I gave up wrestling the moment Rey Mysterio won that match 🤣🤣—and yes, I’m still laughing through the pain. Don’t get me wrong, Rey Mysterio is a legend. A Hall of Famer. A human highlight reel. But that night? That night tested my faith as a wrestling fan like nothing else ever had.
I was sitting there, fully invested, snacks ready, heart locked in, absolutely convinced logic would win. You know the feeling—when the story, the size difference, the momentum, and common sense all scream one result. And then… 619. Crowd explodes. Commentary loses its mind. Rey wins. Just like that. I stared at the screen in silence, blinking like my TV had personally betrayed me.
That was the exact moment something inside me snapped. Years of emotional investment flashed before my eyes. All the “this is cinema” tweets, all the debates, all the defending wrestling to non-fans—gone. Reduced to ashes by a man who weighs less than my weekly grocery bag somehow overcoming physics, gravity, and destiny itself.
I laughed. I really did. That uncontrollable, defeated laugh where you’re not even mad anymore—you’ve just accepted chaos as the booker. I thought, If Rey can win this, then anyone can win anything, anytime, for no reason at all. Why stress? Why analyze? Why predict? Wrestling had officially entered its “vibes only” era for me.
From that day on, I watched differently. No more deep emotional attachment. No more “this makes sense long-term.” Just vibes, flips, nostalgia, and memes. Rey didn’t just win a match—he freed me. Freed me from overthinking finishes, from arguing online, from expecting realism in a world where a 619 can end a monster’s reign.
So yeah, I gave up wrestling that night—but in the funniest way possible. Rey Mysterio didn’t kill my love for wrestling; he suplexed my expectations straight into the shadow realm. And honestly? I can’t even be mad. If you’re going to make me lose faith, at least do it with a mask, a springboard, and the crowd screaming your name 🤣🤣
