Lucha Libre

On Friday and Sunday evenings, the true aficionados--men and women, children and grandmothers--file into Tijuana Auditorium. They don’t come to savor the combat of the bullfight or the boxing ring, or the frenzied exhilaration of the basketball court, or the patrician spectacle of the tennis match.

No, these dedicated, often fanatical fans root for something else: They want the singular thrill of lucha libre, or “Free Fight,” as Mexican wrestling is known. It’s a good time.

The sport is similar to, but distinct from, its American cousin, which has an equally broad appeal. Combatants here make wider use of masks, traditionally retained by the victors, that impart a diabolic, otherworldly air to the sweaty proceedings. (Replicas are on sale outside the arena for a few bucks.)

Like their U.S. colleagues, broad-girthed Mexican wrestlers sport catchy names like Supermuneco (Superdoll), Ultraman and El Simbolo (The Symbol). As spectators cheer and jeer, applaud and taunt, the fighters grunt, pound their chests and generally attempt to pummel their opponents, always employing facial expressions commensurate with their rage. Espio Chino (above) and the others bleed real blood. Specialists in martial arts and karate share marquee space with more traditional combatants. Rivalries between certain wrestlers can be intense, or at least appear to be so. Outside the ring, they may be buddies.

The sport has a broad national following, as witnessed by the colorful wrestling publications that are ubiquitous south of the border. The best on the leotard circuit are said to come from Mexico City.

Although not exactly the Fabulous Forum, fans here, too, vie for front-row seats, where the audience can be practically on top of the action, as wrestlers often take their business into a 10-foot-wide area surrounding the ring. The lucky few are close enough to be anointed with flying blood and sweat, although anyone in the cozy, 6,000-seat auditorium can experience the maniacal yells of combat and absorb the aura of la lucha --lubricated, if one desires, with a few cervezas.

You probably won’t see Jack Nicholson, but you get your money’s worth. Tickets cost just under $3 for adults, $2 for children. The auditorium is just south of Caliente Racetrack, on the main drag of Diaz Ordaz Boulevard.