Trump really did wrestle his way into the White House
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Do you remember World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE)? For many people, the show — in which muscle-bound wrestlers in tight tights throw one another around in staged fights — is a nostalgic throwback to the 80s and 90s.
Today, its mix of soap opera, theatre, and athletic spectacle still draws millions of viewers each week. To some, it’s a guilty pleasure; to others, timeless entertainment. Still, few would associate it with the serious world of politics.
For Donald Trump, professional wrestling is a lifelong passion. His November announcement that a former CEO of WWE, Linda McMahon, would take up the role of education secretary in his Cabinet elicited shock and disbelief.
Long before McMahon’s nomination, Trump was the first occupant of the Oval Office to be a WWE Hall of Fame inductee — an honour that marked his decades-long business relationship with the company.
Trump has hosted two WrestleManias, the WWE’s flagship annual event, appeared more than a dozen times on WWE programmes, played a leading role in two storylines, and gotten physical around the ring itself.
It’s now widely acknowledged that pro wrestling is key to Trump as a political phenomenon. Yet, its influence is bigger than Trump.
Wrestling has become a key element to understand the reshaping of US politics itself — particularly the Republican right.
Just look at the 2024 presidential campaign. Jesse ‘The Body’ Ventura was named by Robert F Kennedy Jr as a potential vice-presidential running mate. Hulk Hogan tore his shirt off at the Republican national convention, rallied ‘Trumpaholics’ at Madison Square Garden, and hinted at a possible role in a future Trump administration on Fox News.
For his part, Trump participated in a Fox News segment with former WWE superstar Tyrus, who dubbed him “the people’s champion” and gave him a replica title belt.
He joined the podcasts of pro wrestling icon Mark ‘The Undertaker’ Calloway and current WWE superstar Logan Paul.
A former boxing promoter, Trump has become a fixture at combat sports in general — especially Ultimate Fighting Championship (which merged with WWE to form the media conglomerate TKO in 2023), whose CEO, Dana White, was one of the first people brought on stage at his victory speech.
By attaching himself to entertainment forms widely dismissed in polite society, Trump burnishes his anti-establishment vibes while reaching out to a younger, often politically apathetic, male electorate that populates these fandoms.
It is pro wrestling, however, that is his natural home. The idea that Trump’s pro wrestling background is used strategically is also linked to his infamous campaign rallies.
From the fireworks and thumping entrance music to the carefully choreographed conflict and spectacle on the stage, the atmosphere of his rallies often been compared with pro wrestling shows.
Being part of a pro wrestling audience — much like attending a Trump rally — allows spectators to experience emotions that are usually forbidden. They can scream, shout, and display rage in a rare public context where it’s socially permitted.
Trump rallies are safe spaces where it’s acceptable to emote: To shout and cheer for your country and candidate, while vocalising hatred for political opponents. In 2016, it was possible to think these similarities were coincidental. Today, the influence of pro wrestling is unavoidable.
As US politics becomes one gigantic pro wrestling arena, traditional theories and frameworks are inadequate for making sense of events. We need, therefore, to turn to pro wrestling for answers, particularly the industry-specific concept of ‘kayfabe’ — a label for the illusion that pro wrestling’s predetermined performances were real.
In my view, the relationship between pro wrestling fans and performances are analogous to how electorates engage with contemporary politics. Trump and his supporters are an extreme case of a wider phenomenon.
Enjoying pro wrestling involves a deliberate suspension of disbelief, whereby fans acknowledge the theatricality of the performance while investing in it emotionally. Spectators collaborate with the performers by playing along as “believing fans”, cheering and booing as conventions dictate, embracing the spectacle even while recognising its pretence.
In pro wrestling terms, it is called “keeping kayfabe”.
What makes Trump special is thus not that he personifies “pro wrestlingified” politics, but that his supporters are willing to suspend their disbelief and support his campaign when its fakery is so blatant.
If the best our political systems offer their understandably jaded electorates is the option to “suspend disbelief” and “keep kayfabe”, we shouldn’t be shocked many choose the one with an anti-establishment pose and chaotic performance style (each products of a pro wrestling pedigree).
It may be a performance, sure, but at least it’s entertaining.
- David Moon is the head of division for politics at Bath University. Guardian