EPISODE 4 THE SELL

“Let’s promise to never let wrestling come between us.” Charlotte and I vowed to be friends forever en route from Raw to SmackDown. We discussed the future, food, fitness, and world domination from the inside of our rental cars.

We shared our hotel rooms, our passions, everything. We were as close as sisters. Her dad even dubbed us Thelma and Louise. And I suppose we were, except without the handsome man in the back.

Having a good road partner can make a huge difference. Wrestling can be the most adventurous, exciting whirlwind romance that you’ve ever had. It can also be an infuriating, soul-crushing, heartbreaking relationship too. But as with all relationships, so much of it is how you react.

That is why no-selling, i.e., showing no reaction, is so strongly encouraged. You have to be above it, not let them know they’re getting to you. It’s a constant power struggle.

I ain’t wired that way. I’m a firecracker of emotion. I feel things deeply, passionately, and with little to no ability to corral and rein in these wild feelings. Disclosure: being so reactive is terrible from a mental health standpoint and I’d do well to meditate and take a stoic stance on a few things. But life is for living, and living to me is feeling.

But that is why, in wrestling, it is so important to have someone you trust, and someone who can rein you in when things get too crazy. Charlotte and I were that for each other.

We were viewed in two very different lights: her, with her natural ability, radiating stardom and regality, having been bred for this. She was being positioned early to be the top star, being given media opportunities and highlighted on TV.

I was the exact opposite: scruffy, scrappy, there against all odds, but with a certain intangible charm and spark that few could see. It was the ember at the campsite fire, flickering while everyone slept, waiting for the right gust of wind so that it could be carried to a new lease on life and set the whole place on fire.

But that gust wasn’t coming today.

Paige, who had been doing remarkably well on her own before her assigned buddies came along, had pitched to turn on Charlotte and me. There was a story people could get behind—the betrayal by one friend of another would be much more impactful than random turf wars.

The only problem was, Charlotte and I weren’t nearly established enough for the audience to care very much, so when Paige turned on us and started beating both of us up simultaneously, we didn’t get sympathy. She just looked like a badass and we looked like weak little bitches.

I tried to explain this to a writer who nodded along sympathetically, but ultimately, nothing would change.

What I’ve learned along the way, and this is not meant to disrespect the writers, is that bringing up gripes to them can be futile. Not because they don’t care: they care deeply about us; they even become friends and in many ways like family. But they don’t have the power to change things; that resides with Vince or Hunter.

And the writers’ jobs are already immensely difficult. They work endless hours on a show that when they get there will often get completely thrown out, torn up, and have to be rewritten. They are on call to be thinking about the show 24/7. Then, should the talent say something that the boss doesn’t like, they’ll get yelled at or, worst-case scenario, could even lose their jobs. And so for them, like all of us, they are trying to get out of Raw and SmackDown with their careers intact. We all have the same goal, of making the best show possible, but talent tend to be more protective of their respective characters, having birthed them, and spend all of their time worrying about our characters’ life spans. In turn, we can wrongly direct our frustration over certain stories and promo lines at these hardworking writers, who are just doing their best.

In this scenario, it all came to a head in one particular promo in Corpus Christi.

Paige was in the ring with us, running down all the other women in the division to massive cheers, the exact opposite you want for a heel.

Then she turned her attention to me.

“And Becky, the least relevant woman in the divas revolution.”

Oof. I didn’t know that was coming, and it stung to the core because it was true. But also, she made a great point!

In a strange turn of events, however, the crowd actually booed.

To everyone’s amazement, it was clear that, despite her badassery and the little focus I had gotten on TV, people liked my irrelevant self.

However, to make things worse and make me feel a bit more losery, as I went to step in Paige’s face, Charlotte, of her own accord, pushed me out of the way as if I weren’t able to defend myself, and, well, Charlotte has the natural strength of twelve bulls, so I had to move the hell out of the way. Welp.

Sure, it was all story-line shenanigans, but at the time, being as insecure as a house built on quicksand, I felt like the world now knew that I didn’t matter, and my own best friend accidentally told them I was a little wuss too.

When we got to the back, Paige gave me a big, excited hug. “Did you hear how much they booed? They love you!”

“Yeah,” I responded, despondent, before turning to Charlotte. “You pushed me back, as if I wasn’t able to stand up for myself. It just makes me look like I’m weak.”

“I’m sorry, woman! I didn’t think about it! I just got so mad in the moment.”

“That’s okay. In the future, if that happens again, just let me fight my own fight.”

“I will; I promise,” she said as we hugged, resolving this very not serious yet serious matter.

I walked off and found a quiet hallway where I could sob my real-life weak little bitch eyes out.

I knew, deep down, that there was something I could bring to this world. I knew that I could connect with the audience. But I had no idea how I would ever get the world, or more appropriately the company, to see it. How could I run with the ball if I never got it?

Still riddled with self-loathing from the take-over incident, I was irrelevant because I couldn’t be trusted, and I couldn’t be relevant until I could prove I could be trusted. It was a catch-22.

A writer I was friendly with happened upon me as I was mid-sobs. “Becky, what’s wrong?” he asked.

It took me a few minutes to pull it together to feel like I could speak coherently.

“She’s right. I am irrelevant. Why even bring me up?” I sobbed.

He had such a kind and sympathetic demeanor: “I know it can be so tough up here. I don’t think anyone thinks you’re irrelevant. You heard the crowd; that was the only time they booed! Vince sees something in you. He told me so at Backlash. He was putting you over.”

In my head I was thinking, That was before I proved that I was a huge fuckup at NXT. But I didn’t want to speak of it ever again.

The writer did a good job of talking me off the ledge that day, which complements my earlier point about our writers from earlier. Sometimes their jobs go well beyond writing, and it’s something they may never get credit for. Well, until now.