EPISODE 9 PERCEPTION IS REALITY

The repetition of life in the Performance Center quickly set in. Not to say it was humdrum. Quite the opposite. It was a daily overdose of adrenaline. Looking at the WWE turnbuckle pads knowing what I was here for and what I was working towards motivated and terrified me in equal measure. With this combined with the crippling fear of failure, amplified by actual failure to deliver, I was an anxious mess.

Not only was it evident I did not look like a “superstar”; I didn’t wrestle like one either. The years of ring rust were obvious, and my lack of natural athleticism seemed to reflect off the canvas.

Days began with four hours of wrestling training, a short break, followed by an hour and a half of strength and conditioning. If you were feeling spry, there was extra wrestling training in the afternoon.

Which all would have been fine and well if my body wasn’t a little deteriorating bitch. It wasn’t breaking down on me because I was taking brutal bumps or from the wear and tear of going hard five days a week and thoughts of impending doom keeping me up at night, but rather it was rolls, little tumbles. The stuff three-year-olds do and make look so fun and easy.

We started every class with a series of rolls, hundreds of the fuckers. But there was one little bastard that got me every time. The three-quarter roll. Roll across your shoulder, tuck your leg, stand up looking the opposite way. Sounds simple. Probably is. But for me, they were my mortal enemy. All the other girls were gliding angelically like elegant tumbleweeds while I dumped, clunked, and groaned across the ring. I’d get up embarrassed, dust myself off, and try again, my hip labrum taking an almighty beating.

“Try it again,” Sara would coach, hoping that by some great miracle I’d get this simple maneuver down pat, the girls in the class sharing quiet secondhand embarrassment.

The inability to get these damn rolls felt like a fireable offense. And rather quickly became one, because after just a couple of weeks I was already sidelined with a sprained hip flexor. I was confined to watching practice from a folding chair and taking notes on how not to suck.

The mantra of the PC was “Perception is reality”—i.e., it didn’t matter if you worked hard, as long as it looked like you worked hard. It didn’t matter if you cared, as long as it looked like you cared. It didn’t matter if you really had what it takes to make it, as long as you looked like you did.

I suppose that is essentially how the world operates, more so with the growth of social media, where everyone is attempting to create their own perceived reality.

The reality is the perception of me was awful. And the perception of this particular injury was “she’s faking it” or “she can’t hack it.”

And while I certainly wasn’t faking it, the thing I couldn’t hack was being so close to my dream and having it ripped out from under me. Especially because of something as lame as a shoulder roll.

If things didn’t turn around quickly, my days were numbered.

Girls with no experience at all were far and away surpassing me. Girls who had been there awhile were judging me. Or maybe they weren’t, but that’s what I perceived—there’s layers to this perception shit. Onions.

I didn’t feel that judgement from everyone, though. There were several girls I would turn to for a supportive smile or a mantra of encouragement. For the sake of avoiding confusion, I’ll call them by their WWE names.

Charlotte Flair, daughter of Ric Flair, was warm and sweet, forever offering up reassurance from the side. She’d yell, “You got this, woman!” as I messed up time and again. One could assume that coming from such a prestigious family might make her stuck-up, but she was far from it. Perhaps the pressure she felt being the child of one of the greatest of all time made her sympathetic to the pressure I was putting myself under. She, however, was a natural. A former gymnast and volleyball player, she was taking to the wrestling ring like a duck to water. The ring also served as a safe haven for her, as she had recently suffered the tragic loss of her younger brother, Reid.

Then there was Sasha Banks. She was more reserved but equally as kind. She was fantastic in the ring and incredibly passionate. She was the only person I could never beat in being “the first person in the building in the morning,” though I would try to always be the last to leave.

Hey, when you don’t have much to remind them you’re worth keeping around, you at least put in the time.

Sasha took me under her wing. Even though she was five years younger than me, she had a much better handle on the appearance aspect than I did.

She taught me that in show business, most of the hair is fake! Weaves, wigs, clip-ins, wefts—there’s a whole string of tricks I had no idea about. Eyelashes too! It never dawned on me that this was what the women on TV did.

I know, I know, twenty-six and didn’t know anything about anything. Judge me as you will.

She directed me to different cosmetics to buy, gave me eye shadow palettes to try out, and taught me about all of this new hair stuff.

At first, I was terrible at doing everything. When I put on eyelashes, they went closer to my eyebrow than my eyelash. My clip-ins were dangling out of my head. But hey, maybe perception could be that I was trying.

And oh boy was I trying. I was trying harder than anyone had ever tried. I spent hours in the gym, inside and outside the PC. I poured my heart and soul into rehabbing this damn hip flexor. When it finally got better and I finally figured out how to roll safely, I was able to rejoin the class and do everything I could to save my job.

I went to every extra ring-training session, I cut promos every single day. But I could not, for the life of me, get better in the ring.

What was also stopping me was the sheer abundance of restrictions put on the women in terms of how they could wrestle. The year was 2013 and women couldn’t punch, couldn’t throw uppercuts, and were encouraged to pull hair and slap each other. They couldn’t use things like the ring posts or stairs or anything considered “too violent.” The mandate came from the top and was commonly accepted as “just the way things are.”

As if I weren’t having a hard enough time with all of this, I was counselled by Bill to “move like a girl.” What the fuck did that even mean? I was a girl, and I was moving—what more do you want? Wrists flailing wildly? Random enticing hair flips? To drop down into a split at any given moment? I was truly baffled by this weird stereotypical instruction.

I was so despaired of that one of the coaches told a girl in my class matter-of-factly, “She’s never going to make it.”

If even the coaches didn’t believe in me, how the hell was I going to convince the biggest wrestling organization in the history of the world to put me on their TV shows?

My chances were next to zero. And that coach would have been right if I wasn’t such a determined, largely lucky SOB.

I was eventually moved to the remedial class, while girls who had never wrestled a day in their lives were in the “advanced class.”

“It’s a test. Don’t react,” Joe would comfort me as I cried to him from the safety of our shitty apartment.

Luckily, my ol’ pal Robbie Brookside was running the superbeginner class and he was an amazing coach. His classes were fun, and perhaps because I had been so desperate for Sara’s approval, I was too in my head. With Robbie, I could relax; I knew I had his support. Hell, he was a big reason I was here. He made me feel like I was gonna be okay. And maybe that was all I needed.

It turned out to be a blessing. When I had to return to class with the rest of the girls, I had more pep in my step. I didn’t doubt absolutely everything I did. Just most of the things.

One place I didn’t doubt myself, however, was our weekly promo class with the one and only Dusty Rhodes.

Dusty was an original. One of wrestling’s greats, but one who never fit the mold. He wasn’t the most handsome, he wasn’t in good shape, but he brought an energy and a passion that were unmatchable. His ability to cut a unique promo that was authentic yet entertaining with his lispy southern voice put him in a league of his own, and all because he was true to himself and had confidence in what he brought to the table.

With all of my battles with insecurity, I stood to learn the most from Dusty.

Promo class was how I could prove to them that I did actually have something. Anything. Some small beacon of light that was worth keeping. I’m pretty sure the Dusty Rhodes–Robbie Brookside support combo saved my job on more than one occasion.

Dusty was said to have loved his “broken toys.” The ones with something off about them. The interesting ones.

Unlike the rest of the office, Dusty didn’t care for the total package. Where there was no room for improvement, Dusty’s work was surplus. But the damaged ones had room to grow and heal, and more to learn from him.

He was able to bring something special out of you so that you might reach superstar level. And usually that something was yourself. Even if you didn’t know who you were just yet. He had an eye for a hidden gem.

It was as if he were the Performance Center grandpa, giving love and support to each of his grandkids as needed.

His support and encouragement every week at promo class was the boost of confidence I needed to get through the week. Joe’s too.

Every night at home Joe and I would workshop ideas for that week’s class, sometimes coming up with wacky characters and ridiculous scenarios. Over meals of slow-cooked chicken and rice, we momentarily left the stress of the daily grind of the PC behind as we prepared for our favorite class.

I was a mischievous old lady in disguise, a fortune-teller, an imp, a hippy, a disheveled maniac, a competitive Irish dancer.… Of course, none of these characters would translate to a wrestling ring. But that didn’t matter just yet. What mattered was I was showing creativity, versatility, and that somewhere, buried deep beneath the dirt, there might be a diamond.

If nothing else, it eventually, after four months of training, gave me the confidence to ask to be put on a show.

Prior to that, I would go to each show, set up the ring, and hang out as all the other wrestlers put their matches together, and I tried to learn a thing or two. Then I would sit in the back and take notes as they executed. The women who were not wrestling would go out during intermission and dance rather awkwardly in our “nice dresses” to a song called “Let’s Get Loud”—as we threw T-shirts to excited audience members. What was worse than this awkward dance number was that I wasn’t even offended by it and was content to be any part of the show, regardless of its chauvinistic intentions.

But when women with no prior experience began getting matches on live events ahead of me, I knew it was time to speak up.

As bad as I was, if I could show them that I could connect with an audience, it might save my job.

“What should I do?” I asked Joe as we strolled through Walmart. “I can’t seem to do anything right, but I’ve always felt good in front of a crowd.”

“You should just ask Bill. What do you have to lose? You’re already not on the shows,” Joe responded directly.

I didn’t know what I would do if I didn’t have him to turn to.

I knocked on Bill’s office door. He smiled as I walked in. As much as he despaired of me as a talent, I think he had a certain amount of affection for me as a person.

“Look, sir, I know I haven’t exactly been killing it in training, but I do think I’m better in the moment. If you give me the chance to have a match on a show I believe I can show you that I have something.” It was a ballsy suggestion, considering I hadn’t had a proper match in front of a crowd in about seven years, but in front of a crowd, with the pressure turned up, is where I feel like I shine. And this was do-or-die.

I got my wish—that very weekend, I was going to make my debut on a live event!

All of a sudden, I realized that maybe I had been too hasty. I didn’t even have proper ring gear. Or a character. Or a damn ring name! I needed to pick one ASAP! One that would be associated with me for the rest of my career.

Only every single name I submitted to the WWE office and decision-makers got rejected. So I sent in another list, which also got rejected. So I sent in another list and got some possibilities back. But none of these were names I had actually submitted.

There was Madeline, which reminds me of those French cakes, hardly the toughest things in the world. Then there was Becky Lynch. I wasn’t sure about the Lynch part. There’s a harshness to it that doesn’t fall trippingly off the tongue, but I liked keeping part of my real name. Considering I was already pushing my luck by even having a job here, I didn’t think I had the ability to ask for more options. Best not to highlight any more difficulties to my existence than the incompetence I was already bringing. So I went with Lynch. Regardless of my feelings of mild disdain towards it.

My debut was to take place in the old training center for NXT (formerly known as FCW) in Tampa.

The hall, painted black, had the energy of hundreds of lost souls. People had come to train here with the hopes of becoming WWE superstars only to have all of their dreams dashed, slashed, and destroyed, changing them forever. I had the ominous feeling that if tonight didn’t go well, I could be joining them.

In the changing room, surrounded by the buzz of the other women, I prepared myself for my first match and, success depending, perhaps my last. I painted my lips and eyes with blue makeup in an attempt to stand out and look different. If everyone else was gorgeous, then it would behoove me to be weird. I didn’t have the skill set for glamour, so no point in even trying to compete. There would always be too many blond beauties for anyone to be looking at me, right?

When I went out in front of that tiny crowd in Tampa, they responded as promised. Maybe it was a new face before them, or the innate ability that a fan has to detect passion in their wrestlers. It’s an interesting sixth sense wrestling fans have. They can tell if you truly care for this business, and will respond favorably. They’ll likely forgive your sloppiness or any mistakes because they sense your good wrestling love-energy and give it right back to you. Sure, I wasn’t great, but I didn’t stink up the joint and, like I told Bill, I could connect.

As I came back through the curtain, Bill’s was the first face I saw. He tilted his head up and down with what I perceived to be a slight smile. It was the closest thing to a nod of approval and I basked in it.

Moreover, the friends I had begun to make during the daily grind of developmental were there to meet me with a round of applause, not because the match had been good, but because they knew how much it meant to me.

Finally, there was light at the end of the tunnel. And just as I was beginning to get hopeful, the light shut off as quickly as it had turned on.