Writing pro-wrestling matches in fiction, with all their athletic feats, is a tricky business. Not least, when you’re hoping your work will stretch beyond pro-wrestling fans and resonate with a wider audience. That it might have a broader cultural impact. With that in mind, here are a few questions I asked myself before I went to the page:
- I can’t just assume the reader knows what a DDT is, or a hurricanrana, so I need to clearly describe the movements at play, without the language becoming super-clunky.
- How can I reflect the excitement, the intensity, the violence, the poetics of movement, in my language? (note: language will never be able to replicate all this – which is what makes pro-wrestling, or any sport, so great and adrenaline-inducing – but how can it offer a decent representation?)
- As a writer, do I stay in kayfabe, writing as if it were an MMA bout or boxing match?
- Or, do I show some of the performance layers in pro-wrestling – the cooperation between ‘competitors’? The blend of improvisation and scripting?
- Again, when it comes to in and out of kayfabe – or reality versus fiction – do I show the emotions of only the in-ring personas via their visual cues, or do I reveal the inner self of the person behind the character?
What follows below the asterisk is a passage from my novel in which you can see how I’ve dealt with these issues at first-draft stage. Before we get to that, I wanted to highlight some texts that have inspired me when writing pro-wrestling action. Firstly, Fight Forever: The Ballad of Kevin and Sami (2025), written by J.J. McGee. This is perhaps the best example I’ve seen of pro-wrestling action writing. For me, McGee’s writing deals beautifully with the dualities of knowledge/explanation and poetics/clarity, and moves skilfully between reality and fiction. It’s normal with a book like this for the subjects (Owens & Zayn) to take centre-stage, but I really want to put over the quality of the writing. I highly recommend listening to McGee speak on Tim Kail’s The Work of Wrestling podcast.
My other recommendation on these lines is one I’ve mentioned before and is not exactly a hot take – Bret Hart’s memoir Hitman (2010). It probably won’t be news to anyone that Hart does an excellent job of peeling back the curtain but not too much, as well as translating the excitement of pro-wrestling into his writing. It might be roughly 500 pages, but if you love pro-wrestling, you’ll fly through it.
Now to my work below. I’m not going to provide any context this time as I think the text speaks for itself. Thank you for reading and feel free to let me know what you think. If you want to read more of my pro-wrestling fiction writing, check out my ‘Exploring the history of modern kayfabe through fiction writing’ series here: part 1, part 2, part 3 and part 4.
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Atalanta was stalking Paisley round the ring, toying with her, having cut off her comeback time after time.
“Show her how a real woman handles her business,” Silvio Tarco shouted from the outside, pounding the edge of the mat. A wave of fans behind him booed.
Atalanta threw Paisley under the ropes, to the outside, by Tarco’s feet. He held up his hands in innocence to the referee, who then dropped to the outside to remonstrate with Tarco. The arguing duo now part-shielded the women from the crowd as Atalanta nailed Paisley’s forehead with her knuckle. She drew close to Paisley, as if she might bite her ear, but then, out of earshot of the crowd, whispered, “Okay, now.”
On her hands and knees, Paisley took the razorblade from her wrist tape. Atalanta shoved Paisley’s head into the ring apron, which allowed Paisley the discretion to cut into the top of her own forehead half an inch.
“Oh shit, it’s a gusher,” Atalanta whispered as she rolled her foe back into the ring. Atalanta hung Paisley upside on the corner turnbuckle, and stood back to present the visual of blood discolouring Paisley’s hair. Knowing Paisley was losing more blood than intended, she didn’t let this go on too long. Atalanta didn’t want her passing out. Keep her sympathetic, but keep her strong, she kept saying to herself.
Now it was time for Paisley’s comeback. Paisley staggered back, absorbing Atalanta’s blows. Then she rocked back against the ropes and used her momentum to propel a vicious clothesline into Atalanta’s sternum. But Atalanta, though rocked, didn’t fall. Paisley tried it again, with the same result. Finally, on the third attempt she knocked Atalanta on her back.
The double-down spot. A moment’s rest before the final stretch.
They both hauled themselves to their feet. Paisley ducked a punch and swiped Atalanta’s legs out from under her. When Atalanta stood, Paisley was ready with a dropkick. Now the hurricanrana, in which Paisley leapt, scissored Atalanta’s head between her legs and flipped Atalanta to the mat. The crowd lost it. Now she waited for Atalanta to rise, urging the crowd to cheer her on. She then hooked Atalanta’s head under her arm and dropped, driving Atalanta’s face into the mat – the DDT. With Atalanta laid out prone, Paisley pulled herself to the top rope.
Keep her sympathetic, keep her strong, Atalanta said to herself once again.
The crowd took to their feet, in anticipation of Paisley’s finisher – the moonsault. From a standing position facing away from her opponent, Paisley would jump upwards and backwards, arching her back and pulling her legs over her head to execute a full backflip, landing chest-first onto her opponent, knocking all wind from their body. However, this time she landed on the raised knees of the wily Atalanta. As the resurrected Atalanta pulled a winded Paisley to her feet, she squeezed Paisley’s wrist, signifying it was time for the planned finish. Atalanta clotheslined Paisley then headed to the top rope herself. She would hit a double axe handle from the top, then pick up Paisley for the Boar Hunt. Paisley would wriggle from Atalanta’s grasp, over and behind her, then roll her up for a quick one-two-three. That was the plan. But when Atalanta landed off the top rope, she caught her boot in the canvas and felt something snap in her left knee.
She’d part-connected with the double axe handle, so they worked another double down spot to allow Atalanta a few seconds. “Are you okay?” the referee whispered. “My knee’s done,” Atalanta spat through the pain. “Can you get her up for the finish?” said the referee. Through gritted teeth, Atalanta replied, “No, no. Moonsault. On my cue.”
Atalanta pulled herself up on the referee. In exaggerating her limp for the audience, she caught her boot in the canvas again, and pain bolted down her left side. She wanted to vomit. But this is what a true pro did – saw it through to the end, gutted it out. That was the history of the Business. Paisley made herself as light as possible as Atalanta performed an attempt to pick her up. “Dropkick to my knee,” Atalanta whispered. Paisley did as she was told though hit the wrong knee. Still, she then raced to the top rope and hit the moonsault. She landed on Atalanta’s injured knee. Atalanta turned her head and bit her own shoulder. That’s what it took to stay still, to sell the knockout blow of the moonsault, rather than grab at her knee in agony.
As Paisley celebrated, Atalanta clutched at the referee’s sleeves. “Please, get me to the back.” Between her eyes pinching with pain, she caught a familiar pair of loafers skate across the ring. A whiff of citrus aftershave then Leo was in her face. “It’s your knee, right? A bad one?” She nodded. He said, “Can you take that finish again? Now. For the title.” Atalanta’s eyes filled with water. She nodded again. “Just tell her not to land on my fucking knee this time.”
Leo called Paisley down from the turnbuckle then was handed a microphone from one of the ringside production crew. He announced, “Ladies and gentlemen. As you well know, this victory earned Dakota Paisley a shot at the Women’s Championship. And ladies and gentlemen, Dakota Paisley is going to cash in that title shot, right now!”
The bell rang. Paisley went to the top and hit the moonsault again, this time avoiding Atalanta’s knee. She pinned Atalanta. The crowd counted along with the referee then exploded on three.
The ring announcer: “And new Women’s Championnnnn, Dakota Paisssssley.”
Above her, Hera caught a flash of gold as Leo strapped the belt round Paisley’s waist. Paisley had looked strong, she was over with the crowd. Hera had done her job.
But a sadness was already washing over her. The referee now tried to move her. Tears were flowing down her cheeks. All she knew was, right now, she didn’t want to go home, to Alf’s house. She caught her breath enough to mumble, “Leave me here a second.”
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