Yeet!

A friend who works for WWE scored us some tickets to the Monday Night Raw in Philadelphia last month and it was hands down the best night of Mikey’s life. It blew Christmas out of the water, put Universal Studios to shame, and make New York City wish it was never born.

I had low expectations for the whole night, mostly because I was worried about the timing. The event didn’t even start until 8 p.m. (doors opened at 6:30), and it was nearly three hours long, which gets us into dangerously overtired territory.

Mikey is a huge WWE fan. Huge. His father got him into it, and the kid knows all the entrance music for all the wrestlers, their finishing moves, who’s won more title belts in a certain season, which wrestlers are part of Monday Night Raw and which are part of Smackdown, who’s dating who, and all the juicy drama that goes with the whole show.

When we arrived at the arena, Mikey immediately began looking for the merchandise table since we told him he could buy a T-shirt. We quickly located the first merch table, and the line accompanying it was about five people deep and wrapped a literal half-mile around the entire stadium – overlapping the other merch table lines that were just as long.

Since I didn’t really care if I watched the entire show, I told Mikey I would run out during one of the matches and buy the merchandise. So after he pointed out which shirt he wanted, we found our seats. Although the stands were only half full at the time, the chants were already flying.

And Mikey was eating it right up.

From across the arena we heard, “O.T.C. … O.T.C. …” (I would later learn that to be Roman Reigns’ calling card, if you will.)

Then, our side of the venue let out a low rumble of, “Woahhh…ohhh…ohhh…” and Mikey raised his hands in the air to swing them the way an orchestra conductor would. When I leaned over and asked what that was all about it, he and Mike said in unison, “It’s for Seth Freakin Rollins.”

Mikey grinned because he knows he can only say “freakin” if he’s referring to the trademark name WWE star. (Much like he can say “hell” only if he’s singing the “Lava Chicken” song from “Minecraft”… Thank you Jack Black.)

After much ado, the lights went down, the music started, fireworks went off, and smoke filled the air.

And with every wrestler that ran down the catwalk toward the ring that night, Mikey nearly lost his mind. Becky Lynch, Bron Breakker, The Judgement Day … you name ’em, he loved ’em.

Because he knows all the entrance music for these athletes, as the first notes of a song rang out through the place, he knew exactly who was coming out. He would jump up from his seat and scream “Oh my gosh it’s Rhea Ripley!” or “No way, it’s Dirty Dom!”

It reminded me of being a teenager at a concert by one of my favorite bands and, with the single strum of the guitar, knowing exactly what song was about to be played.

The highlight of the night was the match between Bron Breakker and Jey Uso. Since that was the main event, it was teased earlier in the night. Music started and the crowd went wild – including Mikey – and Seth Freakin Rollings, Bron Breakker, and Paul Heyman came out to rile up the crowd. All of a sudden, people across the arena from us started freaking out and Mikey jumped up, screaming and pointing.

“Oh my gosh it’s Jey Uso!” he yelled as I had to hold him back from falling over the seats in front of us.

Then the entire arena – again, Mikey included – raised their arms up and slammed them down while yelling “Yeet.” Then the trash talk stared and Mikey was totally there for it, with “Yeet!” cheers and arm movements throughout the entire stadium every few minutes.

When the wrestler mentioned an “extreme rules match,” I thought Mikey was going to hyperventilate. I yelled, “What does that mean?” and before my husband could answer, Mikey screamed, “They’re gonna break tables and stuff!”

With that expectation set and anticipation high, the other matches unfolded. At some point I dipped out to buy the T-shirt (the line was almost non-existent at that point, thank the lord), and purchase some snacks.

Now, my husband and I have a system we deploy when we are at such events: We fill the kid with sugar and hope for the best. It’s not a fool-proof plan, but c’est la vie.

After I got the merch I went over to the concessions stand and got two boxes of popcorn (one for Mikey and one for my husband and I to split), a stick of blue cotton candy, a red slushy, a bottle of water, and a fountain soda. Sixty-one dollars later I was heading down the stairs to our seats with the popcorn boxes under my arms, the slushy and the soda in my hands, and my teeth clenched around the rim of a big plastic cup that the bottled water was poured into (apparently the plastic bottle can be used as some sort of weapon).

And the slow released of junk food began. We started with the popcorn, which Mikey washed down with some slushy. Then he broke into the cotton candy, only to then eat the rest of the popcorn intended for me and Mike.

As the night went on and it got later, we could see the kid losing steam. He started to slump in the seat, there were some big yawns, and we could see that he was just overall powering down.

We told him we could leave and watch the rest of the show on whatever steaming service we get it on the following day, but he vehemently refused and said he wanted to stay for the main event.

When that time came, he was nearly delirious. The sugar high had come and gone he was just a shell of a child, riding high on red and blue dye and high fructose corn syrup. He would jump up and scream “Yeet!” only to immediately fall back into a comatose state. Then he’d pop up on his feet and yell “C M Punk … C M Punk…” when the next guy came running out.

Then back to his seat.

At one point my husband leaned over and shouted to me, “He has to be able to walk out of here. I can’t carry him through the arena if he’s sleeping and dead weight.”

We debated making the decision for him, but the kid was so darn excited – albeit also almost asleep – so we stayed till the end.

But he pulled it together and walked out of the arena – and even across three different parking bays we had to go through to get to where the designated Uber pickup spot was.

We climbed into the SUV and Mikey immediately fell asleep. When it was time to exit the vehicle, Mike slung the 60.5-pound child over his shoulder like you would an oversized bag of dog food and started to book it to the door – the kid’s blue-stained fingers dangling in the air behind him.

Once inside the room, Mike flopped him on the bed like a dead body, and the child didn’t even stir. I cringed at the red dye staining his lips but had to accept that teeth brushing wasn’t going to happen.

We removed his shoes but otherwise left him in whatever he was wearing, and that was how he slept.

And, boy, what a treat it was the next morning when he slept until 6:48 a.m. instead of his usual 6:30.

Oh, well. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

In the meantime, WWE gained a fan that night.

Holly Crocco is editor of the Putnam County Times/Press and mother of a 7-year-old boy. She can be reached at editorial@putnampresstimes.com.