Wrestling Students Have Big Lucha Libre Dreams

MEXICO CITY — On the fifth floor of a dingy gym in one of this city's most dangerous neighborhoods, an unusual group of students fling each other around the wrestling ring, swan dive off the top rope and try to master painful leg locks.

There's a plumber from Puebla, a grocer's son from Nuevo Laredo, a middle-aged mother of two, a 13-year-old middle school student, a promising hopeful from Japan. But one thing unites this diverse collection: they all have dreams of becoming stars in the wild world of masked Mexican wrestling, known as Lucha Libre.

Three days a week, Mario Balbuena Gonzalez, a squat 48-year-old who has wrestled for more than 30 years as El Apache, puts them through hellish workouts that leave most on the verge of dry heaves. Some of the students are on the cusp of their professional career, while others have only seen the sport on television and are pursuing fantasies they've nurtured since childhood.

"I just want to be a superstar," said Fred Vera, 23, who left his family's grocery store in Laredo, Texas three weeks ago to train in Mexico City. Vera had fought in some Lucha Libre matches along the border, but knew that to make it big he had to come to the sport's physical and spiritual home. "I know that this is the best (class) in Mexico ... I know I can do it, but it's really hard."

Mexico is seeing an explosion of wrestling hopefuls like Vera. About 100 fighters earned their professional license last year, more than double the number ten years ago, according to the Mexico City Professional Lucha Libre Commission. The commission's director said it is on pace to hand out even more licenses — similar to boxing licenses in the U.S. — this year.

Considered by some to be Mexico's second most popular sport after soccer, Lucha Libre's popularity is bleeding across the border thanks to immigration, movies like "Nacho Libre" and cross-pollination in American wrestling leagues. Lucha Libre matches are held regularly in Mexican-American communities throughout the South and Southwest and Mexican leagues have staged successful tours through the United States.

Unlike American wrestling, where massive physiques are a prerequisite, Lucha Libre is a dream open to the most ordinary of bodies.

"Anyone can be a luchador — short guys, fat people, skinny people — anyone can come in here as long as you can do the moves," said Jesus Gonzalez, a plumber from the neighboring state of Puebla. At 5 feet 3 inches and 123 pounds, the diminutive 25-year-old is trying to perfect a high-flying, acrobatic style that characterizes Lucha Libre.

And more than ever it is welcoming women into its ranks. One of the youngest students, 13-year-old Sandra Belen convinced her mom to sign her up for the class during summer vacations. As Sandra flies through the air and throws men twice her size, her mom, Carmen Castillo, can be found in the corner of the gym, shielding her eyes. "It's a little strange to me, but if she likes it, I have to support her," she said.

Despite the large numbers of professional Lucha Libre wrestlers entering the ranks each year, just a tiny percentage will become big stars. The rest will toil in an unforgiving world that one Lucha Libre expert calls "a horrible life."

Balbuena, the wrestling teacher, says the students who make it to the pros face a life of constant injury, a brutal travel schedule and weeks and months away from family.

"Sometimes you're injured and you have to keep fighting," said Balbuena, his own forehead a maze of scars collected in 35 years of wrestling. "The public doesn't care about your injury. They say, 'He's my hero, he's made of steel' ... we give ourselves to our public."

So why do so many leave everything behind to pursue it? "Lucha is magic," said Mexican filmmaker Isaac Bengurion, who has made eight documentaries on Lucha Libre. "They are looking for the fame, they want the people to ask for their autograph, they want people to recognize them."

Rene Arriaga, a skinny 21-year-old from a hardscrabble neighborhood on Mexico City's west side, dropped out of high school to pursue his Lucha Libre dreams, and despite the scars that are already appearing on his forehead, wants to stay in the sport until he grows old. He had his first pro fight a few months ago in a 7,000-seat stadium in a raucous four on four match. "You get nervous, when you first jump in the ring you don't know what to do," he said. "Apache told me, 'Yell! Yell at the people! ... No one has been able to get this out of my head."

Although Lucha Libre has crossed over into the mainstream in both American and Mexican pop cultures, it remains a sport nourished by Mexico's working class. Both the great arenas and small gyms are still located in Mexico City's toughest neighborhoods and sprawling slums.

"The (upper-class) people who want to see the fights have to go to these places," Bengurion said. "They try to blend in, but with their $100 shoes, they stick out. It's kind of funny."

In far western Mexico City, the Emiliano Zapata Gym hosts Lucha Libre matches every Sunday evening, drawing a crowd of families who sit on foldout chairs under a makeshift corrugated tin roof.

Unlike the big arenas, at the Zapata gym there's no distance between the spectators and fighters, and a steady stream of insults and banter flows throughout the night. Fighters who can't keep up verbally get humiliated by the public.

"You have to be able to manage the people, that's the most important thing," Balbuena said.

As in all Lucha Libre matches, the fights at Zapata are staged between tecnicos (the good guys) and rudos (the bad guys). Each side has their cheering section, and as the night gets darker the atmosphere gets increasingly more chaotic, the moves increasingly treacherous. By the final fight, the small gym is shaking with chants and shouting and nearly everyone is on their feet.

"It's a way to get rid of all the stress of the week," said Armando Ortega, a 26-year-old fan. "We here are mostly all workers and we work hard all week."

The weary wrestlers at Zapata leave the ring as a throng of kids crowd around for autographs.

Vera, the Nuevo Laredo student, hopes such adulation is in his future. After nearly a month in Apache's class he got a tryout with AAA, one of two major Mexican wrestling associations, and his chances of going pro seem promising.

"I miss my family ... but I want to stay here," he said. "It's like a dream I don't want to wake up from."