My friend Andrew took me to an amateur wrestling event, in Portland. There was quite a lot of sincere drama. About a week prior, I’d checked in with him to see if he’d be around the weekend that I’d be visiting. He said he had something perfect for us on Sunday night, but wouldn’t tell me what it was. All he said was that I should be ready to drink, and not to where anything too fancy. Knowing him, and knowing that he knows me, and my commonly hobo-esque appearance, I took this to mean something strange was going to happen. And strange, it was. The BCW, or Blue Collar Wrestling, is a collection of traveling old-school wrestlers that operate on small budgets and pure enthusiasm. The event space, more commonly known as the location of one of Portland’s largest swap meets, is a bare, glaringly-lit building up north, just east of St. John’s. They serve hot dogs, cheap beer, and a throwback to a time before the Internet, cell phones, social media, or really any kind of media, when families, mostly poor, would gather together under the tent to watch the traveling show.