The Catharsis of John Cena vs. Brock Lesnar

by William Renken (@williamrenken83)

 

 

The National Guard and Amnesty International have been called into Ferguson, MO. A tempestuous situation. Brutal and ugly in its origin. Even more so in it has unfolded sense. The scene last Wednesday was a mad, mad affair that only in the age of social networking brought everyone around the world into an American suburb where militarized weaponry and vehicles are now a standard protocol in dealing with a protest; a protest that at heart has no counterpoint from anyone with single shred of decency or dignity in their heart.
To the west, the far west, this was the scene just a little more than 20 years ago. An African American man is detained and beaten by a group of police officers, which might as well had been the viral amateur footage of its day. The end result sets the tone for what hopefully is not the case in Ferguson: zero accountability. The authority wins. The people responded. Riots. The worst we had ever seen on our own soil in the modern age.
How ironic.
How god damn ironic it is that Los Angeles would be the site of SummerSlam amidst this social carnage in Missouri…
But somehow, there in lies the beauty of what wrestling has always been. the sweetest mistress of escape. Further than that, it holds the gorgeous distinction of being one of the most ultimate vehicles of vicarious life.
At some point, we’ve all lived through them. Well, those of us, that drank the Kool Aid so many years ago.
Tonight, it’s a special escape. Some in America, spurned by the events of the Missouri government and local police departments have ventured to the Mid West to join the protest. Many remain at home, but still with a full tank of rancor and venom. Everyone finds a channel for it. If you listen to the WWE, they’ll supply you a fix for $9.99 a month.
But their is something fitting to this year’s SummerSlam. The main event is very fitting, considering the unflattering events of the previous week. John Cena, the champion, the authority (no, not The Authority but, in essence, the status quo); the man who honestly is the most cherished and hated superstar on the roster. Kids love him. Adults and Kool Aid drinkers take his presence like an antiseptic fed every week. He steps up against Brock Lesnar, an absolute savage beast, who genetically and athletically couldn’t be more gifteed as a professional wrestler. The one guy you could believe could legitimately decimate another human being if its not a work. What’s even better is that he carries himself as such.
With a CM Punk or a Daniel Bryan or even The Rock, we wanted to see Cena lose. Lose clean. No bullshit. With Lesnar, it’s more than just beating Cena that would be gratifying. It’s a bloodlust. It’s a catharsis. We want to see something savage and brutal. We got the taste for it two years ago when Lesnar opened up the side of Cena’s head with vicious elbow shots during their Extreme Rules match. But it wasn’t enough. Super Cena superseded all fucking logic once again during his green t-shirt run and won the match.
Blood, urine, and vomit. That’s the last line of the video build package Lesnar leaves us with before the entrances are made. That’s what we want. Blood, urine, and vomit. Even in just the figurative way, that would be satisfying enough. Most of us can’t do anything about the events going in in the real world that are unjust enough to make us rage out of control and stop being rational human beings. But Brock Lesnar can make deface WWE’s face, it’s conquering hero and all will be alright… right?
Lesnar’s cold hard stare at the entrance way is a production director’s dream. They stay with shot until Cena’s music hits. No one sells no nonsense better than Lesnar. Cena shuffles like a defeated man to the ring in his ridiculous red and yellow t-shirt run of summer 2014. He holds up a crying towel that reads “Never Give Up.” “Same old shit, different day. Its disgusting. Your principles are discount cards in a game of Gin, John.” That’s the angry Dr. Keezer has waited for this moment. The bottle of Sailor Jerry’s once at full has now fully revealed the tattoo on the inside of its label. Keezer is a mad man, fully enthralled and engaged in his bloodlust. He’s here to see the Passion of John Cena, hoping Mel Gibson will direct the affair.
Cena’s charging offense is dismissed and led into an F5, 30 seconds into the match. My god, will they job him that quick?
Of course not. But it leaves a great moment before our eyes. In a complete disregard of the usual blank look of confusion when a wrestler’s finishing move doesn’t finish off his opponent, Lesnar smiles.
No, this isn’t going to be Extreme Rules 2012.
The camera view of the first, second and third rows catch a handful of Cena fans clad in the ridiculous red and yellow t-shirt of their champion. They bear the visual interpretation of Colonel Kurtz’s line “The horror…The horror” from Heart of Darkness.
Sixteen suplexes. Relasing Germans over and over. There is no frenetic pace. With each move and subsequent stalking over Cena, Lesnar gives the anti-Cena fan base its dream come true.
Dr. Keezer is seething. Three fingers of the Sailor in his glass and jar of olives. A sick, sick man. He’s loving this, and loving the kid screaming “Let’s go Cena” that the ringside microphones keep picking up. Someday that kid is going to realize that he was a part of this night. But he’ll realize his chants for the fading champion are slowly jobbed out by the rest of the arena awaiting the inevitable crescendo.
But god damn that Cena almost had everyone fooled. An Attitude Adjustment slam out of nowhere. Keezer won’t stand for one offensive move from Cena that could possibly overcome the savage suplex affair Lesnar has unleashed.
Lesnar kicks out at two.
This is not Extreme Rules 2012.
Last gasp. Hail Mary. Cena slips in his usually poorly synched STFU. This isn’t that at all. Its a flat out naked rear choke. I feel for that kid whose chants are also given a last gasp. No, kid, Lesnar isn’t going out like that.
One last time, this is not Extreme Rules 2012.
The final F5 is the winner. The Cena fans in the first three rows look as defeated standing as Cena looks lying on the mat.
This wasn’t passing the torch. This wasn’t Rock-Brock from 2002, but it feels that way almost. The time to move the status quo out of the way. And just like Rock back then, Cena is bombed out and depleated at the hands of Lesnar. Keezer rejoices as do many. Bloodlust quenched.
The Passion of the Cena is at an end. No blood, urine, or vomit, but certainly devasation. Our ultimate vicarious experience. Brock Lesnar for twenty minutes became the vehicle of living for so many angry people who have probably simulated this same scenario on their X-Box over the years.
You can’t say anything less than its the most dominating WWE title match we have seen in awhile. But even despite that, it’s overwith in twenty minutes. What’s going on in Ferguson will likely go on much longer and be somewhere in all of minds come Monday morning. That’s the power of wrestling, though. Sometimes, it’s just nice to escape for a little while.
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