EPISODE 25 THE NO-SELL

It was the Monday Night Raw, right after WrestleMania, and I returned to gorilla after my segment.

“What the fuck was that?” Vince asked me.

“Eh, I’m sorry, sir? What do you mean?” I responded, confused.

I had just won the historic main event at WrestleMania, and Vince was making sure I knew how little that mattered and I better not be getting too big for my britches.

“What did I tell you?” Vince asked, turning it on me.

“To go down on the punch,” I answered, it dawning on me why he was upset at me.

“Then why the fuck did you no-sell it? You fucked everything up.”

“Sir, honestly, I didn’t mean to no-sell it. I thought I did sell it, I just didn’t go down, I wasn’t expecting it to land the way it did, and I was a little stunned,” I explained my reasons, which, once they came out of my mouth, I realized, sounded like fabricated excuses.

“Do you fucking think I was born yesterday?”

Well, no, sir, I certainly don’t think you were born yesterday.

I had never been cussed at by him before. This was real top guy shit. But I was completely unprepared. And also, I was not in any way trying to fuck him, or anyone for that matter, over.

We were less than twenty-four hours removed from WrestleMania. I was running on about an hour of sleep, having done media in the morning, and had just delivered a promo with a new chantable catchphrase and future merch shirt.

How about a thank-you?

Instead, Vince was very upset that I, who had just won both titles in the first women’s main event of WrestleMania in its history of thirty-five years, didn’t sell the punch delivered to me by Lacey Evans, the brand-new lady on the roster who had only been seen walking down the ramp in high heels, a dress, and nice hats.

Should I have been selling for her in this manner the night after such an occasion? Fuck no. But that’s not why I didn’t. She hits a punch to the jaw, which, though safe, can be a little jarring, and as this was my first time feeling it, I got a little rocked and instead of falling to the ground as one would with a “sell,” I caught myself from falling in the moment as was my natural reaction.

I would chase after her and get the upper hand in the segment regardless, so there was no “no-selling” necessary on my end anyway, considering I would overcome and conquer, which had been my path to the top thus far.

Vince, however, could not be swayed from the fact that he had made me a top star, given me the keys to the castle, and now I was a big-time arrogant asshole who thought I could get away with whatever I wanted, and no pleading with him could sway him otherwise.

In fact, when I tried to explain myself, he yelled at me, “You’re not fucking listening to me!”

So many f-bombs.

Shaken, I walked out of gorilla and looked for solace in my friends backstage.

Colby was right there to help me. “You’ve gotta understand. He’s been burned so many times by people he’s made stars. And plus, it’s kind of a good thing. He thinks of you as a top star, as one of the guys; he’d never talk to a woman like that otherwise,” Colby comforted me. But it hurt me that Vince thought I was doing that intentionally.

In reality, Lacey should not have been my first opponent. She was brand-new, green, and it would be my job to make her. As I was the champ, double champ, and someone who had just made momentous history, there should have been someone built up on the back end so that people would be excited about what I do next. But these were the creative oversights WWE had continued to make.

“What do I do?” I asked Mark Carrano, the head of Talent Relations.

“Look, you fucked up the spot. That’s it. You tell him you fucked up the spot. But talk to him before he leaves; otherwise it’s going to sit on you and him all week long,” Mark advised.

“Okay, yeah, you’re right. When should I talk to him?”

“Wait till after the show. I’ll be walking him out of here and I’ll let you know so you can get him while he leaves.”

I camped outside of gorilla, waiting to pounce, and occasionally being deterred as I’d confided in another confidant about the situation.

“Fuck him, don’t bother. You know you didn’t mean it.”

But perception is reality in this joint.

As soon as the show was over, Mark gave me a nudge to let me know he’d be coming through and told me exactly where to stand so I could get Vince on his own.

When I saw him rounding the corner, I pounced, his demeanor still indignant.

“Look, Vince, I’m really sorry. I mean it. I didn’t intend to do that. I fucked up the spot. I’m sorry. I want to say it won’t happen again, but shit, sometimes I fuck up.”

He immediately softened. “I’m Irish too. I fuck up all the time!” He laughed.

I laughed too (nervously).

He gave me a big hug that I hadn’t anticipated but sure as hell appreciated. It gave me a rare glimpse into the human being who resides behind the skin of the mythical Mr. McMahon. The man who seemingly wants everything so controlled that he is perturbed by the act of sneezing, as it means he has lost momentary authority over his own body.

We were cool again. And it was nice to know that even billionaire tycoons like Vince know they fuck up all the time, but move on regardless. Not dwelling in the shit.