I try my utmost to remain mysterious at Sunday Mass. If you were to observe me during service, you would conclude that I was a devout Catholic, perhaps one with a checkered past who had stumbled upon salvation after a wildly sinful, undoubtedly tantalizing coming of age. Seated in the back pew, a faraway gaze and half-smile upon my face, this is a perfectly reasonable conclusion to come to, and I do my best to encourage it. After all, the truth never exceeds the imagination. You see, whenever I hear Jesus mentioned during service, I always think of El Espejo, the legendary Mexican luchador. This is not a fact I usually share with strangers, as it doesn’t exactly create the most favorable impression of my character and religious upbringing. Nevertheless, it’s true, and for good reason: I trained El Espejo for eight years, from 1946-1954. In 1955, El Espejo became the National Heavyweight Champion of Mexico in a near-mythical match against El Asesino and promptly disappeared, title belt and all. Many wondered how great he could have become, what he could have been capable of.

I retired in 1954. I know what no one else does. I know El Espejo’s identity. I know precisely how much he was capable of. I also know, having read mistake after biographical mistake, that perhaps it’s best to start at the beginning.

I sat behind a card table in the back room of Arena Torreón, bored out of my mind. It was a Friday in 1946. Fridays were open audition days, an endless parade of unoriginal characters with almost laughable wrestling skills. I thought the first Friday was hilarious. The second was amusing. The third was torturous. From there it went downhill. This one was no different: oh look, here’s The Angel. And here’s The White Angel. And here’s The Devil, and The Demon, and The Black Demon and The Black Devil, and so on. Half of them I was able to dismiss without even seeing them compete, simply by saying, “So you’re El Diablo, huh? Well son, I think the real El Diablo is going to have a problem with that. Sorry!”

And then El Espejo strode smack into the middle of it all. I was immediately captivated. Standing across from me was a wrestler wearing my face, if my face were twisted into an ugly mix of despair and sheer terror. Let me be clear here: I’m not trying to say that El Espejo looked like me or that he wore a mask similar to my own. I’m saying that he took my exact likeness and fashioned a mask from it. Needless to say, I was attentive.

“Well, that’s interesting. And what is your name, son?”

“I am El Espejo,” he replied, staring straight ahead. I was amused. This was a welcome change to my day.

“Shall we discuss the mask now or later, Espejo?”

He lowered his eyes to meet mine. “I am a pure fighter, a strong fighter. I have no need for my opponent’s fear. I reflect it back to him, for him to deal with as he chooses.”

I stood up, smiling, and took off my jacket. “That might be the first worthwhile statement I’ve heard all month, Espejo. Let’s see how it holds up, shall we?”

As anyone even remotely familiar with El Espejo will surely know, that statement held up admirably, through that first test match, through his first professional match (a victory), and all the way through his entire career. For those unfamiliar, allow me to explain. “El Espejo” translates to “The Mirror.” For every match, Espejo would fashion a new mask, always a cruel parody of his opponent’s mask, altered to reflect the fear that Espejo believed was within his opponent. In nearly every case, he was quite accurate.

Nearly every case.

By 1952, Espejo had amassed an impressive resume, unmasking eight of his fellow wrestlers (effectively ending their careers, for those still unfamiliar with lucha libre), while also collecting regional titles effortlessly. As his reputation grew, his mask scare tactic became even more effective, especially when coupled with his lightning-quick reflexes and crippling knee-twist submission holds. His masks became more elaborate as well, depicting opponents as not only fearful, but in many cases also wounded or disfigured in some way. El Espejo rolled on, unbeaten and fearless. And, as I would soon discover, untested as well.

 

In November of ‘52, El Espejo faced La Plaga (The Plague) for the first time. At the time, neither fighter knew that the match would spark a furious rivalry that would ultimately end in a lucha de apuesta, a fight in which both wrestlers would wager their masks upon the outcome. At the time, each fighter walked into the ring supremely confident. In fact, the two fighters looked nearly identical in every way. La Plaga was a truly unique luchador; his mask did not exude strength or invincibility. Black, with silver outlines around the down turned eyes, nose and gaping mouth, La Plaga’s mask made him look like some sort of tortured phantom in its last, painful death throes. Unable to create a mask that reflected any additional terror, Espejo simply duplicated his opponent’s visage. This method proved unsuccessful.

In that first frenzied, brutal match, La Plaga not only looked like a phantom, he fought like one. As the match started, Espejo closed the distance between them, hands up, and waited for Plaga. Plaga leaned in to grapple, and Espejo darted left in an instant, swinging his left arm toward Plaga’s exposed head…and hit nothing but air. A two-fisted hammer to Espejo’s stomach bent him over, and an elbow drop to the head laid him out in the center of the ring. Struggling to clear his vision, Espejo got up on one elbow, trying to get a bead on Plaga’s location. The crowd roared in anticipation, then suddenly grew hushed. Too late, Espejo realized what had happened. Plaga’s full weight, seemingly dropping from the sky (in reality dropping from the top rope of one of the ring’s corners), knocked not only his wind, but his entire will to fight, out of him. From this point on, Espejo remembers nothing. I, however, am able to recall the resulting pin and count to three which awarded the first round to La Plaga. I am also able to recall, with shame, forfeiting the second round, and hence the match, to La Plaga, amidst much booing and derision.

 

Please forgive me for recounting the next series of events rather briefly. Truth be told, that debilitating loss did not change El Espejo as much as I thought it would. Espejo’s next couple of opponents expected a humbled fighter, a tentative fighter suddenly aware of his own mortality. They were sorely disappointed, in every sense of the phrase. To Espejo, the loss only served to remind him of how mundane, how full of fear, every other luchador was that he faced. One particularly unlucky fellow, a fighter by the name of El Chacal, was actually thrown clear of the ring and into the first row of the audience. Chacal refused to reenter the ring, and after 20 seconds a disgusted Espejo was declared the victor. In February of ‘53, just three months after their first bout, Espejo demanded a rematch with La Plaga. La Plaga again defeated him, although this time around Espejo managed to stay conscious through the two rounds he lost.

The third matchup between Espejo and Plaga, however, was much more competitive. Plaga again took the first round, pinning a dazed Espejo after a devastating flying clothesline. As my young wrestler stumbled back to his corner, arms resting on the ropes, I gathered him into his seat and leaned over his right shoulder.

“Aren’t you getting sick of this yet, son?”

Espejo dropped his chin down to his chest, closing his eyes. With his right hand, he twirled the leather ties at the back of his mask. For close to a minute, neither of us made a sound. Finally, he raised his head and glanced over at me, still silent. The large brass fight bell suddenly rang twice sharply, signaling the start of the next round.

“That’s funny,” he delivered in perfect monotone. “I was about to ask sweet Plagita over there the same thing.”

Espejo stood up, strode directly into the center of the ring. Plaga met him there, bringing his massive arms together toward Espejo’s head like a musician with a huge pair of cymbals. Espejo darted under and to his left easily, readying a counter blow. Plaga, having seen this move before, quickly rolled back and to his right, coming up right behind the slower Espejo.

But Espejo wasn’t there. Unbelievably, instead of swinging at Plaga after sidestepping him, he had simply dropped to the mat, belly-up. As Plaga stood there, towering over him, Espejo reverse-somersaulted, locking his legs around Plaga’s knee while wrapping his arms around the ankle. With a sharp turn of the legs, Plaga plunged to the ground. With a sharp turn of the arms, Plaga screamed out in pain, slapping the mat with his hands. Espejo released his hold and stood up.

He was greeted with stunned silence.

The bell boy came to his senses first, suddenly grabbing his mallet and ringing the bell, over and over and over. The crowd responded with a roar, a fist-slapping, foot-stomping, heart-quaking roar. Espejo did a slow turn, taking in every corner of the arena, and then walked back to me, unable to hide a small grin.

“Well look at that! I guess he was sick of it after all. And here all I had to do was ask.”

The date of the fourth match was set before either wrestler left the arena that night. La Plaga was incensed, believing he had been robbed of victory by a dirty trick. El Espejo, on the other hand, was a new man, heartened by his rebound against this thorny foe. Immediately prior to the opening bell of that fourth match, La Plaga publicly vowed to spill Espejo’s blood in every corner of the ring. He made good on that promise, relentlessly driving shoulders, elbows and fists into Espejo’s face and dragging him from corner to corner like a limp rag doll. Unfortunately, Plaga’s narrow-sighted determination distracted him from Espejo’s systematic punishment of his right knee. Throughout the vicious blows from Plaga, Espejo concentrated on conserving his energy while aiming occasional kicks and jabs at Plaga’s right knee and forcing Plaga to lean on the knee repeatedly by shifting his body weight slightly. In the 15th minute, Espejo stepped aside as Plaga lunged in, and sure enough, that knee gave out. Plaga tumbled to the mat with a surprised yelp, and Espejo pinned him to take the first round. He took the second round easily as well, forcing Plaga to limp around the ring until he was too weak to fight back.

And so it was that on May 23rd, 1954, with 18 months and four matches of enmity between them, El Espejo and La Plaga agreed to settle their bitter dispute once and for all. It was to be a máscara contra máscara match, mask against mask. The loser would offer up their mask as well as their real identity.

I spent most of May in Arena Torreón with Espejo, testing him, punishing him, throwing two, sometimes three sparring opponents at him to simulate La Plaga’s speed and range. I forced him to fight with weighted mitts and weighted boots. I stretched with him every night until he could twist into contortionist shapes without wincing. And I fed him. I fed him a lot.

The day before the fight, I woke Espejo up and asked him what we should go over, where he felt he was weakest.

“Truth be told,” he answered thoughtfully, “I think it’s time to make a new mask.”

With that, he left the arena to head home.

No one, not even I, saw him again until fight time. I was faithfully attending to my post in his corner of the ring, filling a bucket with water and soaking various rags, when he entered the arena. The crowd rose to greet him with cheers and applause, but faltered when they saw him. Espejo’s mask was different from any other he had fashioned before. It was entirely white, with only small holes for the eyes, nose and mouth. No other ornamentation was added to it, or to the rest of his outfit. I was disturbed to realize that what he most resembled, to my eyes, was one of the anonymous wrestlers that were occasionally chosen from the crowd when a luchador failed to appear for a match. Obviously, the impression was not particularly intimidating.

“Good to see you, El Papa (The Pope),” I quipped. Espejo didn’t say a word, taking his seat without glancing at me. I noticed he was already sweating. The bell rang out once. Espejo and Plaga stood and walked toward the official waiting in the center of the ring. After the customary pre-fight guidelines were spoken, the two fighters shook hands.

“Trying to look anonymous, Espejo?” Plaga asked. “That won’t get you off the hook when we’re finished. Everyone in this arena is going to get a good look at that face before the night is done, friend.”

“Don’t worry, friend,” Espejo retorted. “When I take your mask tonight, you can have this one. Maybe you can use it the next time a real luchador doesn’t show up.”

La Plaga lunged forward, smashing his forearm into Espejo’s face suddenly. Espejo crumpled in a dazed heap.

“WHEN WE’RE FINISHED HERE THAT MASK WILL BE IN FIFTY PIECES, ESPEJO! I WILL SCATTER IT TO THE CHICKENS!”

La Plaga fell onto Espejo, pummeling him with alternating fists. Furious, I nearly rushed into the ring then, a move that would have certainly disqualified Espejo, but he quickly raised his arms up in defense, shielding his face, and rolled off to his right, all the way to the edge of the ring, and then out of it completely. La Plaga stood up and struggled to regain some measure of control, while Espejo simply struggled to regain his senses. When the out-of-bounds count reached ten, Espejo quickly scooted back into the ring and stood up. He and Plaga approached each other warily this time. At grappling distance, Espejo dropped suddenly and lunged for Plaga’s knee. Plaga swiftly dodged the attack and promptly crushed Espejo with an elbow drop before turning him onto his back and applying a pin.

“1!” barked the referee. With a gasp, Espejo arched his back and lifted his shoulder off the mat, stopping the pin count. Instead of attempting to press the shoulder into the mat again, Plaga stood up, releasing Espejo from his hold. Confused, Espejo quickly got to his feet and glanced at Plaga, who stared back, smiling.

“Oh, I’m not going to make it that easy to lose, Espejo. I’ve got a lot more punishment to inflict yet.” Plaga punctuated the statement with a right jab. Espejo ducked under it, only to meet Plaga’s rising right knee. His vision exploded red, then black, and he fell to the mat like a dead man. La Plaga gazed out into the audience nearest to him, then knelt on one knee next to Espejo, rolling him again onto his back. With a playful slap, he jokingly tried to revive Espejo. After getting no response, he shrugged and placed his palm onto Espejo’s chest.

“1!” barked the referee. I held my breath.

“2!”

“3!” The bell rang out sharply. “Round one goes to La Plaga!”

After dragging Espejo back to his corner and propping him up on the stool, I began more serious attempts to revive him. A quick splash of cold water, followed by the smelling salts, followed by another splash, and he was awake.

“Getting some beauty sleep in, son?”

Espejo coughed, winced, then looked up with a haggard smile under his mask. “Yeah. How’s it working?”

“No offense, but I think you should thank God for that mask. I’d hate to think what would happen if you ever had to actually show your face around here.”

With a chuckle, Espejo leaned back, resting his head on the ropes, right as the bell rang out twice.

The second round was nothing short of torture. La Plaga, basically untouched, proceeded to toy with Espejo, slapping and chopping at him until he dropped to the floor. Once down, he would pin Espejo, who would then desperately yank his shoulder off the mat, disrupting the pin count before it ever reached three. Plaga would then release Espejo and start the cycle all over again. Espejo’s mask and shorts were utterly soaked with sweat and streaked with blood, and he staggered around the ring on autopilot, managing to avoid any big blows but unable to deflect most of Plaga’s quick moves. I sighed, glancing down at the soiled towels at my feet. Espejo was exhausted, and most likely couldn’t see past his own outstretched hand. The fight was out of reach, in every sense of the word. I looked up as Espejo again faltered and fell to the mat. La Plaga lowered his torso onto Espejo’s chest nonchalantly.

“1!” barked the referee.

“2!”

And then it happened.

As La Plaga perched above him, Espejo headbutted him squarely on the jaw. The collision made a sickening clacking sound; the audience gasped. Plaga reeled back as Espejo sat up and shoved him over, trapping Plaga’s shoulders under his armpits.

“1!” barked the referee. The blood from Plaga’s split lip began to form a small pool next to his head.

“2!” For the second time that night, I held my breath.

“3!” The bell, the glorious bell, rang out. “Round two goes to El Espejo!”

El Espejo and I spent the minutes between the second and third round in silence. Espejo was surely too exhausted to speak, and I simply had no idea what to say in this situation. I cleaned his eyes as best I could through the mask, wiping away blood while cutting away the swollen tissue above the eyelids. He simply stared ahead, across the ring, at the slumping La Plaga. The bell rang out once, then twice more in succession. The crowd buzzed. The wrestlers got to their feet, gathered themselves, and stepped forward.

My own career as a luchador was rather short and nondescript. I began auspiciously enough, four scheduled victories to get me up to speed, then some harder-fought wins as I got into the real competition. After two years, though, the wheels began to spin, and I stopped moving up. Hard-fought wins became hard-fought losses; I began to feel outmatched. Another year later, and it was time for my first lucha de apuesta. I wagered my mask against my opponent’s hair. A foolish wager from a foolish face, as the crowd learned that night.

Despite the lingering shame, I never cursed that decision, or that failure of a career, because it led me to the training profession, and it led me to the arena on May 23rd, 1954, the night I played my part in the finest lucha libre match the sport has ever seen.

The third round was unbearable. Plaga’s jaw was most certainly broken, and Espejo’s nose and two ribs were cracked as well. Every blow that landed sent shivers of pain through the spectators, and sent the unfortunate victim sprawling to the ropes in an effort to stay on their feet. As the minutes dragged on, the crowd began to sway and chant Espejo’s name, trying to will Espejo to victory.

“Just think, Plaga.” Espejo’s breath came in short gasps. “Soon you’ll be able to join these people in the stands, chanting my name adoringly. Soon you’ll be nothing but a spectator, a stand-in for greater men.” The taunt had its desired effect. La Plaga’s face twisted in fury, and he raised his clasped hands above his head, bringing them down like a hammer toward Espejo’s head. Espejo anticipated the attack and attempted to escape, but the rounds had slowed him. While he managed to slip his head out of the way, Plaga’s fists crashed into his right shoulder, driving his body to the ground with sudden force. The crowd fell silent.

Espejo tried to raise himself, and was rewarded with a searing pain down his right side. His arm had no strength left in it. Plaga leaned over him, grinning.

“The mysterious Espejo,” he hissed. “People love you because they know nothing about you. You give them nothing, and they love you. Well, I know a little more than they do. You see, I’ve watched you train. Yes, it’s true! I’ve watched you train, and I’ve watched you walk home, and I’ve watched you make your precious masks. I’ve watched you, and I’ve studied hard, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen everything you have to offer, friend. Everything but your face, of course.”

With that, Plaga turned to the corner turnbuckle and began to climb up it. I screamed at Espejo to move away quickly, to get out of the range of an aerial move, but my voice was lost in the sudden, desperate din of the crowd. Plaga reached the top of the turnbuckle and turned, showing off his exquisite balance. Espejo shifted his weight to his left side and dragged himself into a crouch. Plaga looked down at him, bent his knees and jumped.

In that split-second, Espejo sprang left, reaching the ropes, and leaped onto the second rope, twisting and using the rope’s tension to vault up and right, straight at La Plaga’s airborne form. Espejo’s lame shoulder caught Plaga in the midsection, and his momentum carried both fighters straight through the side ropes and into the first row of seats. Spectators and chairs were flung clear, and both wrestlers finally rolled to a stop in the second row, sprawled out like massive rag dolls. I stared, wide-eyed, at the carnage, as the rest of the stunned crowd stood to get a clearer look. All was still now. No one spoke. Well, almost no one.

“1!” barked the dutiful referee. The silence broke as everyone realized what was happening.

“2!” If the referee got to the count of 20, any fighter outside of the ring at that time would be disqualified. (“3!”) Everyone turned to look at the wrestlers again. (“4!”) Neither Espejo nor Plaga showed any signs of movement.

“5!”

“C’mon Espejo,” I whispered urgently. “Open your eyes.”

“6!” A deathly still fell over the arena.

“7!”

“8!”

“9!”

“10!”

“11!”

“12!”

And suddenly one of them coughed. The overturned chairs were blocking my view (“13!”), so I ran down the stairs and over to the right side of the ring, where the luchadores had landed. And then he sat up. It was La Plaga, looking more dead than alive, his mask turned almost comically toward his left side, eyeholes askew. (“14!”) He lifted himself up and stumbled back to the ring platform. (“15!”) Plaga rolled back into the ring and just lay there, breathing heavily. My heart sank. (“16!”)

And then someone tapped my shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir, could I get past?” (“17!”)

I turned, eyes wide in surprise, as Espejo edged around me toward the ring.

“Espejo!...”

His eyes darted over, met mine. “Back in a second, maestro.” (“18!”) He reached the ropes and rolled under, back into the ring, as La Plaga regained his feet. Before anyone was ready, before I even reached my spot back in the corner, Plaga aimed a vicious kick at Espejo’s kneeling form. In a flash Espejo dove left, dodging the kick and smashing into Plaga’s right knee. It locked up, bending at a grotesque angle, and Plaga collapsed with a squeal. Espejo instantly clasped the knee in his arms and twisted. La Plaga screamed, tapped out, and clutched the leg, sobbing, as Espejo released it and rolled away and onto his back, exhausted. The crowd erupted. I rushed up and into the ring, already laughing and weeping openly, and knelt at Espejo’s side.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked up at me, a wry smile already forming. “Hello, maestro. How are you this fine evening?”

“I’m gonna be all right, Espejo,” I replied, wiping my eyes. “It’s good to see you again, son.”

 

El Espejo spent the next six months recovering from the injuries he sustained in that match. When he was back to full strength, he received an invitation to fight the current national champion. Most fans remember that match, in January of 1955, as the only time they saw the legendary El Espejo fight. He dispatched the champion three minutes into the first round with an absolutely crippling knee hold. Most claim that match as one of the most impressive displays of power and technique ever witnessed in the sport. I know better. I know the man behind the mirror. El Espejo, born Jesús Morales, was the greatest luchador in the history of lucha libre, and I was ringside when he proved it one hot evening in May. If it takes a Sunday Mass to remind me of that fact, that’s fine by me.

Just don’t ask me why I’m smiling whenever someone mentions that Jesus actually healed the lame.

# # #

El Espejo, the Legend of Lucha Libre by Jeff Shreve
originally published December 1, 2008