The music was loud, the lights were blazing, and the crowd roared as Alexis Lee strutted toward the ring. Just 5 feet tall and covered in skeleton face paint, the Singaporean wrestler made her entrance with dramatic flair—shoving a fan off his chair and snarling for good measure.
The audience couldn’t get enough.
“It’s like a circus mixed with sports,” said Lee, 30. “It’s live drama. It’s fun.”
While martial arts are deeply rooted in Chinese culture, American-style professional wrestling—with its scripted rivalries, flashy costumes, and over-the-top moves—is still carving out its place in the country. But on a recent Saturday night in Beijing, the “Battle of the Decade” event signaled just how far it’s come.
“People are really starting to take Chinese pro wrestling seriously,” said Adrian Gomez, a 37-year-old American who founded Middle Kingdom Wrestling (MKW), one of the few wrestling promotions in China. “This feels like the peak of 10 years of hard work.”
Gomez’s first wrestling show in China, back in 2015, didn’t sell a single ticket. This one? A sold-out crowd of nearly 400 people packed into the venue.
The event had all the familiar theatrics of American wrestling—wild characters, dramatic entrances, and jaw-dropping moves—but with a twist: many of the wrestlers blended Chinese culture, music, and historical themes into their performances.
One standout was Alberto Curry from Atlanta, better known in the ring as “Zombie Dragon.” Wearing a leathery dragon mask with wings, Curry said it took time to figure out what worked for Chinese audiences.
“At first, nobody really reacted to me being the bad guy, which was weird,” said Curry, 36. “But once I changed my approach, people really got into it.”
Acceptance hasn’t come easy. Government regulators have struggled with how to classify pro wrestling—whether it’s a sport or just entertainment. That ambiguity has been one of the challenges, said Ho Ho Lun, a Hong Kong wrestler and former WWE performer who faced off against Chinese wrestling icon The Slam in the night’s main event.
“For years, there weren’t any local wrestling stars,” said Lun, 36. “People used to only see wrestling on TV. Now they’re realizing they can see it live—and it’s real.”
Global wrestling giant WWE has tried to crack the Chinese market before, signing a streaming deal with a mainland platform. But their reach remains limited—only about 10% of internet-connected households in China have ever watched it, according to S&P Global.
Gomez, who moved from Arizona to China 15 years ago on a whim to teach English, sees the wrestling scene as a creative outlet for everyone involved.
“There were no local leagues back then,” he said. “Now, we’re building something Chinese fans can be proud of.”
That DIY spirit is everywhere. Wrestlers don’t just perform—they help with everything from putting up the ring to adjusting each other’s gear and selling merch. They’ve built this scene from the ground up.
For rising star Wang Tao, the event was especially personal. He grew up in rural China and sees wrestling as his chance to shine. Before his match, he paced the hallway backstage, shirtless with silver streaks in his hair, rehearsing moves with his Dubai-based tag team partner.
“I’m a little nervous,” Wang admitted. “But this really matters to me.”
Throughout the night, fans shouted, laughed, and even cursed as performers launched kung fu kicks, took body slams, and spilled out of the ring. At the end of the night, Ho Ho Lun beat The Slam and hoisted the championship belt—marking a symbolic win for Chinese pro wrestling.
“People are looking for new ways to be entertained,” said Beck Jiang, a 32-year-old fan. “And this? This is pretty awesome.”
By Janis Mackey Frayer