The Night Goldberg Lost For The First Time

There's a sensation in pro wrestling that is almost impossible to elicit through its inherent farce and theatre.

This isn't a bad thing. Wrestling, designed to raise goosebumps with its storytelling and drop jaws with its spectacular action-based third acts, evokes its own thrill. But there's a special feeling very few pro wrestlers have managed to convincingly manufacture. It's normally the preserve of violent combat sports, the very real nature of which adds a disturbing gravity to everything. When a brutal lunging fist is struck, and the victim wobbles on their feet, something ugly happens within us. We want that person to yield to unconsciousness. In that moment, their health - their doom - is our entertainment. The visceral depths of our core want to see blood, and this, bypassing the frontal lobe completely, is communicated outwardly with grunts and expletives shouted through gnashed teeth. A base and immoral adrenaline rush is still an adrenaline rush. The immorality of it adds to the power of the feeling. It's illicit, dangerous, primal.

Goldberg emulated this thrill in the pro wrestling arena. A super-intense, hyper-masculine, legitimate former athlete, he looked demonstrably capable of tearing asses in half, and he effectively did with his Spear. This incredible innovation got him over huge in a company - WCW - that didn't allow for such things beyond the established Order. The thrill was inimitable. He launched himself at these hapless pricks with an awesome, primal blend of velocity and power, like a predator sinking in the teeth, and they broke in half under his force. He rattled their skeletons and dropped them in an instant. It was awesome - so awesome, in fact, that the spectacle never once dimmed, allowing WCW to build his legendary undefeated Streak over months and months through the greatest squash matches ever bestowed on the bloodthirsty masses.

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