The Death of a 75-Year-Old Referee and the 'Martinete' Dispute — Exposing the Safety Gaps of Mexican Professional Wrestling

The empty training ground still echoes with the pulse of the ball. On the night of October 7, 2026, at the Sports and Culture Center "11 de Julio" in Mineral de la Reforma, Hidalgo, a whistle did not mark the end of a match but the beginning of a criminal case. Referee Gerardo Germán Pineda — nicknamed "El Búho," 75 years old — lay motionless after a head drop, and wrestler El Hijo de Fishman was arrested on suspicion of negligent homicide. But the story does not end there. It opens a chasm into what we call "safety" in a performance art where even the participants do not realize they are playing with death. The incident occurred during a professional wrestling (lucha libre) show organized by El Patrón Espectáculos. This is not a real sporting event — it is a choreographed performance where wrestlers coordinate their movements to create drama for the audience. But within this "unreal" context, a real death occurred. Immediately, a wave of outrage rose: Mexican media reported that Fishman had used a banned move called "martinete" — a head-first driver that slams the recipient's head into the ground, posing serious danger to the cervical spine. It was said that he had been penalized points during the match, and in anger, he used this deadly move. The photo of Fishman smiling broadly when arrested, his face unmasked (máscara) — the sacred symbol in lucha libre culture — further inflamed public opinion. "He killed someone and still smiled," was the phrase spreading across social media. But I have learned something from years sitting on the observation seat: the truth never lies in the loudest story. When I reviewed the videos published by the Mexican press, I saw a different image. The move Fishman performed was not "martinete" — it was "contralona," a common backdrop-style move widely used in professional wrestling. This changes the entire nature of the case. If the video truly shows only a "contralona," then the "banned move" story that the public is outraged about may be a serious misunderstanding. However, the name of the move is not the most important thing. What matters is the force applied, the level of control, and the condition of the recipient. A 75-year-old referee taking a head drop — even a "routine" one — is an extremely poor safety choice, arguably indefensible. In sports medicine, the combination of age and trauma mechanism is nearly an absolute contraindication. A 75-year-old's bones have lost density, the cervical spine has lost flexibility, and the capacity to recover from a single impact is significantly reduced. Even a seemingly "harmless" fall can cause severe spinal cord and brainstem injuries. This is not about the move — this is about someone placing a 75-year-old in such a dangerous physical position. From a legal perspective, the case becomes even more complex. El Hijo de Fishman was arrested on October 7 on charges of negligent homicide. But just days later, he was released. This led many to misunderstand that he had been exonerated. The truth is not so. Fishman was released through the restorative justice mechanism under Article 186 of Mexico's National Criminal Procedure Code. This is an agreement between the victim and the accused, approved by a prosecutor or judge. When the agreement is fully fulfilled, prosecution terminates. But it is crucial to emphasize: this release is procedural, not exculpatory. If the victim's family does not receive the compensation as agreed, the investigation can be resumed. The case is in a "hibernation" state — not closed. The compensation amount reported by journalist Antonio Nieto is 585,525 Mexican pesos, approximately US$32,000. But this figure is also contested. ADN Noticias reported a different amount, and the terms were not fully disclosed. If the $32,000 figure is accurate, it is a fairly modest sum for a death — especially in a country where independent wrestling events have virtually no insurance. This suggests it is a "restorative justice" settlement — aimed at providing quick and certain compensation to the victim's family — rather than a true damages judgment. However, the biggest blind spot in this entire story is not the move or the compensation. It lies in the fact that the venue — the "11 de Julio" Center — was temporarily closed for lacking an operating license. Prior to this, authorities had recorded obstacles in inspecting the facility. This is a concrete, documented governance violation, and unlike the disputed "martinete" move, it is not a matter of interpretation. An event without a license, without insurance, without on-site medical personnel — that is a recipe for disaster. In the ecosystem of Mexican professional wrestling, there is a huge governance gap between major promotions (like AAA and CMLL) and regional independent shows. Major promotions have safety protocols, insurance, and medical staff. But independent shows — like the event in Mineral de la Reforma — operate in a regulatory vacuum. They have no mandatory standards, no pre-performance medical checks, and often use older, part-time referees who are not periodically screened for health. Referee Gerardo Germán Pineda may have been a beloved local figure — the nickname "El Búho" (The Owl) and the shock of those around him suggest so — but that does not change the reality that he was in an environment with no protection whatsoever. This is where I want to offer a contrarian perspective. Public outrage is focused on El Hijo de Fishman — and his smiling photo has only intensified that anger. But we need to distinguish between attitude and guilt. A smile does not prove criminal intent. It could be a nervous, defensive reaction, or even confusion in the face of an unimaginable situation. In lucha libre culture, publicly releasing the unmasked photo of a wrestler — what they consider their sacred honor — is itself a form of public humiliation. This further amplifies the outrage, but it is not evidence of a crime. Fishman's colleagues have spoken in his defense. El Hijo del Santo called it an accident and warned people against rushing to judgment. Latin Lover defended Fishman but admitted that he himself had pushed or slapped referees for dramatic effect. This reveals a very thin line in professional wrestling: wrestlers frequently "deviate" from the script to create drama, and that behavior can turn an accident into negligence. But in this case, did Fishman truly "deviate" or was he simply performing a routine move that tragically went wrong? We do not have enough data to conclude. What worries me most is the systemic issue. The $32,000 compensation — if accurate — resolved the case privately, but it does not address the root problem. Unlicensed, uninsured, unmedical-checked independent wrestling events continue to take place across Mexico. A death occurs, a sum is paid, and then everything returns to normal. No reform is proposed, no new safety standard is imposed. This is a systemic failure. From an economic perspective, resolving the case through a compensation agreement instead of a full judicial process also creates a troubling precedent. If a death can be resolved with a sum of money, organizers may have no incentive to invest in safety. Why buy insurance, conduct health checks for referees, or ensure licenses when you can simply pay a sum after an accident occurs? This is a paradox of restorative justice: it provides quick compensation to the victim, but at the same time reduces deterrence against unsafe practices. I can say that I have witnessed similar cases during my career as an observer — small, unreported events where older referees or fighters were placed in dangerous positions without anyone questioning. But I have never seen a case expose so many gaps at once. This case is not just about a wrestler and a referee. It is about a sports entertainment industry operating in a legal vacuum, where the rights of participants — especially the elderly — are virtually unprotected. When I sit back and reflect on this case, I remember a phrase that has become a guiding principle for my work: "The empty training ground still echoes with the pulse of the ball." In this case, the arena was not empty, but it echoed a different sound — the whistle marking a criminal case, the cries of a family, and the sigh of an industry trying to hide its flaws. The question is not "Who is guilty?" but "Who will take responsibility for what happened?" And the answer, as I see it, is not in an individual — it is in a system that has failed. Now, looking to the future, I see several signals worth tracking. First, the official forensic finding — if it identifies a head trauma mechanism, the level of prosecution could change. Second, the fulfillment of the compensation — if not fully paid, the case could be resumed. Third, the outcome of the venue closure — whether the "11 de Julio" Center will be reopened after fixing its issues. And finally, the industry's response — whether independent promotions will start requiring health checks, insurance, and licenses. One thing I am certain of: this case will not be the last. As long as independent wrestling events continue to operate in a legal vacuum, as long as participants — especially the elderly — continue to be placed in dangerous positions without protection, tragedy will continue to occur. And each time, we will hear stories about "banned moves" and "regrettable accidents" — but we will never hear the real story: that an industry has abandoned its responsibility to those who create it. I think of Gerardo Germán Pineda — a 75-year-old man who may have dedicated his entire life to wrestling, beloved in his community, who died during a performance where no death should have occurred. I think of his family — those who accepted the $32,000 compensation, perhaps because they needed the money, perhaps because they did not want to prolong a painful process. And I think of the other referees, those working in independent events right now, without insurance, without medical checks, without protection. I do not know whether El Hijo de Fishman is truly guilty or not. I do not have enough evidence to conclude. But I know the system has failed — and that failure cannot be remedied by a compensation payment. It needs to be remedied through a sense of responsibility, through regulation, through respect for those who have dedicated their lives to this art form. And that, perhaps, is the greatest lesson this case offers. As I leave my office in Busan, I look out the window and see a light rain falling. I think of Russia, of June snow, of Korean vuvuzelas echoing in unfamiliar cold. I recall a phrase I wrote in a previous article: "The night in Russia, Korean vuvuzelas echoed through June snow — I have never feared the cold so much." Now, I fear a different cold — the cold of an industry turning its back on those who made it. And I hope that, somehow, this case will awaken a change. Not to punish an individual, but to protect those who have dedicated their lives to their passion. I do not know if that will happen. But I know I will continue to observe, continue to document, and continue to ask questions. Because that is my job — not to provide answers, but to keep the rhythm for stories that are bleeding every minute.