The office smelled of stale old wood polish and cheap air freshener, a last-ditch effort to mask years of sweat, smoke, and silent failure that had already sunk into the walls. Vince Maston was seated across the table from Lance Dawson, the soon-to-be former owner of Iron Ring Wrestling, or IRW as it was known to the handful of fans that still showed up every other Friday night. The two men were staring down at a thin stack of papers laid out before them on the scratched desk in front of them.
The contract was signed. The ink was still drying. And despite Vince's unshakable smirk and laid-back posture; feet up, legs crossed, tapping the pen lightly on the table, the room was less of a celebration and more of a funeral.
Lance took a long, slow breath and attempted to rub the creases out of his forehead, as if they could be removed with enough pressure. He didn't face Vince when he spoke. "Well, that's that," he said. "She's all yours now."
The tone of his voice carried the weight of someone who had just buried something they loved. To Lance, IRW was much more than a company. It was fifteen years of blood, stress and half-finished arenas.
He'd managed to keep the pieces in place through injuries, talent walkouts, lost sponsorships, and the slow and steady decline of regional wrestling promotions, but the losses he suffered just within the past year had absolutely destroyed him. In all honesty, a rent increase on the only arena they could afford was the buck of the proverbial camel.
"I never even thought I'd actually sell," he continued. "I mean.... hell, I didn't want to. But, I can't see a way out. "
Vince stared at him. Lance had that look Vince had seen before many times in other industries—upon the old guard, frayed edges, proud to the bitter end. Yet to Vince, the pride was part of the problem. IRW treated wrestling as if it were already a dying sport—devoid of spectacle and momentum.
Just two people in a ring exchanging holds hoping that someone cared enough to make a clap. No drama. No pageantry. No reason to come back next week. That was the disease. Vince knew the cure.
"You're still sticking around," he said all of a sudden.
Lance finally turned toward him, his frown deepened with confusion. "What?"
"You are going to stay on," Vince repeated. "But not as an owner. But I want you to be head of daily operations. Booking the venues, working the roster, operating logistics. You know this place better than anyone. It would be silly to start that all over again."
Lance shook his head. "You don't need me to do that."
"I do," Vince declared assuredly. "I have the vision, Lance. I just need somebody with boots on the ground who knows where the power cables go; as well as where the switch is on how to shut the fire alarms off when someone sets off the smoke machines."
A thin, tired smile twisted the corner of Lance's mouth, but still did not reach his eyes. "And I thought you were only buying it to run it into the ground."
"Hell no," Vince bent forward and gained speed speaking. "I bought this place because of where I see what it could be—as opposed to what it is. This is not just some lower level fight club with a taped up ring. This could be the next break out show on TV, and I am going to make sure of it."
Lance was silent for a moment. He shifted his gaze back to the contract, as if he could tear it up and have this moment somehow disappear. At last, he mumbled, "The TV deal is hanging by a thread."
"I figured," Vince replied. "Tell me how bad."
"I mean, we're still on Red TV, Friday nights," said Lance. "Been there for six years. But our numbers are terrible. We have one season left in the deal and, uh... they are not renewing. We already had a sit-down. It was civil enough, but the message was clear- get off your ass, or you're done here."
Vince nodded, narrowing his eyes. That was the last thing he wanted to be told, but it wasn't unexpected. He hadn't come in searching for miracles. He had come looking for opportunity. "So we have one year," he said. "And that is absolutely more than enough time to turn this thing around."
Lance snorted, not really sure if he should be offended or laughing. "You think you can turn this thing around in twelve months?"
"No," Vince said. "I know I can."
The conviction in his voice was not arrogance- it was confidence. Vince was not throwing a guess out there. He had a plan. He always did.
The confidence in his voice wasn't cockiness—it was certainty. Vince wasn't conjecturing. He had a plan. He always did.
"I want a full meeting meeting with the entire locker room tomorrow," he continued. "Talent, trainers, refs, everyone. I'll introduce myself and explain where we're going."
Lance leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "You've been talking about this 'vision' of yours since our first meeting. You've still never told me what it actually is."
Vince chuckled. "Because I didn't want to freak you out before we signed the paper work."
Lance didn't laugh.
"Alright," Vince said, shrugging. "You want to see what's in my head? Here it is. We're going to stop running fights. We're going to start running a show."
Lance raised an eyebrow "And what the hell does that mean?"
"It means we start by stopping pretending people care who can do a wristlock better," Vince said. "We stop treating wrestling like it is a legitimate competition. Because it's not."
Lance was a bit startled by Vince's statement.
"Wrestling is not a sport, it is entertainment."
Seeing Lance's silence, Vince continued, "I'm saying that the finish is not real. And it doesn't need to be. People watch sporting events to see who wins. They watch wrestling to see why someone wins. Or loses. They want stories. Characters. They want feeling."
Lance frowned as he pondered.
"Right now," Vince continued, "your matches are two guys in underpants just throwing each other around for ten minutes until one of them gets a pin. That's good. It works... until it doesn't. Until fans realize that there is no reason to tune in again next week."
"And what's the solution?"
"We make the fans invested before the bell even rings. We give them someone to cheer for. Someone to boo. Conflict. Heat. Build the tension. Build payoffs. Heroes. Villains. We use promos, video packages, backstage segments, music--for Christ's sake, lighting--to make it feel like an epic event."
"Like a soap opera?"
"Exactly. A soap opera with slams."
Lance rubbed his chin, pondering this. "You really think this is what fans want?"
"They already do. Check it out. Look how loud they cheer, just for their favorite wrestler walks to the ring, before the match even starts. That's not about technique. That's feelings. That's connection. We just have to give them more of it."
Lance stared at him for a minute. After that minute, he finally exhaled slowly. "I guess. If you want to have your meeting, you can have your meeting. But I'm going to warn you, this is not a movie set. These are not actors. I am telling you, most of these guys don't know how to cut a promo. To be fair, some probably can't put two words together on camera."
"We will teach them," Vince said. "Or we won't. We will write around them. They don't all need to talk. Some can just be silent monsters. Some can have managers. We will figure it out. But we build characters. We build feuds. We control the emotions of the audience. That's how we get them back."
Lance nodded slowly. "Alright. Tomorrow, training centre. I'll call everybody."
"Great," said Vince, getting up and extending a hand.
Lance hesitated briefly before shaking it, still not fully sold, but just too exhausted to argue.
As Vince turned to leave, he glanced back. "One last thing," he said. "You think it's your baby, and that you just gave it up. But I don't want to kill it. I want to raise it into something bigger than you ever imagined."
"And if it doesn't work?"
Vince grinned. "Then at least we go down swinging. But I'm not here to fail, Lance. I'm here to start a revolution."