Joshua Bresslin has hit the mat hard with his newest novel, Going Over. An emotionally impactful, character-driven examination of the rivalries within a small independent professional wrestling school in New England, the book introduces us to Garrett Chambers and Aquil Jones. Both men are chasing the same dream: being noticed by a major promoter and finally “going over”—winning a match and beginning a storied career on the pro wrestling circuit.
While I don’t know much about the ins and outs of this career path myself, I have personally known several people who have tried to make it in an industry where backstage politics often matter as much as, if not more than, the physical ability of the performers. One of the most famous tropes of the sport is, of course, the old saw, “If wrestling is fake, explain this!” Bresslin’s novel does a fantastic job of showing that the ambition, poverty, corruption, and drive are all very real components of a business built on real pain, success, and all-or-nothing stakes.
Garrett is a white suburbanite who works a paycheck-to-paycheck, dead-end retail job as a shopping cart collector, investing all his remaining time and money into the dream. Aquil faces a similar level of poverty, but as a Black man trying to break into the industry, he faces a steeper uphill battle both in and out of the ring. Bresslin highlights how race impacts Aquil’s more difficult experience clearly and naturally, without ever resorting to stereotyping. As the two men orbit each other in the league, each must make difficult compromises and ethical choices to sustain their ambition without succumbing to the corruption they witness firsthand.
The central question of the novel is powerful: when poverty, race, location, and a lack of scouting opportunities are already so difficult to navigate, what is it that ultimately determines which man becomes successful? Is it talent? Hard work? Luck? Politics? What is it about appearance and character—both internal and external—that truly launches a star’s career? Bresslin reminds us that despite the fictitious nature of wrestling’s narratives, there is always a very real “face” and “heel” (and every archetype in between) both in and out of the ring.
Bresslin’s structure lends itself beautifully to this character-driven story. The chapters alternate between the two competitors, exploring their families, their living situations, their dead-end jobs, and their struggle to find fame in an industry with razor-thin margins and explosive results. The narrative undercuts the romanticized ideal that a “big break” will suddenly solve everything. Instead, it shows that just to get close, a person has to sacrifice relationships and pieces of themselves. It forces the reader to question whether the cost of trying to make it is worth the effort for a dream that may never arrive—and if it does, will we find ourselves fulfilled, or simply reflecting on what we burned to the ground just to attempt it?
What I found most amazing about Bresslin’s work isn’t even just the story, but rather its place as an entry into a modern genre of books that provide emotionally strong, character-driven pieces for men. “Guy Lit,” if it hasn’t existed before, truly emerges from this brilliant novel. It feels as if the Updikes, Yateses, and Cheevers of the Boomer generation have evolved into a more nuanced, masculine interiority for today’s reader. Long live Aquil. Long live Garrett. Long live Bresslin. May this kind of literature continue to evolve and engage modern masculine readers.
Garrett Zecker 