The Road to Wrestlemania: The Rock Vs Undertaker
The privileged sixteen, a nifty little coined term that the individuals who had been elected to the board of directors had labeled themselves. Comprised of former Wall Street bankers, hedge fund managers, retired business owners, and Ivy League standouts, the band of sixteen were the power behind the WWE universe, and did they ever know it. Without their financial investments the WWE would have crumbled under it's own microscope like so many of the other "wrestling" promotions. Yes, wrestling was the vexation that plagued the conversations in their own personal circles of friends and family. Living in this high society allowed them to only socialize in a bubble of millionaires who only saw the world through money. They followed the trading patterns, the crash of the Euro, American sanctions placed on Iran in the shadow or an Iranian Isreali nuclear showdown, and financial reforms set into a law by an American public who elects a liberal congress one session and a hard nosed conservative Tea Party the next. This was their world, a set of ideas so different that the ninety nine percent of Americans. So it was not uncommon when any of the "privileged sixteen" attended or hosted an elaborate cocktail party and the discussion arise about what boards their were on, the puzzled looks of their peers haunt them. The wide-eyed, belitting glare of disbelief they get has been known to embarrass certain directors so much that they pull out of the WWE altogether. Sometimes the next morning! What a sight it was to see persons with so much character, so much drive in the private sector, to verbalize the rationale behind their decision to not only watch professional wrestling, but invest their capital in it. And what a detestable word it was. Wrestling. Just that last syllable seemed to zing off their lips with such vulgar flare. They hated it, but knew that a market of loyal fans and future fans gave potential to make money. Dirty money yes, but quite the profit none the less.
Each member of the board of directors sat around the large oval rosewood table on the fifth floor of the Titan Tower office sipping on hot coffee while awaiting the CEO. Titan Tower, stood like a great pyramid built by the ancient Egyptians, it was the legendary headquarters of the professional wrestling empire. Located in upper state Connecticut the image of the two flags hoisted high on it's rooftops, one of the Untied States and the other with the WWE logo raised high and between the WWE logo centered on the top of seven story building is a sight that every professional wrestling fan has seen. Inside the walls, is where all the myths, and magic are created. The planning behind every vignette ever seen on live television, from bra and panties matches to inferno matches all masterminded in great detail by the hired employees within WWE hierarchy. The old men surrounding this table could care less about champions, faces and heels, the pageantry surrounding the product, all they cared about was the money. And more importantly the money they were losing at this point.
All their conversations about diversifying their portfolios with various stocks in European markets, and the exaggerations of recent golf outings came to a sudden halt when Mr. Vincent Kennedy McMahon's assistant walked through the door carrying his black briefcase. Each member of the bord were immediately angered by not seeing Mr. McMahon, they knew would not be hearing from the puppet master, only his puppet. They did not even waste time to hear his formal greeting before they began to rip him apart verbally.
"What is this crap I have been seeing on my television lately?" One of the middle aged men asked before the assistant even took his seat at the head of the table. "It is an embarrassment!"
"Yes!" Another one added. "Once it was the ridiculous amounts of sex, but now this is even worse! A main event with BBQ sauce, I demand answers!"
And so the assistant listened. Trying to focus, it was impossible to hear let alone record, all of the boards' grievances shouted at him about the recent programming. It went this was for a full hour, the assistant did not even get a word in before each of the board left the room in disgust. The assistant sat alone, contemplating how he will break this news to his boss. As demeaning as it was to listen to the board of directors criticize every minute of hard work the company had been doing the past few months, he would have listened to their complaints in this setting every day if he could avoid a confrontation with the chairman of the WWE. The silenced stare from Vincent K McMahon would intimate almost everyone, a craft he had perfected since he was the owner of the WWE many years ago. A second generation promoter, this McMahon had done what his father could have never imagined; he had turned a regional promotion locked in the Northeast region of the United States into a world wide powerhouse. Not only did this generation's McMahon successfully outlast all the regional territories in the United States, he was the main culprit behind their bankruptcy. A shrewd businessman like Darwin's natural selection he would systemically chose what performers from other promotions he wanted and offered them contracts to in a business-sense steal them for his taking. Promoters soon found that it was hopeless to compete again this new McMahon, what was best for their own families was to close up shop. The new McMahon would remain unchallenged except for a brief stint in the late nineties. WCW, a promotion owned by one of the richest men in the entire world Ted Turner. Despite using similar tactics of stealing the then WWF best talent, in addition to the millions of resources from Turner's personal coffer, AOL and Time Warner sold his company to him. Say what you will about the man, he knew and understood his craft.
And now it must be him, a mere assistant that must tell McMahon that change was needed. It was his job to report what the board wanted, but how he feared how Vince would handle it. Of course he could lie, he had before when the board once complained about the sudden emergence of Steve Austin. Those stupid fans, he recalled their now ignorant words, how dare they cheer for such a savage like him. He is a bad guy and bad guys are booed. If the board had their way then the company would have went under. My how their tune changed when he brought the company mainstream notoriety and became a household name. Suddenly it was they who wanted the envelope pushed to the very limits cable could push. Such irony! Times were different now, and even the assistant knew they were right. But did Vince know? Dammit he had to know, he is too smart not to know, thought the assistant.
It was a quarter past nine when Vince McMahon opened the assistant's email on his personal laptop from his personal office.
Vince,
Board meeting went better than we planned. They aren't jumping off the bridge just yet! As expected many grumblings about the recent pay-per-view buys and overall May ratings. Don't they ever learn, April and May is always our slow months! LOL
In all seriousness, we are all in agreement things are great but could be better. Just get creative to give me something big and I will sell them on it. Give me a full report after your meeting.
Vince McMahon closed the email and became thankful the assistant reminded him about the upcoming meeting with the creative team that he would have certainly forgot. Dealing with the truth was a battle all men must face, and age eventually became the final enemy to take men, and McMahon battled them both on two fronts. Aged sixty seven, the times had passed him by. What once was a mind, completely immersed in the day to day operations within his company, now only needed from time to time.
McMahon went to his team's meeting confident and eager to share the news. This was his kind of crowd, a collection of people just as obsessed with the product as he himself was. They lived their lives through the prism of the wrestling entertainment, dedicating every waking moment thinking of unique methods of storytelling to improve the quality of the product. Members of his own family were present, his only daughter Stephanie, and her husband Hunter Hearst Hemesley. What an honor it was for McMahon to know his daughter will own the industry he and her grandfather had built.
"The release of Laurnaituis was accepted well by the board." McMahon proclaimed with a warm smile indicating that the meeting had began. "But now is the time to impress them. I have decided on the main that will carry us through the summer, and well into the months of winter."
He paused for effect. "We are going to need, him."
The way he said it they all knew, who he spoke of.
Ever the opportunist, Hemesly asked the question everyone already knew. "By he… you mean.."
"Yes Triple H, I mean him." Vince McMahon said so smug and proud that he did not even sense the disappointment in the ever present faces of his team . "The phenom,….the Undertaker."