There’s always a risk in seeing “the last,” whether it’s in sports or entertainment. You know that going in. You know Mick and Keith don’t really quite play “Jumping Jack Flash” now the way they did in 1974 or even 1989. Just last week, I knew that seeuing Lionel Messi running at the defenders of Chicago Fire FC at Soldier Field wasn’t quite the same as him literally dribbling Jerome Boateng’s ass into the ground at the Nou Camp in the Champions League.
Yet, you know that if any performer on any stage is worth a “last,” then it’s a risk worth taking. Tomato cans don’t get a “last.” So it was as thousands of us headed to Windy City Riot in Chicago to see Hiroshi Tanahashi’s last US match. Which is sort of a weird “last,” but for us it’s a “last,” as we’re highly unlikely to be able to travel to the Tokyo Dome for the next Wrestle Kingdom. Certainly NJPW and Tanahashi treated it that way and with that gravity.
It was also a different kind of “last,” due to the space Tanahashi inhabits in the American wrestling space. As important as he is in Japan, and as appreciated and loved as he is by American fans of NJPW, it’s still very niche. Those in the know are used to seeing him through the internet in the wee hours of the morning, when his glorious alien-like presentation and aura is only heightened, seen through squinting eyes in darkened rooms. The idea of seeing such a thing in person is even more foreign, because it’s not even that clear he’s real, given how we’re used to watching him. Tanahashi always seemed so distant, in the best ways, and because not only does Japan feel so far but watching shows at 3 or 4am or on delay in the days after only marks it feel more unreachable. When he does arrive in front of you, you can’t help but wonder if some mistake has been made. He’s a creature of another place, after all, in so many ways.
Not only was it a last glimpse of a wrestling touchstone, but the last chance to feel part of something. All fandoms of any kind are, partly, born out of a need to be part of something. Whether it’s civic pride or a connection to others or part of some event or a feeling of belonging as you break down the nuts and bolts on various forums and discords. Which only makes Triple Paul’s rants on fans needing to just shut up and take what they’re given all the more infuriating, as it completely misses the point of fandom. But that’s another talk for another time.
Let’s face it, part of the appeal of NJPW fandom on these shores is “being in the club.” To feel part of a wrestling fandom that knows and feels something most others don’t. We’re wrestling fans, and there’s still very much the teenager within us that doesn’t want others listening to one of our favorite bands. It just takes different forms. It was a chance to get one last dose of being somewhere special that only few knew about.
While few said it out loud, there was some apprehension among the attendees. One of the last glimpses we’d had of Tanahashi was that match with Togi Makabe at New Beginning, and to call it rough would be on the polite side of the scale. The last thing any of us wanted to watch was Tanahashi struggling to hop over the ropes. Deep down, we silently admitted to ourselves if he didn’t even try it it would be ok. Better than seeing him fail to do it, at least.
If Tanahashi wanted to just sail on presentation and feeling for a few more years, he could easily do it. Even with NJPW’s understated live arrangement, Tanahashi’s entrance still feels like the most important person in the world has landed in your city in a type of aircraft only he owns. Ok, maybe as a bald man I’m biased seeing that hair, but it is truly something. He still feels like a cartoon action hero come to life, even if he doesn’t move like it.
Thankfully, any apprehension was quickly dissipated, as Tanahashi looked like he still belonged in a ring with Konuske Takeshita, a wrestler so good that three different companies have said, “Look, we’ll share this guy just so we can have any of him.” He hit hard, got hit harder, and didn’t need to cut things off at seven or eight minutes and be hauled off in an oxygen tank.
With the netherworld that wrestling so wonderfully exists within, there’s the dual line of wrestler Tanahashi just not being able to keep up with Takeshita, and the real-world one of Takeshita being the future of this section of the wrestling world. Maybe the whole wrestling world, if things break a certain way. In a time when I’ve seen The Undertaker’s retirement used to boost Roman Reigns, and John Cena’s soon-to-arrive retirement boost…well, Roman Reigns (you know it’s happening), this felt actually game-changing. Something being handed over.
And yes, he hopped over the ropes, in the same giddy fashion we all remembered, if not quite with as much snap as he used to. Fears allayed that our memories of it wouldn’t be sullied with the sight of Tanahashi going for one or two too many. Which is the rub for this kind of thing. Sure, Jagger doesn’t quite hit the notes the way he used to. Messi doesn’t quite weave and slalom the way he used to. But they still can in moments, and you want to be there when they do, because you know it’ll make you feel the same way the first time you saw or heard them do it. That Tanahashi is still hopping over that top rope the way he did against Okada, or Omega, or Nakamura. Those transcendent moments we only saw in replay or in app or on our TV, they still all get channeled into one last one before our eyes. Still get that charge seeing it that we did in those matches that made Tanahashi TANAHASHI.
It’s wrestling, so he went out on his back. The wrestler Tanahashi can’t do it anymore, can’t compete with the likes of Takeshita. The performer Tanahashi has no more stories to tell, at least not to us on this side of the Pacific. The last one was to say that the likes of Takeshita can take it from here. Can be the ones that make us feel part of something, that we know something, that we’ll still be connected.
What more could anyone ask?
