santa Ana and Costa Mesa.

In the meantime, Marin’s venue has given wrestlers such as Pink Butterfly one more place to earn money while doing what she loves most. Though she won’t say how much she earns as a wrestler, Pink Butterfly says she can’t complain.

Unknown wrestlers average $50 a fight. Bigger names get as much as $400 for local events.

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Like many wrestlers, Humberto Sanchez, 26, comes from a family of fighters, including his father and two older brothers.

A Mexico City native who recently moved to Huntington Beach, Sanchez is known for his trickery in the ring--gouging of eyes and other illegal punishing tactics. He wrestles as Chilango, the maskless rudo who teamed with El Profeta against Tawa and El Sagrado.

When in a bout, Chilango taunts, pointing at the audience and raising his eye-brows in a menacing scowl.

“There’s something inside that makes my personality explode,” Sanchez says. Though he has a lot of tecnico style, he has rudo leanings and often is at the end of a tongue-lashing from someone in the audience. “When I’m in the ring, I feel free,” he says.

After a shower and a meal in the makeshift locker room at the Anaheim Marketplace, his mood is relaxed. “I get transformed when I fight,” he says.

Sanchez trains an average of two hours a day, perfecting his staple moves, practicing his trademark submission arm twist to force a back flip.

Sanchez hopes that some day, like Super Astro or Super Boy, he can make a living from just fighting. Some established luchadores travel as far as Japan, where fans fill 60,000-seat arenas for lucha libre. For now, he says he’ll continue developing his character, Chilango, and do what he enjoys most as often as he can.

“I fight for the people, the fans,” Sanchez says. “When I’m up there, in the ring, I like to think that I’m distracting them from their worries, that I’m pulling away kids from bad influences and that they are all having a good time watching me.”