Then, too, there is their blond wholesomeness to contend with, always looking freshly showered in the ring, even as they break into sweat. I'd be surprised and disappointed to find that they smell like anything other than Dial. I'd say they look Aryan, but I would want to avoid the Nazi implications of that analogy--I can't see them stechschritting at Nuremberg, but I can see them being picked to sing "Tomorrow Belongs to Me" at a little theater production of Cabaret.
There are, too, their cumulous bodies with their contradictory signals of soft and hard, firm where you might expect them to be soft, pliant where you might expect them to be hard. They look like parade balloons, from certain angles, and yet from others, like marble columns.
And then there is the pleasing contrast (and complementariness) of their temperaments. The excitable younger Matt, jacked up on adrenalin and love of the fight, and the calmer older Bryan, eyes burdened with responsibility, always strategizing, always second-guessing.
Here they are in an East Coast Wrestling Association match a few months ago against the Heavyweights (Sean Royal and Dan Eckos). Interference stops either side from having a clear win, and it was this match that broke Bryan's hand, sidelining him for a few months afterwards. Still, in these caps, you can perhaps get a small taste of the brothers' epic qualities.