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In American culture, pro wrestling is usually regarded as one of the lowest forms of low-brow entertainment — slightly above Jerry Springer, but solidly below NASCAR. Critics treat it as a comedic expression of the tastelessness of the American working class, a sort of redneck theater, scripted and choreographed, with poor acting and a poorer clientele.
But in its heyday, the sport nestled comfortably within the traditional, communal atmosphere of small town USA. The larger-than-life characters would often play off of regional stereotypes and real world conflicts, allowing for the sort of morality plays that appealed to the ethos of main street America. The decline of the wrestling business and its emergence as an entertainment industry was masterminded by one of the most ruthless corporate tyrants in recent memory, and in the process became a stark example of the dangers of modern "sports entertainment," both for the performers and those who applaud them.
Pro-wrestling has always been a strange business, straddling uneasily between sport and entertainment, and the tension is not always easy on its stars.
Its best performers make good money, but even then, neither their salaries nor their living conditions match those of your typical "pampered athlete." The typical salary is far less than a million dollars, and unlike most major-league sports, wrestlers are expected to perform year round. Their tours are world-wide, and most pay their own traveling and living expenses while on the road. Health care and pension plans are nonexistent, but the physical intensity leads to frequent injuries, leading many wrestlers to work while hurt.
It is not surprising, then, that injuries often become a gateway to painkiller and steroid abuse — addictions that have long plagued the industry. The list of wrestlers who have died because of drug abuse — much of it with prescriptions from doctors with questionable credentials — is unbelievably long. Some of the worst abusers, men like Jake "The Snake" Roberts and Scott Hall, have managed to eke out a tormented existence, estranged from their families and working years past their physical primes in order to finance their expanding "recreational" habits.
Wrestlers that seek employment outside their industry often find themselves stumbling back into the waiting arms of the squared circle. Many cannot cope in normal middle class settings after years of groupies, drugs, and artificially inflated egos. Paranoia is rampant. The wrestling business is notorious for its backstabbing and politicking, as grown men argue intensely over the method in which they will "win" staged battles and keep their "spot on the card." Sabotage is common.
Despite these misgivings, I am indeed a long time fan. I grew up on the old National Wrestling Alliance (NWA), a loose band of regional territories. The organization's shows were no less "fake" than the modern product, but the organizational structure was drastically different. These territories were governed through a sort of federalist system. Each "territory" had its own booking office, TV show, tour dates and regional champion. Becoming a world champion meant becoming the shared property of the NWA, responsible for promoting the organization by performing all over the world. This arrangement worked until cable television and other forms of mass media made both the globe and the lifespan of the average wrestler much, much smaller.
It's true that many of the problems that plague the wrestling industry today existed back then as well. For understandable reasons, the profession has always been prone to alcoholism, brawling, and backstabbing, and family life has never been easy. But there was also something much more humane about the locally-oriented, territorial roots of the wrestling industry in the United States. In his book Ring of Hell: The Story of Chris Benoit and the Fall of the Pro Wrestling Industry, author Matthew Randazzo writes:
"Unlike the NWA territories which kept a wrestler within driving distance of his family at most times, these international brands sent their wrestlers from one end of the continent to the other...This in effect put an end to the camaraderie that had existed in the territories. No longer were wrestlers members of a freewheeling carnie brotherhood, a traveling biker gang; now they were interchangeable cogs within a heavily bureaucratic corporate behemoth, cowering in their cubicles in fear of the next downsizing."
While a "biker gang" may sound unseemly, it really was an ideal arrangement for many of the wrestlers, or "boys," as they often referred to themselves. Jobs were plentiful, and performers had options in a diversified market; work could be found almost anywhere in the country. Though the pay wasn't always great, many promoters had local connections that enabled their employees to eat and travel for cheap. Because the weekly and monthly schedules were concrete, with little deviation, even very active regions had schedules that gave wrestlers uniformity and a structured work environment. The relative smallness of the business also allowed more opportunities for spending time with his family, if he had one.
In this era, pro wrestling was often one of the few weekly sources for small town family entertainment. Back then, wrestling was strictly a morality play in which the good guys -- "faces," in wrestling jargon -- were pitted against the bad guys, or "heels." In places like Tennessee and Texas, pro wrestling became an established part of life, with arenas regularly packed to capacity with fathers and sons cheering for decency to triumph over decadence, which it always did. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the industry as a whole.
When Vince McMahon and Ted Turner seized the industry in the 80's, it was a legal move, but not a moral one. Using slick financial techniques, the two moguls moved into the markets of the smaller companies, bought up their syndicated television time slots, signed away many of their stars and then purchased the hollow shells that were left, often at fire-sale prices. Along with these buyouts and takeovers came a switch from the standard good vs. evil plot lines for a model based on grandiosity and largesse. "Bigger is better" applied to the business model, the scope of the enterprise, and the actors themselves.
"Superstar" Billy Graham failed to live up to his namesake when he helped introduce steroids into wrestling in the 70's, and the body-altering drug went from a fancy to a full blown necessity after McMahon and Turner's takeover. Combined with the rise of Hulk Hogan's "Hulkamania," it was nearly impossible to get a well paying job in the business unless one was on the "juice." Where once, the business had been filled with tough looking, dock worker types like Harley Race and legit amateur legends like Danny Hodge, it was now filled with pro football washouts and body builders, nearly all of whom were "roided" to the gills.
As steroids exploded so did recreational drug use. Cocaine was prevalent and even used as payment in emergency situations. As modern fans became accustomed to even harder-hitting, daredevil wrestling styles in the late 80's, painkiller abuse spiked. The corporate wrestling bosses largely viewed their talent pools as expendable and ran worker after worker into the ground.
Since wrestlers were independent contractors, they had virtually no power in disputes with their employers. Tag Teams — two wrestlers who worked in conjunction against other tandems — were broken up at random, even though their success often depended on remaining a team. Releases were given for the most minor infractions and via the most insulting methods. The future "Stone Cold" Steve Austin was released from WCW by fax while out with an injury. The then soon-to-be Governor of Minnesota, Jesse Ventura, met a similar fate.
By early 2001, the layers of bureaucratic chaos created by Turner's outfit — which had been extremely profitable just a few years before — collapsed under the weight of its own excesses and the company was purchased by the last remaining lion in the jungle, Vince McMahon. With no serious competition in the market place, the centralization of the sport was complete.
The business had become an industry, and the end result of this downturn has been entirely predictable: dozens of wrestlers have died, whatever semblance of family life wrestlers may have once enjoyed is gone, and the old pro wrestling so many grew up on has morphed into one of the most monstrous arrangements of corporate criminals and drug addicts imaginable.
In retrospect, bigger was not better for the wrestlers or their fans. It was just plain bad.
In the wake of the Benoit tragedy, many wrestling fans wanted some sort of action, but what could be done? The calls for industry regulation would drive the independents out of business altogether and further strengthen McMahon's monopoly-like power over the industry. Breaking up the WWE would certainly embarrass McMahon, but it would likely lead to a drastic reduction in pay for the workers. Organic change is even more complex. Cosmopolitan elites and their yuppie hanger-ons are quick to disassociate themselves from a "faked" sport on which the supposedly tasteless American working class feeds, but ironically, showing contempt for the "phoniness" of wrestling actively contributes to devaluing the lives of its participants.
The sad reality is that pro wrestling cannot easily be changed back to what it once was. Perhaps wrestlers themselves could arrive at the realization that they are not cogs in a machine, but men with responsibilities and duties. Alternately, a fan boycott could be organized. But the the excesses of pro wrestling are so ingrained in our culture of hyper-urbanization and its accompanying pathologies that such efforts would be terribly difficult, if not impossible. For now, spectacle trumps sport in the squared circle, and its only a matter of time before the next Chris Benoit ducks under the rope.
