Heel Psychology 101: Into the Warped Psyche of a Pro Wrestling Rulebreaker

I’m a heel. I’m a heel, and I cheat to win. Simple as that.

I may be fat, thin, muscled or lean, tall or short. I may be rich, poor, male or female, and be from any ethnic background. I could be great on the mic, have a very colorful personality and be very flamboyant, or be more reserved and a bit more darker. But no matter what I look or sound like, there is one common denominator.

You don’t like me. In fact, you hate me. Every time you see me, you boo. You jeer. You yell and scream at the top of your lungs. And, why, for what? Because I break the rules? Because I don’t play fair when I’m in the ring? Because every time I have a mic in my hand, I curse you, and claim that I’m better than you?

Guess what? I am.

You spend all of your time disrespecting me, and telling me that I suck, but the truth is, I do what I want, when I want. I answer to nobody. I play by my own rules, and if I have to break some of yours to get my way, then so be it. I am the master of my own destiny.

How many of you can say that?

You call it playing dirty. I call it necessary strategy.

If the referee in my match accidentally takes a shot to the face, and goes down, then yeah, I might give a low blow to my opponent. May even grab a handful of trunks to get more leverage for the pin. I might even swipe the chair that you’re sitting in and take the guy’s head off.

I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m a bad guy, that I take the easy way out and that I should be a better person. You think that I need to do the “right thing.”

Know what I think? I think making money is the right thing. The more wins I have, the more money I make. If that means I have to hurt someone to get bank, then I will do just that.

You call me a coward, because even though I get called down to the ring, and I show up on the ramp, I refuse to fight. Once again, you boo me, and shake your heads in disgust. But you don’t see the bigger picture.

I do. It doesn’t matter what that chump in the ring wants me to do. The only thing that matters is what I want to do. And what I want to do is make him wait.

A man looking for a fight is reckless, dangerous, full of insane frustration, and wanting to take all of that out on a guy like me who’s just trying to make a living.

He thinks that by calling me out and trying to bait me into getting in the ring with him that he’s going to make a fool out of me. The big hero takes on the slimy villain in an impromptu face-off, and gives you people a thrill. He’s trying to prove his manhood at my expense.

But when I leave him in the ring, all by himself, he looks like the fool. He’s just a blowhard neck deep in his own testosterone, with no one to take out his aggression out on.

By making him wait, I disarm him. Now he has to find another way to be a cowboy. All he can think about is getting his hands on me, and he begins to lose focus on what’s right in front of him. And when that happens, I’m right there. I strike first.

A sneak attack from behind is nothing more than calculated offense. And that doesn’t make me bad, that makes me smart.

Smart enough to know that while you may think you have an impact in a match by cheering, clapping your hands, and chanting someone’s name, that in reality you’re just background noise.

You’re doing nothing but inflating the ego of your favorite wrestler, making him believe that he can do anything as long as he has your support. He truly thinks that if you cheer enough for him that he can win the match.

False sense of security, another bit of strategy that makes my opponent careless. Nice. Thanks for that.

I don’t need fans. I don’t need anyone. All I need are my wits and ability. If I do need anything else, I’ll just take it.

Some guys have friends. They pal around with each other, watch each other’s backs. Could be a tag team, could just be two or three who have some sort of lame kinship. They appear to be not just colleagues, but good friends.

But throw a championship in the equation and watch them turn on each other. Their egos demand that they be the best, and they only way they can lay stake to that title is to have some gold around their waist. They need the strap, and you, to make them feel important.

Me? I know I’m important, I don’t need a trophy to prove it. Besides, I can take any championship anytime I want to. I can do anything I want, remember?

So, no, I don’t have friends. Guys like myself, we don’t make friends, we make alliances. Born out of a common goal, or a mutual target, we don’t let ego get in the way. We do what needs to be done, at any cost. Because of that, we last longer than any group of “fan favorites” ever could.

But make no mistake, I am in this for myself, just like the rest of them.

I don’t care what you think about me. Makes no difference if you hate me, the truth is, I don’t like you either. Most of the time, I don’t even know you’re there.

Except for when you make too much noise during my match or when I try to talk. I hate that.

Makes you sick, doesn’t it, the fact that the show couldn’t go on without me? Who wants to watch a card full of matches and interviews with nothing but a bunch of boy scouts patting each other on the back and kissing up to you idiots?

Guys like me, we make life more interesting. Without me, there is no drama. I provide an edge, I fill a sick need that you have to see your favorite out numbered and beaten down, all because you can’t wait until he fights back and prevails in the end.

Makes no difference to me how much he fights, I will always be there to be sure he stays in check. I keep him off his game by staying on mine.

Fans can’t live without me. I make the business go round.

I’m a heel and I cheat to win. Simple as that.