Fake Fights, Real Truths

What Pro Wrestling Teaches Us About Authenticity

Saturday night, I went back to the place I called home for years—an Northern Wrestling Federation show. The ring was centered around a moderate but vocal crowd. The wrestlers committed to the craft of making athletic magic.

This year marks my 25th anniversary in the world of professional wrestling. I’ve been a promoter, performer, producer. I’ve helped build shows from scratch—backstage politics and all—and I’ve cut promos in front of eight very loyal but sweaty hardcore fans. So when I say I love wrestling, I don’t mean it in a nostalgic way. I mean I love it like a family member: complicated, chaotic, occasionally infuriating, but impossible to walk away from.

While less invested in the show than years past, I still found myself pacing the backstage area, looking for details that could be improved upon, and offering my unsolicited opinions to the various talent and staff about how to tweak this and that. It made me wonder if I could sum up a few lessons I’ve learned from pro wrestling for today’s blog post.

I’m going to try.

Scripted doesn’t mean inauthentic.

Sure, the endings are planned. The punches? Pulled. But the emotion? The connection between performer and audience? You can’t fake that. I’ve seen grown men cry in locker rooms after their matches went perfectly. And while I’ve seen guys thrown through tables and into thumbtacks (I’ve done that, too!) without injury, I’ve also seen a knee tweaked from running wrong or a shoulder separated from a simple bump.

Wrestling is real—not in the way outsiders think, but in the way that matters most.

Every character tells the truth—especially the villains.

Mick Foley, a WWE Hall of Famer, once wrote that the best heels aren’t just loudmouths—they’re truth-tellers. Or at least, they believe they are. That’s the key. A great villain doesn’t lie to the audience—they hold up a mirror. They tap into the crowd’s fear, frustration, and hypocrisy—and throw it right back at them.

When I was at my best as a heel manager, I wasn’t pretending. I was drawing from something true. I believed my guy had earned the win. I believed the crowd was unfair. I believed I had the right to do what it took to help him succeed. That sincerity made it real.

And here’s the connection: wrestling gave me a space to express something authentic through a scripted role. That’s the paradox. It’s a “fake” environment—but it invites an emotional honesty we rarely allow ourselves in everyday life. In the ring, I got to be bold, flawed, righteous, unfiltered. I got to feel something. And the crowd felt it, too.

In life, we wear masks. In wrestling, we just get to admit they’re there—and use them to tell the truth.

The ring is the stage, but the magic lives in the audience.

You can wrestle the best match of your life—flawless timing, crisp execution, a finish that hits just right—but if the crowd isn’t with you, it doesn’t matter. Wrestling only works when the audience believes—when they choose to suspend disbelief and go on the journey with you. They’re not just watching the story; they’re co-writing it with their reactions.

I’ve seen this firsthand. A rookie can become a star in a single night if the crowd connects. And a seasoned vet can fall flat if no one’s feeling it. The performance is the canvas—but the audience paints the picture.

That’s the truth wrestling taught me: connection is the real art. And it’s not just in the ring. In life, too, we all want to be seen, to be heard, to matter. We’re all performing a little—at work, in relationships, online. But the real impact happens when someone claps, nods, leans in. The feedback might not be cheers or boos, but it’s there—subtle, quiet, meaningful. If we’re paying attention.

Wrestling reminds me that authenticity isn’t a solo act. It lives in the exchange—between the one telling the story and the one willing to believe it. And maybe that’s the part that still hooks me after all these years. The noise, the stories, the good guys and bad guys—it all builds toward a moment of shared belief. When it clicks, there’s nothing like it. That energy, that connection—it stays with you. Even when you're no longer in the spotlight. Even when your role shifts from performer to observer, from promoter to mentor.

So on Saturday, I might have cringed at a few missed spots. But I also got chills. I laughed. I remembered. Wrestling gave me some of my best memories and taught me how to tell stories that matter. And even now, 25 years in, it's still teaching me.

So this Monday, whether you're playing the babyface or the heel, in the ring or on the outside looking in—remember: there’s nothing fake about doing something you love with your whole heart.

Let’s make this week count. Bell to bell.

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