The lights dim.

Heavy metal pounds over the Arena México sound system, and the announcer's deep-throated Spanish thunders into the microphone.

One of the dozens of roving Corona men delivers me a fresh 20 oz. beer.

On the runway connecting the huge projection screen to the small square ring in the middle of the building, a near-naked supermodel sidles this way and that, lofting a sign that reads, "Primera Caída."

From the seats next to me, a little old Mexican woman and her granddaughter are hurling their voices towards the wrestlers in the ring, teaching me new Spanish profanities with each volley.

A 300-pound man in a devilish red mask, eyes black sockets, gleaming yellow teeth protruding up into is cheeks, is swan-diving out of the ring directly towards me...

This is lucha libre.

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