the abiding dogma of the pro wrestling industry.”Īnd the flip side of kayfabe is that, in an industry where the unreal is real, where Hulk Hogan is a “real American” fighting for the rights of every man, truth wears a mask. As explained by journalist David “The Masked Man” Shoemaker, kayfabe is “the wrestlers’ adherence to the big lie, the insistence that the unreal is real. But as to the meaning, there is no confusion it is the central axiom of the business. There are competing theories as to the origin of the term “kayfabe,” beyond its provenance in the strange lingo of the carnivals from which American pro wrestling emerged. This - the notion that pro wrestling is a fixed, low-rent travesty, undeserving of serious mainstream scrutiny - is the single greatest angle ever sold by the wrestling industry. Historically, professional wrestling, with its screaming neon lunatics, potbellied big daddies, and tasseled “ring rats,” has been considered too absurd to be taken seriously - deprecated by sportswriters and ignored by politicians, its fans derided as low-class marks. Barnett more typically dealt with sweaty jobbers and Georgia babyfaces, with names like “The Continental Lover” or “Geeto Mongol,” but the claim is perhaps not as ridiculous as it appears. Jim Barnett, one of the most powerful godfathers in the mid-twentieth century “Territorial Era” of wrestling promotion, boasted that he dealt with only three coteries: kings, prime ministers, and dictators. Today, World Wrestling Entertainment - now renamed, per a legal settlement with that more genteel WWF, the World Wildlife Fund - trades on the New York Stock Exchange with a market capitalization of over $856 million. It is the strange fate of America, in its waning days, that even wrestling - carnival redoubt of grifters, heels, and freaks of every stripe - would wind its way into the colorless confines of a ratty corporate park. No rival wrestling promoter will ever drive his Corvair to the Federation’s Stamford home in the dead of night, heft a jerry can onto the roof, and torch this building. It is no Dallas Sportatorium, Fritz Von Erich’s legendary wrestling venue, a low-hanging mess of shingles and rickety bleachers, filled from its dirt floor to exposed rafters with beer, popcorn, and hooting. Or the back office of a bank - its black, reflective glass exterior concealing a few hundred third-shifters, examining checks for floating endorsements and miskeyed routing numbers. The headquarters of the World Wrestling Federation has the manicured look of a call center.
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