No chance, no chance in hell
Bill Hanstock writes of a fate worse than the Wilpons: perpetual Vince McMahon; Brittany Huber discovers Giant joy in Birdland; Linda Surovich thirsts for glory after the Rangers couldn't win the Cup
It Can Always Be Worse
By Bill Hanstock
The majority — maybe even the vast majority — of sports franchises are owned by people and entities who view or treat their teams as the battery at the center of a perpetual money-generating machine. You need to change the batteries every so often to keep the machine operational, or at the very least you gotta take them out and swap their positions, or maybe steal a battery from the air conditioner remote or something. But most of the time, you don’t think about the batteries. Even if you go to the junk drawer and realize you don’t have any more, you can always move them around to get by til you run to the store again.
That description probably reads true if you’re a fan of the Pirates or the Diamondbacks or the Blue Jackets or the Jets or the Falcons or the Texans or numerous other teams.
If you’re a Mets fan, you know that there’s a whole other rung of shitty ownership types. You’ve had to suffer through the Wilpons, who benefitted from white-collar crime and acted counter to their team’s best interests time and again. Same with Dodgers fans who had to deal with the McCourts using the franchise as an elaborate slush fund. Maybe these owners managed a blockbuster mega-deal, or two, or three. But somehow, the teams always ended up worse off at the end, selling off parts in the latest fan-enraging fire sale.
Maybe things are a step WORSE than that. Maybe you’re unlucky enough to be a fan of the Washington Commanders Football Team, with a deep culture of truly unsavory business in all respects, or the Cleveland Browns, whose owners are every now and then under full investigation by the feds.
But if you’re lucky enough to NOT be a fan of professional wrestling, please take solace in the fact that no matter how inept or disrespectful to your time and allegiance your sports team’s ownership may be, it will never come close to touching the nearly forty-year reign of Vince McMahon for a combination of not caring about fans and getting up to truly unsavory business in all respects, avenues, and ideations.
I’ve been a wrestling fan since I was about ten years old in the 1980s, and from around 1997 (when Vince McMahon’s onscreen announcer role morphed into the “Mr. McMahon” character, and I became aware of the internet as a tool to expose what was “actually” going on behind the scenes), I’ve been hearing and reading about the exploits of Vince McMahon in his dealings as the owner and end-all, be-all, buck-stops-here final word in what gets put on WWE television. His deeds, ranging from one-of-a-kind, out-of-touch bizarre zillionaire eccentricities, to union-busting, to worker exploitation, to casual racism, to alleged sexual assault, to infidelity, to juvenile humor, to bullying journalists, to being charged with federal crimes, and on and on, could fill a book. Multiple books, actually. For example, they mostly fill my book about the history of WWE, and they’ll entirely fill Abraham Riesman’s biography of McMahon, out next year.
Only the most ardent of WWE diehards (a curious batch of a niche of a subgroup, to be sure) will argue against the sentiment that there’s rarely been a sports or entertainment honcho that has displayed more outright, prolonged contempt for their fanbase and consumers than McMahon has. Since the Hulkamania era in the 1980s, he’s continually cut the knees out from under any of his employed wrestlers (sorry — contracted wrestlers; WWE wrestlers are NOT employees), if they weren’t handpicked by him to be worthy of attention. Regardless of how overwhelmingly popular they were with fans, or how much money they generated or had the potential to generate, it didn’t matter. McMahon is the kingmaker, and if he isn’t the one making the king, they’re not king-worthy. End of conversation.
It goes beyond that, however. McMahon has desired nothing in life more than to transcend the one business he’s ever been proven to be successful at, usually considering pro wrestling to be beneath him — hence the fact that since the mid-1990s he has insisted on calling it “sports entertainment” and has actually banned the words “wrestling” and “wrestler” from being spoken or seen on his programming for over a decade. Let’s not pay attention to the fact that “WWE” stands for “World Wrestling Entertainment,” because they never say what it stands for, so he’ll let that slide. Given his desire to transcend wrestling, within the past handful of years, he finally achieved his end goal for his company: for the brand itself to be more valuable and important than any talent that might appear on the programming.
McMahon long ago realized that the Super Bowl draws the biggest audience of the year, no matter who plays in it, because the NFL is the most popular thing in America. His understanding of the importance of brand recognition merged in his mind with the realities of down periods for WWF and WWE, with the realities of what happens when you build a company around a certain person (Hulk Hogan, Ultimate Warrior, Bret Hart, Steve Austin, The Rock, Brock Lesnar, John Cena) instead of building a company around … well, a company. This idea was especially easy to take root prior to the existence of AEW, for the nearly 20 years that WWE had no true competitor. During this time, WWE made the final transitions from being a wrestling company to being WWE. People weren’t going to WWE to see a wrestling show, they were going to see WWE.
This is why every episode of every week of WWE is largely the same, and the players don’t particularly matter. Roman Reigns has been the top guy in the company for several years now, but it won’t matter when Reigns hangs them up or departs for Hollywood permanently. Reigns isn’t what makes WWE valuable … it’s the name recognition. And at this point, McMahon knows exactly how much money he’s going to make simply from the shows going on, regardless of who wrestles performs on them. There’s no incentive or need to make the shows engaging, or crowd-pleasing, or innovative, or any other positive adjective or verb you could put here. The seven-plus hours of live cable television that WWE produces each week are far more important and valuable to all involved than what those hours actually contain.1
Oh, and did I mention that an absolutely enormous amount of WWE’s revenue comes from a deal with the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia to produce shows there? They’re closing in on half a billion dollars from the Saudis since 2018, with many years remaining in the partnership deal. WWE also made billions from their current TV deals with FOX and USA Network and the buyout of WWE Network by NBCUniversal to host exclusively on the Peacock streaming platform. Those things are significantly less evil than the KSA partnership, to be sure, but it’s helpful here to illustrate just how little the content of WWE matters relative to the fact that the content merely continues existing. WWE is the Pittsburgh Pirates, but a Pittsburgh Pirates that could operate just the same and make ludicrous amounts of money if they played their games in an abandoned OfficeMax with a roster of out-of-work Tesla salespeople. And also they played all year, every year, without stopping, in a different city pretty much nightly.
McMahon is back in mainstream news right now for pretty shitty reasons. He allegedly started an affair with a paralegal he hired, doubled said paralegal’s salary when the affair began, and paid several million dollars in hush money when she departed the company. There are also allegations that he “passed her” to another executive (who has also been accused of sexual harrassment and discrimination in the past) to be used “like a toy.” That executive has been placed on administrative leave and McMahon has stepped down as chairman and CEO of WWE while the company board conducts an internal investigation.
All the headlines have largely missed the point here: McMahon remains in full control of the company’s creative and onscreen decisions and runs the shows. He is still in charge of everything that matters with regard to WWE, even as his daughter Stephanie McMahon has assumed the role of interim CEO. In fact, the day after the news broke of the alleged misconduct and his stepping down as CEO, WWE advertised that McMahon would appear live on Smackdown.
He appeared to open the show and did nothing more than receive an icky standing ovation, even in the wake of the very worst of his many real and alleged misdeeds leading to his ouster as CEO. And wouldn’t you know it: Smackdown did its best ratings in months. So McMahon showed up on Raw a few days later, and that episode did great ratings also.
If you’re wondering why McMahon would be taking victory laps in the wake of investigations (and there are now five different law firms investigating WWE in addition to the internal investigation, reportedly involving the possibility of more hush money payoffs that we’re not yet aware of), it’s because there’s nothing he loves in life more than literally or figuratively waving his dick at anyone or anything that dares challenge him. It’s also because he believes he’s untouchable. And he’s probably right.
This is far from the worst thing that McMahon has ever been accused of, and there’s not a single consequence that’s ever happened to him yet. And in his mind, this particular situation was completely on the level: a consensual affair that (he claims) did not involve the transfer of company funds as far as the payoff is concerned. If decades of awful and possibly criminal behavior haven’t brought him down, it’s unlikely that this latest scandal will.
The Wilpons finally left Queens. Donald Sterling went down and the Clippers became relevant, if not winners. The McCourts are but a bad memory for Dodgers fans. If you’re a fan of a team with a lousy owner, take solace in the fact that no matter how inept or infuriating they are, it can always be worse. The world only has one Vince McMahon, and we should all breathe a sigh of relief because of that.
Closure, Catchers, and Hope
By Brittany Huber
On May 7, the Giants held Buster Posey Day. On May 21, Adley Rutschman made his major league debut for the Orioles. Since that day, I've watched roughly 90% more Orioles games than ever in my life. These three facts are not unrelated.
The orange isn’t quite the right shade. Rutschman hits from both sides of the plate with a swing a little more violent than Posey’s. But the mask could be the same if you don’t look too closely, the Norman Rockwell, all-American pink cheeks and square jaw comfortingly similar. The aesthetics of watching Adley Rutschman play strike the same chords as Buster Posey, like a remix of a song you’ve heard a thousand times. That alone would probably be enough to make me pause on a highlight now and then, idly rooting for him to play well when an Orioles game might catch my attention. A young catcher in orange and black, a first-round draft pick for a team trying to rediscover relevance, it’s not surprising I’d stop to watch.
Baseball is mostly a game of comfortable, slightly mindless habits, the near-daily schedule like background noise to summer, punctuated by moments that command your full attention, leading into rapt attention and anxiety and joy in the fall, if you’re lucky. But baseball is also a game of patterns, of stories, and the Buster Posey Story is a perfect narrative arc.
If you were writing the script, even the horrific ankle injury that could have derailed Posey’s career is an absolutely necessary part of the story. Overcoming a trial is a key part of the Hero’s Journey, after all. Stories all end, and if the pieces come together the right way, the ending is satisfying. Loose ends are tied up, our hero rides off into the sunset, and all is well in the kingdom. The problem, then, is that baseball doesn’t ever really end. Seasons end, but they’re more like pauses, with the promise of another season just ahead in the spring (union-busting tactics and global health crises notwithstanding.) But the stories of our favorite players, those have to end sometime. We all know this, the awareness becoming even harder to escape as our own ages match and then outpace our favorite players, and every 30+ year old ache and pain is a reminder of how mortal our favorites of similar ages are.
I learned watching Joe Montana and Steve Young, as they ended their careers in Kansas City and getting the last in a series of concussions, respectively, that closure was never promised. You usually didn’t get to watch your favorite player play his whole career for your team, then leave contentedly with a tip of the cap.
Closure is a myth. I’ve been to enough therapy to know that this is true in a lot of ways – closure isn’t something that someone else gives you, it’s not something you can expect, and even if you get it, it might not be satisfying. But the Buster Posey narrative is complete and perfect. Almost perfect. He played his entire career in the one uniform he wanted to wear. He won literally every award there was to win. He even got one more on his way out the door, picking up his last Silver Slugger when he came to say goodbye and be feted in a way he was typically and endearingly visibly uncomfortable with. So why is this ending so unsatisfying? How many what-ifs can I, or any of us, have about a career with no boxes left to check until he takes the stage at Cooperstown in a handful of years?
Adley Rutschman walked in his first major league plate appearance, then notched a triple for his first big-league hit. That itself was a nice bit of narrative and pattern, all at once, the promised steadiness and maturity to take a walk his first time up and then triple to join Manny Machado and Matt Wieters as Orioles first round picks to hit a triple for their first big league knock.
Watching at home, for reasons I could not explain at the time, I was as nervous as I’d been watching a debut in years. I realize with a few weeks’ perspective and too many Orioles games since, that it wasn’t nerves for him. He’s a talented kid, he was going to do fine even if he didn’t get a hit that day. I was nervous for the crowd of fans in orange and black who loved him already, before he had even set foot on the diamond at Camden Yards. I was nervous for the hopes of anyone who cares about the Orioles. I was nervous for his story.
As comforting as the aesthetics of Adley Rutschman are, as much as just the sight of a catcher built like that, in orange and black, going out to calm a young pitcher, gives me a little hit of serotonin all on its own, what he gives me is the chance to watch that story again. Something in me wants to grab every Orioles fan by the shoulders and tell them, “Pay attention! Remember this!” the way grandparents love to do to new parents. They grow up so fast, you know? Next thing you know, they’re retired and you only get to see them at holidays and World Series reunions and they never call.
Adley Rutschman isn’t Buster Posey. It’s unfair to both of them to think otherwise, especially Rutschman, who has his own franchise to carry and his own career to see out. But he could be, a little. He could lead his team to the promised land. He could win every award there is. He could spend his whole career as an Oriole, leading to dogs and kids all over the greater Baltimore area named Adley, the way you can’t go to a dog park anywhere in the Bay Area without coming across a Buster or a Posey. His story is his own, and maybe it’ll go a totally different direction. If it does, I hope it’s for his reasons, and not the cruelty and whims of baseball. But for now, I’ll watch the beginning of a story that seems familiar, hoping it has as happy an ending as last time.
It’s up to you, New York (Mets), New York (Mets)
By Linda Surovich
So, enough time has passed to come to terms with the fact the Rangers did not win the Stanley Cup. As much as I want to deny it, they did, in fact, get eliminated by the Lightning who hail from the powerhouse sports town of (checks notes) Tampa.
The Rangers’ playoff run highlighted two things: how fun it is when the entire city comes together to rally behind one team, and just how long it has been since New York has celebrated a championship. As the Blueshirts made their way to the conference finals, members of the Knicks, Giants, Jets, Yankees, and Mets all were routinely seen at the games.
It’s harder in New York to get this kind of crossover than it is in other cities since there are two teams in every sport, but when one team is on a run, the city can go all in. Which makes it all the more shameful that the Giants’ Super Bowl XLVI championship, 10 years ago now, is the last celebration this city has seen unless you count soccer and NYCFC last year, and you don’t have to count soccer and NYCFC last year. New York is known for being such a great sports town and yet the only victory it has seen in the past decade is soccer. Meanwhile, Boston, Tampa Bay, Los Angeles… hell, even Kansas City has tasted the sweet taste of victory multiple times over that same time span.
The problem with New York sports is too many teams are unable to get out of their own way. The Jets, Knicks, and Mets (though not anymore?) have established themselves as standing punchlines in their sports, even though the Mets were the last “big four” team here to play in a championship round. The Giants are stuck in a perennial rebuild, and while the Nets are fine, this will forever be a Knicks town, no matter how embarrassing they are. The Islanders (going on 40 years without a Cup anyway) belong to the Island, the Devils are Jersey’s team, and the Yankees are always the Yankees.
So the question becomes who team ends the drought first? The Mets and {{shudder}} the Yankees both have a chance to do it this season. There is still a lot of baseball left to be played but they both lead their divisions and look poised to still be playing come October. It’s high time for New York to reclaim some of its lost glory. My grandfather died before ever seeing his beloved Iggles win the Super Bowl, so when Philly finally did win, not going to lie, the thought did cross my mind that I could suffer a similar fate with the Mets. So, please Mets, for the good of the city, and for those of us born after 1986, end the drought as soon as possible. Also we gotta take Boston and Tampa down a peg. They’ve won way too much.
Editor’s note: I have been to two pro wrestling shows in my life. One was AEW Grand Slam last year at Flushing Meadows, the other was a SmackDown this year in Brooklyn. The four-hour show was so exciting (and granted, it had Bryan Danielson-Kenny Omega) and packed, it felt like two, while the two-hour show from the established company felt like four because they didn’t treat it like an arena show, but instead a TV taping. They might as well go full ‘80s sitcom and say “SmackDown is recorded in front of a live studio audience.” —JS