I can’t remember the exact moment, but I decided early on that the brief/knee-high boot combo wasn’t for me. It was a snap judgement based on zero information and probably more than a little irrational fear of the adult male thigh.
Whatever it was, I wasn’t into it. I’d been brought up in an orthodox sporting home where wins and losses were alpha and omega and you only get to see Jesus if you hit your free throws.
To me, wrestling was just sweaty, make-believe theater—a nerdy alternative to actual sports for people who buy hats at gas stations and have examined the Zapruder negatives at length.