Professional wrestling is a blend of sports and theater, which would seem to alienate fans of either. The joy of sports is found in the unpredictability, the sense that anything could happen. But at the risk of bursting your bubble with a folding chair to the face, wrestling is super fake.

The outcomes are predetermined, the elaborate moves are scripted, the fix is in. The only reason to watch are enormous men in tiny shorts with the acting range of your average middle school drama department. Though there is a singular joy in someone leaping off the top rope for a flying clothesline.

The drama circling frenemies Hulk Hogan and Macho Man Randy Savage entranced me when I thought it was real. I felt betrayed once I understood it was all clumsy theater. And frankly I felt embarrassed for falling for the ruse. It was so painfully obvious in retrospect. Soap operas are less melodramatic.

I say this not to yuck anyone's yum but to acknowledge I don't get the allure of pro wrestling, and much of what I have to say about the Rock is probably colored by that. Because the story of the Rock and that of pro wrestling are closely intertwined. He's grown beyond the ring but he'll never truly escape it.

The Rock was actually Dwayne Johnson's third ring name. I'm of the opinion that his first—Flex Kavana—was the best, but what do I know? I'm also the guy who thinks Star Wars should dump the wizard swordsmen already.

Johnson made his WWF debut in 1996 under the name Rocky Maivia, combining the ring names of his father and grandfather. Early on, the WWF played up his generational heritage, turning him into a heroic goody-goody, like a yoked Luke Skywalker.

The fans hated him.

In writing this piece, I watched his first WWF match. I get it. I kinda hate him too. He looks goofy and somehow unserious, which is a heck of a thing to say considering a budget Goldmember punches him in the nuts.