EPISODE 7 THE BRAND SPLIT

After the high of WrestleMania, I spent several months meandering. Such is the nature of the business. Nothing remains in a homeostatic state. You heat up, you cool down, you heat up again.

The wrestling business and community is always changing. It’s transient by design. People coming, people going. Wrestlers become like family. We see them more than our own family, and then one day they can be gone from the roster, fired, quit, injured. And you’re sad for a little while and you hope you’ll stay in touch, but then you get on with the grind and the never-ending cycle continues. Same wheel, different cogs. Life on the road can be all-encompassing. And when you’re really trying to make sure you get to the tippy top of the tippy top in sports entertainment, you give it your all.

But it can be lonely and hard to meet people because of your insane schedule.

I had begun to date someone as a distraction; I was 99.9 percent positive he wasn’t the dude for me. He was a nice lad, and we had somewhat similar interests—he was a UFC fighter; I was a WWE wrestler—but there was no real deep connection, no commonalities, and our conversations felt forced and labored. But I thought I needed something else in my life other than wrestling, so I forced myself into a relationship I had no business being in. And so when work life felt so very meh and uninspiring there was some more meh waiting for me on the other side, but it seemed better than nothing.

As I’ve matured in the business, I realize it’s all just waves; you catch the big one when you can and ride it till the end; then it’s time to wait for the next one. But you can’t be constantly on top of a wave, ’cause, well, that’s not how surfing or this metaphor works. Work is never actually meh or uninspiring—one can simply become disillusioned by how things are and wish that they were different, or we just become downright impatient. But it’s all about mindset.

And so my time and attention were split between being in a relationship that constantly felt like a struggle and struggling with accepting my current position at work. Like my life was being mirrored with constant effort.

But the year was 2016, and there was a shift a-coming.

Rumblings of what was called a “brand split”—i.e., the two shows, Raw and SmackDown, would now have their own individual rosters and operate as distinct brands. Additionally, SmackDown, which had standardly been a prerecorded show, was now going to be live on Tuesday nights.

This was something that had been done years previous, going back as far as when I was a fan at home in Ireland. Admittedly, as a fan I hated it! I wanted to see all my favorites on whatever show was available to me.

However, the talent loved it because essentially it was a lighter schedule. You would tour with your specific show, which meant a schedule of live events on Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and television on Monday for the Raw crew. Or live events Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and television (which would be newly live) on Tuesday.

It’s hard for anything to stay a secret in WWE. There are always rumors and rumblings. Be it in the locker room or on the dirt sheets, one way or another, everything always seems to get out.

I had heard I was going to SmackDown, which was a big deal for me dating all the way back to watching it on the weekends in Ireland when I was a fan. But as happy as I was to be going to SmackDown, I was going to be separated from my best friend and travel buddy, Charlotte. My road wife. The woman who staved off the loneliness of endless travel and gave me a shoulder to cry on. Plus, driving through all parts of America in the middle of the night after shows can be intimidating to a young foreign lady, so being with her was always such a comfort.

To add to that, Mick Foley had now been assigned to the role of commissioner for Raw. I had been pitching a story line for the two of us for at least six months. In it, he would be the Mick to my side persona Becky Balboa as a play on the Rocky movies.

The other part of being drafted to SmackDown meant that we had live events on Monday, and considering we got paid based on how many people attended a show, the paydays were lower, as not too many people were going to live events on a Monday night. Most of the time, there was no show at all on Monday, so we had to pay for an extra day on the road, including rental cars and hotels, without getting paid for that show. Oftentimes meaning it cost us money to go to work.

The draft happened in real time on the first live episode of SmackDown with the whole roster in the back to watch and comment as we were being drafted.

Charlotte was the first woman to be drafted to Raw. I grabbed her hand excitedly, hoping that the rumors would be wrong. That we would be kept together after all.

Alas, I wouldn’t have to wait long. The rumors were true. I was the first woman to be drafted to the blue brand.

Charlotte and I held it together until the draft and TV taping were over, before crying and hugging each other like we were being separated by war, never to see each other again. As if we didn’t have access to cellular phones or live in the same city. We were now islands unto ourselves.

I only knew life on the road with Charlotte; how would I survive on my own?! As I took inventory throughout the night as to who was going where, it seemed like most of my close friends were all on Raw, Sheamus, Colby, Fergal, Charlotte, Big E (it turned out that, post–wet handshake incident, Big E is a giant teddy bear of love).

Who would I even hang out with on SmackDown? I imagined myself sitting lonely at tables in Catering while everyone laughed and joked around me. Maybe writing insults about my belly shape on planks of wood.

But the roster, which included some of the biggest stars and best wrestling minds in the world, such as John Cena, Daniel Bryan, Randy Orton, Bray Wyatt, and AJ Styles, made for a special atmosphere.

Once the dust settled and the sadness of being separated from Charlotte passed, I could see that being put on SmackDown was a chance to stand out on my own and find out who I was as a wrestler and as a woman. I even found new travel partners in Luke Harper from The Wyatt Family and Viktor from the Ascension, who became like road brothers to me.

I had only been on the main roster for a year, and though I didn’t have the most experience, after being highlighted at Royal Rumble and WrestleMania, I had established more equity in recent months than the rest of the women’s roster. Thus, I felt it was my responsibility to create a supportive working environment. The wrestling business can be stressful enough, but I wanted everyone to feel excited when we went to work. Like my mom had said when she was ruling the skies, it trickles from the top down. My theory was when people work together and help one another, that’s when the best stuff happens. Even if we’re in the (pretend) conflict business.

A couple of months after the brand split, and the SmackDown women having nothing to fight for, considering the only women’s title was being held by Charlotte over on Raw, a new title was about to be debuted. It was exactly like the Raw one, only with a blue background instead of red. It was perfect, and I wanted it.

Turns out, the crowd wanted me to have it too.

The moment it was revealed and the diamonds sparkled throughout the arena like beams of light, the crowd erupted in chants of “Becky, Becky,” going against the company’s original plans of who they wanted to be their champion.

Nikki Bella, a tried-and-true champion and global star, had just returned from a potential career-ending neck injury and had been penciled in as the inaugural champion, set to be crowned at Backlash in a six-way elimination match, but judging by the audience reaction, if they wanted Nikki to remain a babyface, that wasn’t going to fly. Me and the audience, we were buds, and they were ready to slap some gold on my waist.

As the six of us competitors gathered around the ring before the PPV, each practicing our “I won’t be sad if they don’t choose me” faces, Fit found us and bestowed the news. It was official: the crowd’s chorus of “Becky” had been too loud to be ignored. They were carrying me to my first title in WWE.

Everyone slapped me on the back and hugged me, smiles on their faces with accents of disappointment.

I tried to play off my jubilee, I’m cool; it’s, like, whatever. No big deal. It’s all fake anyway, while my heart pounded with delight inside my chest cavity.

On the other hand, I had an immense amount of guilt for being the one chosen. I wanted everyone to win. Maybe we just take turns. Share custody?

I looked around and wondered, Are they fake smiles? I think they look like fake smiles. They don’t think I deserve it. Do I deserve it? Maybe I don’t look like a champion. Or dress like one. What did a champion look and dress like anyway? Other than “not like you”? And by the way, all of these things are true. I did not carry myself like the champion of the world’s biggest wrestling promotion. I still bought my clothes from Ross Dress for Less. I afforded myself the ability to splurge on food, but that was it. I had to save as much as I could, still not comfortable that this might all be gone tomorrow.

One often meets their greatest insecurities when they achieve their highest dreams, especially if they care about the criticisms of others. And that was me! No matter how hard you work or how deserving you might be, there will always be people there to negate and dispute your worthiness. The real trick is to let yourself believe in you and silence the negativity in your own mind. It would just take me a few more years to understand that.

We all worked putting the match together. But even putting the match together I was too insecure. I worried about looking greedy if I suggested doing any of my moves or being in the ring longer than a hiccup, knowing that I was going to be the winner at the end of the night anyway. Plus, I wanted everyone to succeed with the old undercurrent of Hey, guys, don’t hate me.

The end of the match came down to me and Carmella. Crowd on their feet chanting my name—with many thanks due to the hard work the other girls had put in during the match and Carmella being a reliably unlikable heel. The audience made me feel like the most special girl in the world. In my many moments of insecurity, they offered me reprieve.

After Carmella and I traded moves briefly I locked in my arm bar before she tapped out. The girlhood dream had come true! I had just become a WWE champion and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I think I did something in between.

The crowd chanted, “You deserve it,” and my blood tingled like I had been doused in fairy dust as one of the interviewers rushed the ring to get a firsthand account of how I was feeling. It had been a while since I’d held one of these title belts, and I couldn’t yet gracefully hold it. Being brand-new, it felt more like a replica than a real one. The strap was still stiff and unworn. I stood there awkwardly trying to put this rigid belt on my shoulder while trying to take everything in, looking very not like a champion.

I spent much of the night walking around in a haze, feeling like I was dreaming.

It wasn’t until the next morning that it hit me after breakfast at Denny’s. Real champ shit. As I made a bathroom stop on my way out, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realized I was looking at a WWE women’s champion. That same face I had looked at for twenty-nine years, with its poorly plucked eyebrows, had now achieved the highest honor in the world’s largest wrestling promotion. I jumped and twirled and did a little dance number next to the stalls, until another patron walked in and I awkwardly adjusted myself as I exited the restroom.

I got to the building that night for a live event when Randy Orton walked past me.

“What’s up, champ?” he said.

Oh, shit! That’s me he’s talking to! I laughed nervously. Not sure how to respond, I answered, “Oh, hey! Hey there. Eh. Good! Good. I’m good. How are you?”

He clearly sensed my nerves, as he responded kindly, “I remember when an old-timer called me champ for the first time,” as he imitated himself being chuffed with himself, then trying to brush it off as if he was cool. “I thought it was cool anyway.”

Even Randy Orton had felt like this. The same Randy Orton I fangirled over when I was seventeen at a show when I was convinced he made eye contact with me. Now we were peers, feeling a common insecurity.

Maybe this was normal after all and I wasn’t so undeserving, even if I was more scared than ever.