By day they are office workers, students, men of toil. But by night the masks, alter-egos and glory of wrestling's battle for supremacy beckons.

Daniel Blakeborough barely has time to adjust his top hat and smooth out the creases on his blazer before his violent alter ego takes hold.

Moments earlier, the 22-year-old was the picture of serenity, reading aloud a passage from Moby-Dick, his cadence reflecting the lilting grace of Herman Melville's masterpiece.

But as he turns around, his anger comes too, as a skinny bystander catches his eye.

"You’re going to get a knowledge bomb," Blakeborough seethes as he flings the smaller man across the floor.

Soon the man is lofted above Blakeborough's broad shoulders and slammed to the ground.

The victim, his face obscured by a mask, lies motionless.

Over the next 20 minutes, countless other skirmishes break out inside the Henderson gym, a modest space surrounded by garages, panel beaters, and blue collar toil.

The combatants, 13 young men of various ages and builds, embrace the conflict - and each other.

Each new arrival at the gym is greeted by the group with a handshake.

Blakeborough's role in the brawls shifts between perpetrator and victim but - like the others who have gathered at the West Auckland pro wrestling school - he savours every moment.

The school is managed by Impact Pro Wrestling (IPW), the country's longest running and biggest pro wrestling promotion.

Plastered across one of the gym's walls is a montage of posters advertising upcoming IPW events and bouts.

Among the posters are autographed photographs of WWE Hall of Famers Hacksaw Jim Duggan and Brian Wickens, best known as Bushwhacker Luke Williams - one half of New Zealand's most famous wrestling duo.

While a Henderson gym seems far removed from the pyrotechnic extravaganza of pro wrestling's global juggernaut, World Wrestling Entertainment, in reality it's not, says trainer Alfred Vordermann.

The school is the shop floor of an industry always in search of the next big thing.

Vordermann, better known as Alfred Valentine, has been in the business for 18 years and has trained many of New Zealand's top flight wrestlers.

Two of his former chargers - Reuben de Jong and Cheree Crowley, aka Dakota Kai - have both had stints in the WWE. Kai is currently signed to WWE and performs in its NXT UK programme.

While there's no textbook to pro wrestling, the right combination of natural talent and commitment can see someone graduate from wrestling school to the squared circle in a year.

Some have made the leap in six months.

And what New Zealand's homegrown wrestling scene lacks in terms of big budgets and television coverage, it makes up for with the enthusiasm of amateurs acting out their wrestling dreams.

IPW's main events can attract crowds of between 400 and 500 people, while rival South Island promotion Southern Pro Wrestling attracts similar sized audiences.

Blakeborough's interest in wrestling dates back to when he started watching WWE as a kid at his dad's house.

The episodes were reminiscent of a soap drama infused with the realism of sport.

"It was also really weird and I think that's what drew me to it," Blakeborough recalls.

In 2015, Blakeborough made the leap from fan to performer.

He enrolled in an IPW training school in Māngere after searching for wrestling schools online.

A year later he made his debut.

His wrestling persona - The Library Tom Knowledge - is far removed from his day job as a "Jack of all trades" maintenance worker.

Blakeborough describes his ring character as a snooty blue blood jerk with a penchant for annoying anyone within earshot.

With 20 matches under his belt, Blakeborough is no longer considered a rookie.

That said, he's still learning the ropes of this often misunderstood craft.

Professional wrestling has enjoyed various stints on New Zealand television, from the homegrown On the Mat, to various screenings of the WWE and the now defunct World Championship Wrestling (WCW).

While stars of the profession can achieve global recognition and fame - think Hulk Hogan (Terry Bollea), Andre the Giant and Dwayne Johnson - pro wrestling continues to have an uneasy relationship with traditional sports fans.

Critics point to its scripted melees and dismiss its athletes as the demimonde of sports.

Its larger than life characters seem especially out of place in New Zealand's joyless sporting landscape where a game of rugby is given the same reverence as a religious happening.

But pro wrestling has regularly taken a razor wit to the throat of tradition and conservatism.

And the hardscrabble sessions at IPW's training school are a counter-narrative to anyone who dismisses pro wrestling as fake.

Learning the moves and prepping bodies for ring action takes time - and the consequences of when the action doesn't go to plan is real.

Attending Wednesday night's class is a mixture of rookies learning the trade and more experienced wrestlers fine-tuning their technique.

Throws, strikes, falls and landings, flips and various holds and locks are practised over and over again during the 2 1/2-hour session.

Helping oversee Wednesday's training is Michel Mulipola​ who wrestles under the name Liger.

An established comic book artist, Mulipola tried his hand at wrestling 12 1/2-years ago and turned out to be a natural.

During one part of the session, the trainees split into pairs and practise grappling under his watchful gaze.

The moves come thick and fast: headlocks, wristlocks, armbars. Too fast for Mulipola's liking.

"Don't rush through it," he tells the group.

"Make each move count. Make it mean something to the audience."

The night ends with each trainee drawing a gimmick out of a hat. The task is to cut a one-minute promo in their chosen character.

Some excel, others don't.

A few struggle to speak for more than 30 seconds.

For the more experienced wrestlers, the process of creating their in-ring persona has already started.

Infinitely more interesting, however, are the people behind the characters.

Men such as 24-year-old Will Soanes, an insurance worker and relative newbie to Auckland, who took to wrestling as a way of connecting with others in the sprawling Super City.

Or Jamie Seu, an outsized man who plays the menacing Mr Tagataese. At 142kg, Seu appears the perfect candidate to prop up a rugby scrum.

"People think all Samoans do is play rugby or league but I want to stand out," Seu says.

"I don't want to follow those Pacific Island stereotypes."

And then there's 35-year-old Guy Pigden, one of IPW's more mature newcomers, who planned to make a film about pro wrestling but ended up jumping into the ring himself.

Men who have stepped into the spotlight in search of something bigger than themselves.

To entertain.

To belong.

Although there are exceptions, most regard 28 as the age at which wrestlers need to have made their breakthrough.

At age 37, Vordermann says he's too old to make a big overseas run. But he laughs when asked if he's put an end date on his wrestling career.

"I can't stop. It's my special thing. It's the thing that separates me from Joe and Joan walking down the road. What makes me different is I have this secret life."

Vordermann is often used to give new wrestlers their first match or first feud.

While a wrestler can become highly competent after a few years, the process of elevating your opponent in the ring can take much longer.

Vordermann describes it as a mindset shift.

"It's that moment when you stop thinking I'm good because I can do all these crazy flips no one else can do, or all the fans love me. Instead, you see your peer's handshake as more valuable than necessarily the fans talking you up on the internet. It's when the veil rolls back and the wins and losses no longer matter to you."

Outside of the Henderson gym there are no signs pointing to the activity inside.

The building's nondescript appearance is deliberate, says Conan Dobell who's been with IPW for a decade, initially as a behind-the-scenes helper, and now as a senior referee.

"We keep it low profile because of the secretive nature of wrestling," Dobell explains.

"Just like a magician likes to maintain an illusion, we don't want to show people behind the curtain."

Dobell, who's better known to wrestling fans as Conan Wood, is an unabashed wrestling junkie. He has IPW tattooed across his inner left bicep.

While his ring persona is that of an impartial adjudicator, Dobell attends Wednesday night's wrestling classes to keep in shape.

"Although I'm 42, hopefully I don't look it. Before I started wrestling training I was incredibly anti-fitness and weighed about 100kg. Now I'm about 84kg and keep up with guys half my age," he says.

It's far from an idle boast as Dobell and the other referees are put to the test at IPW's live show Time Crisis at the Titirangi War Memorial Hall.

Pro wrestling's favourite hand has always been opaque chaos but this event contains an added twist - the first match sets the time to beat for the rest of the scheduled bouts.

If a wrestler can get a pin fall within the time set by the opening match, they earn a crack at the heavyweight championship at IPW's largest live event of the year - Nightmare Before Christmas.

It's just gone 7.30pm, show time, and wrestling fan David Matthews is finding his voice.

His short, sharp cries have the sound of gunfire.

"Hulk up." "Attack the legs". "Big man down."

The 28-year-old has been a regular attendee at IPW's Auckland shows since mid-2012.

He favours sitting in the front row - it gets him close to the action but also reflects his commitment to the performers.

"I always try and buy front row seats because I want to support these guys as much as I'm able," Matthews explains.

"This is not just a hobby for these guys. They take time out to train and put on shows to entertain us. I want to keep them in business."

Matthews' passion is infectious. His mum, Judith, 60, sits behind him in the second row, a more recent convert to wrestling.

She wears a t-shirt with "I'm too old for this s**t" written on the front.

Her gleeful smile suggests otherwise.

Together the pair provide a humorous live commentary during the matches, cheering on the good guys, known as faces, and heckling the heels.

Matthews says New Zealand wrestling has a sense of realism and authenticity that's been lost in the bigger North American events.

He's right.

The intimacy of the Titirangi venue allows fans to hear every body slam, foot stomp and crackin' one-liner.

During the opening bout, a wrestler tries to strip his opponent of the bumbag around his waist, only for the referee to intervene.

"Hey, hey, that's the source of his powers," the ref barks.

Despite the frantic nature of the ring action, wrestling bouts typically follow a recipe similar to a movie fight scene.

The good guy has the upper hand, only for the baddie to gain the advantage through misdeed or trickery. The hero then rallies and, in a climatic flurry, triumphs.

On this night, two of IPW's biggest stars are sitting out the action - men's heavyweight champ Liam Horgan, aka Liam Fury, and women's champ Leilani Tominiko​ better known as Candy Lee.

Horgan suffered a head knock while performing an aerial manoeuvre at a previous show - proof wrestling's high adrenalin action doesn't come without risk.

Horgan is sat at a merchandise table with his champion's belt displayed in front of him.

"It's so good to see you out and about Liam, we were really worried," says one woman. Next to her a young boy runs his finger over Horgan's belt.

Backstage, an earnestness hangs in the still air as wrestlers await their curtain call. The time is used to make last minute adjustments to outfits, apply face paint, and slip into character.

In the darkness, Corey Marsden, aka Mitch Gray, is splayed out on the wooden floorboards, doing his final stretches.

At 195cm tall and 110kg Marsden's large frame and intimidating attire belie his warm, softly spoken nature.

Marsden is one half of tag team CTRL, a menacing duo with a scary reputation.

Tonight's match is the 23-year-old's first bout in six months. As part of his prematch routine, Marsden has his headphones on and is listening to a medley of death metal tunes.

Transforming into a villain isn't as hard as some would expect, Marsden says.

"I've had struggles with my mental health in the past so I know what darkness looks like. I also know how to get out of that place and for me, wrestling has helped. These guys around me are like my second family."

Between the breathless action, several auctions are held inside the ring to raise funds for long-time fan Mitchell Fels.

The 25-year-old, who has Duchenne muscular dystrophy, has been a presence at ringside for about 14 years and knows most of the wrestlers on a first-name basis.

IPW, along with other wrestling promotions across the country, have been on a fundraising drive to pay for Fels to travel to the United States next year to watch WrestleMania - pro wrestling's showpiece event.

Around the Titirangi venue, Blakeborough and other trainees are lending a hand.

Also there is the slightly-built young man Blakeborough picked up and slammed into the ground at Wednesday night's wrestling class.

He no longer wears a mask but is careful not to reveal his identity, only giving his name as Kyro.

At age 17, he's not yet ready to tell his Afghan parents he's training to be a wrestler.

He goes to two training classes a week but tells his mum he's attending drama class.

"According to Muslim law, once I turn 18 I'm considered a man and that's when I'll tell my parents about wrestling," he explains.

"But even then I'm going to have to break it to them gently."

Away from the action, Blakeborough is busy in the kitchen, pulling hot chips from the oven and serving hungry patrons.

His focus for next year is to become a more established figure in the ring.

For now, his goals are simple.

"Deep down, everyone's got the dream to perform at WrestleMania but more realistically I just want to entertain people."

"It's the satisfaction of helping put on a good show. When the fans are booing me, then I know I'm doing my job."