The cloying, testosteronal stink of scandal clings to Vince McMahon. In the early 90s, there was the steroid scandal, then, a bit later into the 90s, the in-ring death of Owen Hart, then, into the 21st century, McMahon doled out over $12 million in hush money to quiet allegations of sexual misconduct and infidelity.
But none of these scandals — as heinous as they all are — match the sheer, ruthless destruction, through monopolistic practices, of the wrestling territory business in America. “In the 1970s, the ‘Territorial’ era of professional wrestling, there were 32 wrestling promoters across North America who aired fights as far as local TV broadcasting permitted,” wrote Jarrod Facundo for The American Prospect. “Fighters often moved between territories seeking the best deals possible.” Facundo concluded: “Today, the landscape has consolidated to the point that WWE controls 85 percent of the professional wrestling market.”
Will Vince McMahon ever just go away, quietly, into the night? Shares of WWE stocks are down about 5% as of 2:30 pm on news of a merger with UFC. One imagines that the reason for this dip is that somehow the two organizations — one: a real, tough guy sport; the other: a testosteronal soap opera with tough guys involved — are, somehow, incommensurable. Like when McMahon tried to launch the “XFL;” or, more ridiculously, when McMahon tried to take over bodybuilding. Always: testosterone.
That having been said, this morning much is being made in the business media of Vince McMahon’s “savvy” as a dealmaker. His ability to survive is being touted, not unlike the skills of his reality teevee buddy Donald Trump, who appointed his wife, Linda McMahon, to head the Small Business Administration. Vince McMahon, it should be noted, bought the WWE — then, WWF — in 1982 for $1 million from his father, Vince McMahon, Sr. This new Endeavor acquisition values the WWE at $9 billion, which is, to be sure, a significant bump. But how did McMahon get to this point? By killing “the territories",” of course! And the territories — irony of ironies! — were essentially small businesses.
In January, of Vince, I wrote:
However, the corruptions of Vince McMahon go back — way back — to before the turn of the millennium. They go back into the 80s, the days of dank high school gyms, where the “territories,” or small wrestling businesses, carved out the country and loaned each other “talent,” so that everyone essentially thrived in their own region. Vince’s father, Vince McMahon, Sr. was actually a part of that territory system — the then-WWF essentially owned the Northeast. It was a prime market — NYC had Madison Square Garden and the top television market in the country. His organization, as a result, thrived more than, say, Memphis or Portland based territories. But no one contested this because there were enough wrestling fans for everyone to not just survive, but thrive. And when his son — Vince McMahon, Jr. bought the company — thriving was not enough. He had to dominate the sport entirely, become, essentially, a monopoly for many years. Vince systematically destroyed the territories, one by one, from whence his father was “loaned” his best talent.
The destruction of the territories was swift and brutal, like a DDT. First Vince, Jr. bought out the top talent of each of the territories — Hulk Hogan in the AWA; Greg Valentine and Roddy Piper in the Mid-Atlantic; Jake Roberts from the Mid-South— essentially using them as his own personal farm leagues to pick and choose his next big stars. Then McMahon made television deals within those territories, telling the local television studios that they had to choose between his high quality concept with well-known established stars from the area or the local product, which he had already bled dry. It was only a matter of time before the remaining territories banded together into the WCW, which put up a last ditch fight, but by then it was already too late.
There’s more, of course. These territories basically involved the entire United States — from Portland, Oregon to Florida — some were nearly a century old. They were basically family-owned businesses allowing for competition among itinerant performers. Like the St. Louis organization, for example, operating out of the central states, which Vince obliterated:
Or, Verne Gagne’s American Wrestling Association, out of the Midwest with a roster filled with Scandinavian and Canadian immigrant names, also now gone the way of the Dodo:
This is not to say that the old territory system of wrestling performance was an ideal work situation, in any way, shape or form. But a wrestling performer, while lacking health insurance (one of the terrible labor aspects of the “sport”), could, ostensibly, pitch his tend and move to a neighboring territory, if he got into a dispute with a local promoter or found a better deal. That competition really no longer exists for the non-established names. In the territory days, a wrestler had dozens of choices, dozens of places to work and build a career. Now, the WWE is by far the largest wrestling organizations and there are two far smaller competitors. So, essentially for a new face, one great place to work — so long as you don’t piss off Vince — and two alternatives to maybe get by.
And while there are now a couple of (much) smaller competitors to the WWF now operating in the United States, the territory system was effectively killed by Vince McMahon in 1993. From 1993 to 2001, the WWE and the WCW — the so-called last of the territories — competed robustly, and it could go either way. But in 2001, Vince ultimately won, purchasing their assets. So, to this day, McMahon owns the video and rights of all of the territories that he broke, from the Pacific Northwest to the UWF; from World Class to the AWA. Vice TV this year launched Tales from the Territories for the overly nostalgic:
But the underlying thread connecting all the episodes of this series is the fact that the Territory System is no more. Gone forever. And while Stories From The Territories is a love letter from series creator Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, the first wrestler to ever become an A-List Hollywood movie star, there is a nostalgia for when the sport was not as glitzy and mainstream and — how does one say it? — McMahon-ified as it is today. In the days of old that the series fondly remembers, people believed that professional wrestling was real. People actually sent cards and letter to wrestlers that were in “the hospital” from a “sneak attack.” And each part of the country was a colorful minor league wrestling organization that fostered and nurtured local talent.
If it seemed like we had seen the last of Vince McMahon, then you are probably not a big wrestling fan. His daughter — which should have been the tipoff — took over the company last July after sexual harassment allegations surfaced. It certainly looked like the end of an era. But then, as if in an episode of Monday Night Raw, McMahon resurrected from the damned to take over his company again.
And now this Endeavor adventure, with Vince back on top, all plastic surgeried up (see above), sporting a dastardly moustache, besides. It has me asking: Will Vince McMahon ever just, you know, go away?
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