State of Mind: For the Love of Wrestling (I Hate Tribalism)

I’m editing this in before I post, but good for Michin on her recent interview and openness about marijuana use. I will cover more on this later, I just need the right state of mind (pun intended) to write it. Now on to the original edit of this piece.

Let’s get one thing straight: I hate tribalism. It’s pointless, divisive, and frankly, it’s making us all dumber. And I’m not pointing fingers at you, dear reader. I’m pointing at me. I’m pointing at all of us who grab that low-hanging fruit, knowing it’ll drive clicks and views. We’re all guilty of it.
It’s the cable news playbook: incite rage, because rage equals engagement. It’s easy. It’s cheap. And it’s rotting our brains.

By day, I’m a mid-40s father and career man. By night? I’m That Donnie, a weed enthusiast who walked away from a career in a branch of law enforcement after two decades of witnessing hate, violence, and rage. All I want is peace and harmony. I’m a modern-day hippie without my Woodstock. Because if they did give me Woodstock, Corporate America would have slapped a mortgage-sized price tag on it and I’d have to sell my daughter, That LSD, to pay off the loan..

She’s That LSD because she looks like me, That Little She Donnie. But if you look she has her mom’s ears.

Because I’m so vocal about this tribalism bullshit, I often try to write critiques of wrestling products I don’t enjoy. I always preface these critiques with a lengthy explanation of my wrestling history, trying to make it crystal clear that I’m not contributing to the problem I despise. But here’s the thing: by the time I’ve finished my preamble, my critique has become an epic. I’m not writing “1984”; I’m writing “Les Misérables.” Both masterpieces, sure, but in the age of TikTok, nobody’s reading “Les Misérables.” Hell, even “1984” is a stretch these days. I’d be better suited putting it in under a hundred characters on X.

So, my magnum opus sits in Google Docs, mocking me. I can’t post it. TLDR. Those four letters are the death knell of thoughtful discourse to That Donnie’s OCD. It’s enough to drive a man to his evil clown biker bong, “Pennyhighs,” and a bowl of Black Hole Sun cannibas.

The solution? A disclaimer piece. A way to explain my passion for wrestling and my views on the state of the industry before I unleash my critiques in one larger post.

Everything you’ve read so far? That’s the prologue. Now That Donnie presents “1984”. Let’s talk about my relationship with wrestling.

Picture this: Seven-year-old That Donnie, sprawled on Grandma’s floor, glued to Voltron. Rain outside, naturally. Because after Voltron, it was outside time. Unless the heavens were crying. That’s how I discovered WWF Superstars of Wrestling.

Forget cartoons. “Ravishing” Rick Rude grabbed me by the throat. Saturday mornings at Grandma’s became sacred. My neighborhood terrorizing was put on hold. My uncle, God bless him, even joined us. He loved “my ‘rasslin’.”

You know how many corners That Donnie got put in because he was Andre the Giant, and his little sister, That Nan, was Hulk Hogan. We would jump up and down on the bed and wrestle. When Andre threw Hogan out of the ring, for some reason he always got put in the corner. Someone forgot to tell her; no one puts That Donnie in the corner.

Fast forward: January 24th, 1988. The first Royal Rumble live on USA. Seven-year-old me was hooked. Line, sinker, the whole nine yards. Years later, I’m at Badd Blood, witnessing the first Hell in a Cell and Kane’s debut. My mind was blown.

Then, the Monday Night Wars. My fandom exploded. From Rude and Jake Roberts to Austin, Michaels, the nWo, Angle, Edge, Punk… the evolution was constant.

But then, the inevitable decline. Mid-2010s, WWE became a repetitive, predictable, and soul-crushing slog. TNA? Worse. New Japan? Boring. ROH? Spoilers galore.

I became a YouTube wrestling fan, catching clips and reading dirt sheets. It was enough to keep the flame flickering while protecting my inclined instinct to scratch out my eyes everytime I tried to watch Raw or Smackdown.

Then…AEW. Cody Rhodes, All In, Jericho… I was all in, baby. I watched every week, clinging to hope. And even though my feelings on AEW are complicated now, it did bring me back. Because I love wrestling. I mean love it. It’s an escape. It’s athletic storytelling. It’s heroes and villains, shades of gray, all playing out on my screen. I love the athleticism. I love the controlled narrative. I love that it’s a variety show, a horror anthology with something for everyone. I’ve been to live shows, raised my daughters on wrestling, read the books, watched the documentaries. Wrestling, horror, sports, and survival shows – that’s my jam.

I grew up playing Pro Wrestling on the NES, spent countless hours in high school and college playing Wrestlemania 2000 and No Mercy while smoking too much marijuana and drinking Jager shots until we were drunk enough to not care at the toxic taste of Red Grape Mad Dog 20/20 that was so cheap even a broke college student could afford it.

Confession? I was an e-fed nerd for two decades. I’m talking email feds, Angelfire, Geocities, Zeus Pro… I’m an old-head pioneer. My first efed was in 1994 and it was done via hotmail chain.
My point? I love wrestling.

When I critique, I don’t do it to stir shit. I don’t chase clicks with rage bait. I do it because I want wrestling to be better. Perfection is impossible, but we should always strive for it.

I want WWE, AEW, TNA, all of wrestling to be better. I want it to thrive. I want people to experience the joy I experience, whether they’re watching AEW or WWE.

I critique from a place of love. Because I want wrestling to be its best. So that when some kid picks up their grandma’s phone on a Saturday morning, they get hooked. Just like I did in 1987. Whether it’s Cody Rhodes or Swerve Strickland, I want them to be captivated. I want them to fall in love with wrestling.

I want them to be able experience 35 plus years of escapism in a magnificent fantasy universe.

And remember:

Today’s Playlist:
Isak by Baroness
Stalker by Goldfinger
Ballroom Blitz by Sweet
are you the only one now? by Zeal & Ardor
Whiplash by Architects
Boom Biddy Bye Bye by Cypress Hill
the center’s falling out by Poppy
The All-Destroying by Goatwhore
Never Too Much by Luther Vandross
Middle Child by J. Cole

My Socials:
BlueSky: thatdonnie.bsky.social
X: @ThatDonnie420
Instagram: thatdonnie420
Threads: @thatdonnie420
Spotify ThatDonnie
Letterboxd: ThatDonnie
XBox Gamer Tag: ThatDonnie