EPISODE 16 BLOODBATH

The Survivor Series PPV was around the corner and it was champion versus champion. The SmackDown women’s champion, The Man Becky Lynch, versus the Raw women’s champion, The Baddest Woman on the Planet, Ronda Rousey—and it was the most anticipated match in the company at the time.

Ronda and I agreed to go all out on our social media banter. She gave me some guidelines about what was off-limits and would politely reel me back in if I pushed the boundaries. And though it appeared that we hated each other, she couldn’t have been more game. She understood that this was business and anything said wasn’t intended to be personal. Even if it was based on sore spots.

She seemed to truly be enjoying her time here. As she already had so much pressure on her from a young age between MMA and the Olympics, and constantly being in competitive and hostile locker rooms, this was a welcomed break. We tend to have a pretty great vibe in our locker room. Especially when Charlotte and I aren’t butting heads.

All this is to say, as much as I didn’t want anyone to know, I loved Ronda, and I was excited that she was there and I couldn’t wait to make magic with her.

The juxtaposition of the two characters was perfect. She was from another sport, getting all of the attention and special treatment, and she seemed to be a natural in the ring.

Versus me. The kid who failed PE. The one who was chosen by the audience and had to scratch and claw for every morsel that she got.

She was born tough. I was made tough. She was stronger and more skilled than I was. But I could take a beating and keep on moving forward. To quote Rocky Balboa, “That’s how winning is done.”

Ronda knew I was a hot commodity in wrestling. And I knew her name would put us on a level that was never seen for women in the professional wrestling world.

Week after week we would cut scathing promos on each other.

When she talked the crowd would chant my name even though she was supposed to be the babyface. I was clearly still the underdog. And it was unlikely the office would have her lose.

Before Survivor Series, we had our annual November European tour. Even though Charlotte and I were done wrestling on TV, we were not done wrestling in live events. And while we were weren’t close anymore, we could talk with no awkwardness.

We, classically, beat the crap out of each other for almost thirty minutes every night for two weeks straight. By the end of the tour my body was aching and my head was pounding.

The newfound success I had acquired required me to do more media, which I loved, but meant I had no rest time—not that there was much on these tours anyway.

The morning we were supposed to return to the States, as I was getting on my seven-hour flight from London to New York, I got a text saying that me and the rest of the women would be needed for Raw that night. Travel advised me that once I landed in New York I would board a private plane to Missouri. It was past seven when we landed in the snow of Kansas City, and the show had already started by the time we made it to the arena. Mark Carrano was there to greet us and usher us in.

“Everyone needs SmackDown shirts and jeans,” he ordered as he led us to the locker room.

We suited up while the producers gave us the layout for the show. We were the main event and it would be pure chaos.

As soon as I had my T-shirt and jeans on, I was rushed out to quickly film a segment with Ronda where I had her in an arm bar in the locker room while she flailed wildly. I was torn off by refs and producers alike. And that started the madness that would ensue.

The Raw women’s team (minus Ronda) was in the ring after Bayley and Sasha had had a tremendous match to determine the captain of the Survivor Series team.

These invasion angles were always a ton of fun. It didn’t matter if we were running on fumes.

I swaggered out as a big ol’ surprise, mouthing off all the way down to the ring. Once I got to the bottom of the ramp, the women from SmackDown jumped the ring from behind and beat up Team Raw.

I slid in during the mayhem. And, well, that’s when it all became a blur.

All I know was that I went to turn Nia Jax around and she punched me square in the face. Nia was our largest lady. She is more than double my weight and is as strong as an ox. And while I’m sure this was an accident, it was the best accident that could have possibly happened to me.

I remember thinking, Ohhhhhh, I’m concussed, as I slow-motion crumbled by the ropes. After that, I have snippets of memories.

I rolled out of the ring and went to grab a chair. Blurry doctor faces rushed me. Blood was pouring down my face. Already I couldn’t even remember how it happened.

“Are you okay?” they asked as they gave me a towel to mop up the stream of blood coming from my nose.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I quickly replied as I wiped my face before throwing the blood-soaked towel back at them. “Gotta go.”

I ran in with the chair and proceeded to run my spot with Ronda. She turns; I hit her in the stomach and then whack her in the back, the crowd chanting, “One more time,” and, well, when they’re chanting, “One more time,” you gotta hit her one more time!

So I did. As cautiously as I could, though. I was with it enough to know I wasn’t with it at all and didn’t want to get anyone else hurt in the process.

After I did my damage, I left with the rest of my SmackDown crew through the crowd, up the stairs, as the audience went wild.

I stood there smiling and mouthing off, blood smeared all over my face, knowing that the camera was still on me and I couldn’t leave until we had gone off the air.

Once I was given the cue, I walked through the doors into the foyer, where security was there to meet us.

“Where am I?” I inquired to a fuzzy face escorting us.

I had no idea what town I was in, what had just happened, or how the hell I had gotten there.

Next thing I know, I’m sitting in the trainer’s room with Stephanie McMahon looking after me like a proper mom.

“I’m scared,” I said to her, turning into a six-year-old and feeling like my brain would never work again.

“I know,” she responded kindly, her eyes never breaking contact like she does, “but you’ll be okay.”

“Do you promise?” I was the direct antithesis to the person I had been in the arena.

“I do,” she said, nodding encouragingly. Having grown up around the business, she’d seen things like this regularly, and often with behemoths of men. I’m not sure any of them talked to her like scared little children, though.

She guided me down the hall towards the ambulance that was waiting on-site.

Lorrie, one of our medical staff, came with me.

“I can’t remember how I got here,” I told her as Stephanie loaded me into the vehicle.

“That’s okay. Do you know who I am?” she asked kindly.

“No,” I replied as I burst into tears. I knew I was supposed to know who she was, but I could barely remember my own name.

The more I tried to remember, the more freaked out I got.

I was shaking. Possibly from fear. Possibly from having a brain injury. Probably from it being minus twenty outside.

Stephanie took off her coat and gave it to me. “Here. Stay warm.” She is a legitimate angel.

The ambulance took off, sirens blaring. Which seemed a little dramatic, but whatever.

We eventually got to the hospital and Lorrie gave me my phone back. It’s not ideal to be looking at blue screens while you’re out of it.

I had so many “Holy shit, that was awesome!” texts.

I replied to a friend: “Did I get Ronda?”

“Get her? You became a star tonight.”

That’s cool, I thought. How? What did I do?

The hospital ran a series of tests, starting with a CAT scan. No damage to my skull, just a broken nose that I couldn’t even feel. They snapped it back into place with minimum pain.

Lorrie waited with me until one of our other doctors showed up. I knew it was pretty unlikely that Ronda and I could have the belter of a match that I was hoping we would at the weekend, and I was already scheming on how I could work around my injuries.

Sasha, Bayley, and Nattie all unexpectedly showed up to check on me, which meant the world to me.

Seeing them jogged my memory.

“Do you know how it happened?” Bayley asked.

“No… but I do know you guys had an awesome match!”

“Ha-ha, thanks, Becks,” she chuckled.

I started recalling some of the innovative spots they had. Sasha and Bayley have incredible chemistry. Both are so good and creative that their matches together are nothing short of works of art.

But recalling their match was bringing everything back into focus.

“And then I came down the ramp, but the other girls jumped the ring.”

“Ohh, and then I spun Nia around! Wait a second! It was Nia.”

“Yep,” Sasha confirmed.

“Oh, man! Did she come to the trainer’s room?!”

They shrugged. It was customary to check on whoever you may have injured, though I’m sure she just didn’t want to crowd me. Or maybe she didn’t even know she had hurt me.

I texted her: “It was yooooooooouuuuuuuuu.”

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” Nia responded.

“Yeah, I’m just messing with you. I’m all good!”

It really does feel horrible when you injure someone. I would always rather be the injured than the injurer and I think that’s the same for any decent worker.

There are few what you might call iconic photos in wrestling: Hulk Hogan slamming André the Giant, and “Stone Cold” Steve Austin in a sharpshooter with his face covered in blood come to mind. It was none of my own doing, but thanks to this happy accident, some might say I joined that special, “iconic photos of wrestling” club. In a way, paralleling my Rocky Balboa–esque journey on top of the steps as my supporters cheered around me.

One of our doctors arrived to drive me the four hours to the next city. I was fairly shattered after the day of travel, the time zone change, and, well, my face was literally shattered and my brain was mush.

When we showed up at the building the next day, I was fully hoping to fake my way through the day.

“I can still go,” I protested to the doctors, lying right to their faces, albeit poorly. They could sniff out my bullshit easily with a simple concussion protocol test.

“Remember these five words. Apple, bubble, pencil, rabbit, banana.”

“Banana, bubble, triangle? Eh, no, eh.” I immediately started to cry. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“Probably because you’re concussed.”

“I’m not; I’m okay; I might be tired,” I pleaded.

“You’re not, but that’s okay,” the doctor reasoned.

“Can I still wrestle?”

“No. Not until you heal your head.”

“How long will that take?”

“A few weeks.”

Now I was crying harder.

“Can I not just work around it?”

“No, it’s too dangerous. Your brain isn’t working properly, so this is how you could get another injury, like you step wrong and then you’ve got a torn ACL and you’re out for even longer.”

The most anticipated match on the Survivor Series card and one of the biggest matches of my career was now out the window and I was devastated.

I was reassured from top to bottom that I would be okay and that this was better for me in the long run. As Mike Mansury, an executive producer, put it, “Becky Lynch versus Ronda Rousey at Survivor Series would have been cool. But Becky Lynch versus Ronda Rousey at WrestleMania? That’s a main event.”

If I weren’t so messed up, I would have been excited.

I was scheduled to do phone interviews that day for over an hour, only, despite WWE’s medical team following procedure in textbook form, word hadn’t reached the PR team to cancel them, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to back out on my own. I sat in the bleachers feeling like shit, trying to sort out my head while reporters asked me questions that I couldn’t understand. After two interviews I began to cry again.

“I don’t know what I’m saying,” I blubbered to my representative.

“It’s okay. You’re doing fine, but I’m going to cancel the rest of the interviews.”

I was feeling more and more like a failure. Let down by my own brain.

Pushing to do a promo was probably not the best idea either.

I needed to pick a replacement for me for Survivor Series. They wanted me to pick Charlotte and hug her. Which to me felt like throwing everything we did down the drain. That suddenly we were okay with each other. I tried to fight it, but Road Dogg assured me, “She’s in a pretty shitty position; you advocating for her would help a lot,” referring to Charlotte and Ronda happening on less than a week’s build after having been pegged for a WrestleMania match.

I couldn’t argue when my mind wasn’t in the right place. I had too many thoughts and too much confusion.

It felt weird to go out there and hug Charlotte. Everyone had bought into our story. I didn’t want to give them any indication it wasn’t real.

And the story was far from over.