From a corporate standpoint, professional wrestling should be thriving. Revenues are strong, television deals are lucrative, and live gates are steady. On paper, the industry ought to be basking in a golden age of in-ring excellence. Instead, the product across the board often feels slapdash—hastily constructed to chase short-term profit rather than invested in long-term storytelling and emotional payoffs.
For me, WWE—then WWF—has been a lifelong passion, stretching back 46 years to when I was a five-year-old cheering on Bob Backlund. Watching him apply the chicken wing to Sgt. Slaughter in front of sold-out arenas from the Meadowlands to Boston became not just a hobby but an escape. Yet it wasn’t only WWE that captured imaginations. Competition once filled the airwaves: the Von Erichs in World Class, Dusty Rhodes preaching passion in the NWA, even the low-budget AWA offering compelling, if rough-edged, wrestling. Back then, it all felt real. The performers carried themselves like athletes, the promotions treated the stakes seriously, and as kids, we didn’t care about “tribalism.” We just loved wrestling.
Photo Cred: WWE
A Financial Low Point Disguised as a High
Today, the industry looks vibrant financially, but creatively it feels hollow. Slick production values and polished highlight packages can’t mask the lack of compelling stories. Younger fans will never know the thrill of waking up Saturday morning to find out whether the Four Horsemen finally got their comeuppance or if Magnum T.A. had survived another night of punishment. Now, spoilers and results arrive in real time on phones. That’s a technological leap forward, but the actual product hasn’t advanced with it. For all the billions in rights fees, what fans often get is safe, formulaic content designed to fill hours of programming rather than create timeless moments.
Blurring the Line
Everyone knows what wrestling is, yet the business itself doesn’t always respect that delicate balance. Performers feuding on social media with people they’ll never share a ring with only cheapens the spectacle. Watching stars earning millions waste energy calling fans “marks” online feels juvenile. Count your money, hone your craft, and stop trying to win Twitter battles. The mystique that once separated the in-ring product from everyday life has been eroded, and with it, some of the magic that made pro wrestling feel larger than life.
Tribalism’s Toxic Grip
The ugliest development in the past six years has been fan tribalism. The supposed “war” between WWE and AEW is no Monday Night War. Back then, competition was real, ratings soared into the six and seven millions, and creative boundaries were pushed weekly. Today, WWE is a global corporation churning out shows where filler outweighs substance, while AEW targets a hardcore niche with risk-heavy matches and erratic storytelling.
Neither company is immune to critique. WWE buries fans in endless promos and recycled content, while genuine talent like Bronson Reed or Bron Breakker struggles to find consistent airtime. That’s what Paul Heyman is for—elevating new names, not writing another Seth Rollins monologue. AEW, meanwhile, leans on Jon Moxley to exhaustion. If Kyle Fletcher is the future, hand him the ball and let him run. Instead, AEW often books like a fantasy league gone off the rails. Wrestling doesn’t need more shocks for the sake of social media buzz; it needs coherent storytelling with emotional stakes.
Photo Cred: Entertainment Breakdown
If AEW falters, WWE wins by default—and when that happens, the fans lose. Without true competition, one company dictates not only the talent landscape but also how much fans must pay for access. History shows what monopolies in wrestling look like: bloated rosters, creative stagnation, and fans slowly drifting away.
Fake Journalism Hurts the Business
The rise of “wrestling media” has only complicated matters. Podcasts and Patreons are fine—fans paying for opinions is harmless. But when self-styled journalists line up at press scrums acting like insiders rather than reporters, credibility takes a hit. Instead of pressing executives on creative direction or safety issues, too many lob softball questions designed to curry favor.
There are exceptions. Writers like Julian Cannon of The Knockturnal take the craft seriously, asking real questions without pandering. But far too many want to be part of the show, not cover it. As someone who holds credentials in college football and the NFL, I know press access is a privilege. It’s not about being friends with athletes; it’s about doing the job.
The End?
The cracks are showing. A recent clip from AEW’s All Out of Eddie Kingston missing a spinning backfist by a mile went viral—not for drama, but for embarrassment. That match never needed airtime. It was the wrestling equivalent of watching Ric Flair’s painful last outings or Patrick Ewing in a Seattle SuperSonics uniform: a reminder of decline, not greatness.
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Coda
Wrestling stands at a crossroads. Either the industry continues coasting—content with one company pulling just over a million viewers while the other cashes checks on bloated programming—or something changes. The darker alternative? AEW’s reckless style pushes boundaries until someone is seriously hurt on live television, a tragedy that could set the entire industry back years.
In the end, both companies are failing their audiences in different ways. WWE bleeds wallets. AEW drains patience. Fans deserve better. But as long as loyalty blinds consumers and tribalism fuels excuses, mediocrity will continue to rule the ring.
