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Social Psychology Quarterly

June 2008Vol. 71 N

o. 2pp. 107–208

Volume 71 • Number 2 • June 2008

Wrestling with Social Psychology

A Journal of the American Sociological Association

The Journal of Microsociologies

“Wrestling Match—Columbus, Ohio”Photograph by Tim Curry

Two onMentalIllness

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WRESTLING WITH SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY

OPENINGS

TIM CURRY 107Where the Action Is: Visual Sociology and Sport

JIM THOMAS 109Nietzsche at Northern: An Existential Narrative of Confronting the Abyss

ARTICLES

ALBERTO VOCI, MILES HEWSTONE, RICHARD J. CRISP, AND MARK RUBIN 114Majority, Minority, and Parity: Effects of Gender and Group Size on Perceived Group Variability

TWO ON EMOTIONAL MANAGEMENT

DAVID ORZECHOWICZ 143Privileged Emotion Managers: The Case of Actors

R. TYSON SMITH 157Passion Work: The Joint Production of Emotional Labor in Professional Wrestling

TWO ON MENTAL ILLNESS

JENNA HOWARD 177Negotiating an Exit: Existential, Interactional, and Cultural Obstacles to Disorder Disidentification

AMY KROSKA AND SARAH K. HARKNESS 193Exploring the Role of Diagnosis in the Modified Labeling Theory of Mental Illness

3370 SPQ 6/6/08 8:51 AM

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Social Psychology QuarterlyVolume 71, Number 2 June 2008

CONTENTS

A JOURNAL OF THE AMERICAN SOCIOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION

WRESTLING WITH SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY

OPENINGS

TIM CURRY 107Where the Action Is: Visual Sociology and Sport

JIM THOMAS 109Nietzsche at Northern: An Existential Narrative of Confronting the Abyss

ARTICLES

ALBERTO VOCI, MILES HEWSTONE, RICHARD J. CRISP, AND MARK RUBIN 114Majority, Minority, and Parity: Effects of Gender and Group Size on Perceived Group Variability

TWO ON EMOTIONAL MANAGEMENT

DAVID ORZECHOWICZ 143Privileged Emotion Managers: The Case of Actors

R. TYSON SMITH 157Passion Work: The Joint Production of Emotional Labor in Professional Wrestling

TWO ON MENTAL ILLNESS

JENNA HOWARD 177Negotiating an Exit: Existential, Interactional, and Cultural Obstacles to Disorder Disidentification

AMY KROSKA AND SARAH K. HARKNESS 193Exploring the Role of Diagnosis in the Modified Labeling Theory of Mental Illness


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Mason, Karen O. 1974. Women’s Labor Force Participation and Fertility. Research TrianglePark, NC: National Institutes of Health.-U. S. Bureau of the Census. 1960. Characteristicsof Population. Vol. 1. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office.

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———. 1947b. “Exploratory Latent Structure Analysis Using Both Identifiable andUnidentifiable Models.” Biometrika 61:215–31.

Szelényi, Szonja and Jacqueline Olvera. Forthcoming. “The Declining Significance of Class:Does Gender Complicate the Story?” Theory and Society.

• Collections: Clausen, John A. 1972. “The Life Course of Individuals.” Pp. 457–514 in Aging and Society,vol. 3, A Sociology of Age Stratification, edited by M. W. Riley, M. Johnson, and A.Foner. New York: Russell Sage.

Sampson, Robert J. 1992. “Family Management and Child Development: Insights from SocialDisorganization Theory.” Pp. 63–93 in Advances in Criminology Theory, vol. 3, Facts,Frameworks, and Forecasts, edited by J. McCord. New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction.

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Call for PapersSpecial Issue Of

Social Psychology Quarterly

Social Psychological Perspectives on Morality

The terms “moral” and “social” were interchangeable for 18th and 19th century socialtheorists. In the past few decades sociologists have become, as Craig Calhoun describesit, “unmusical” in addressing the moral dimension of human life. Morality involves morethan the established social psychological fields of altruism and aggression; it encompass-es individual and cultural duties, ideals, and prohibitions that shape interaction. A socialscience of morality looks at the influences on, embodied enactment, and consequences ofimplicit and explicit moral orientations toward the good, just, and worthy (and alternate-ly the profane, disgusting, and shameful).

Psychologists and neurologists are currently directing the scientific study of moralbehavior, thought, and feeling. With some notable exceptions, such scholars are lookingdeeper into the evolutionarily adapted brain. A sociological counterpart is called for toaddress morality within the self, social situations, and the life course. Such work encom-passes the study of affect, exchange, justice, or values, but may lead to new syntheses orresearch programs.

Our goal is to publish a special issue of Social Psychology Quarterly on the topic of“Social Psychological Perspectives on Morality.” We welcome submissions from a broadrange of empirical and theoretical perspectives, demonstrating the utility (or potentialhazards) of a sociological understanding of morality. The deadline for submitting papersis January 1, 2009. The usual ASA requirements for submissions apply (see “Notice forContributors”). Please send a copy of your paper as a Word attachment to [email protected], the $25 submission fee (payable by credit card or check, and waived forgraduate student authors), and an indication that the paper is intended for the specialissue. Prospective authors are encouraged to communicate with the editor ([email protected]) or the special issue deputy editor ([email protected]) about theappropriateness of their papers.

[In profession wrestling] the most sociallyinspired nuances of passion (conceit, rightful-ness, refined cruelty, a sense of ‘paying one’sdebts’) always felicitously find the clearest signwhich can receive them, express them, and tri-umphantly carry them to the confines of the hall.It is obvious that at such a pitch, it no longermatters whether the passion is genuine or not.What the public wants is the image of passion,not passion itself. —Roland Barthes, 1957

Professional wrestling is a passionatereenactment of a violent fight betweengood and evil. The performer’s objective

is not to win the match, but rather, to attain astrong emotional reaction from the audience.This interaction between fans and performersis the defining aspect of the performance, forwithout the spectators there would be no suchthing as professional wrestling (Turowetz andRosenberg 1977).1 However, to create thisovertly emotional, passionate frontstage inter-action between performers and audience, cru-cial (albeit unseen) backstage “emotion work”between two or more performers must take

place. This analysis is an examination of thisbackstage, joint emotion work with a fellow“opponent.”

In her groundbreaking book TheManaged Heart, Arlie Hochschild introducedthe concept of “emotion management,” defin-ing it as work that “requires one to induce orsuppress feeling in order to sustain the out-ward countenance that produces the properstate of mind in others” (1983:7). While thisconcept has been criticized because the pre-sumed emotions underlying the behavior cansometimes be unclear (Ashforth andHumphrey 1993), Hochschild’s research nev-ertheless argues that the management of emo-tions is a common aspect of many occupationsand a social process contingent on ideologyand social context.

Since Hochschild’s research on emotionallabor among airline employees and bill collec-tors, a wide variety of scholarship on workersand workplace settings has flourished.2

Overall, this research has focused on the

Social Psychology Quarterly2008, Vol. 71, No. 2, 157–176

Passion Work: The Joint Production ofEmotional Labor in Professional Wrestling

R. TYSON SMITH*SUNY, Stony Brook

This paper presents a case of jointly produced passion work. Passion work is emotionallabor designed to elicit a strong response from subjects through an impression of extremestates such as pain, agony, or suffering. Based on an ethnographic investigation of profes-sional wrestling participants, this study analyzes the backstage emotion teamwork that takesplace within the self and with other performers. The study traces how performers do thisphysical labor and the social consequences of such work. The findings demonstrate that a)social rewards are intrinsic to performances of passion work, b) jointly produced passionwork allows for the sort of breadth that is difficult to achieve in solo emotional work, andc) emotional labor shapes identity in recreational performances of the body.

157

* I am very grateful for the generous comments fromKen Feldman, Javier Auyero, Naomi Rosenthal, MichaelSchwartz, Michael Kimmel, Eileen Otis, and severalanonymous reviewers. Lastly, I am grateful to Bernard F.Stehle for his judicious edits.

1 This is unlike traditional sport, where fans are rela-tively inconsequential since the overall objective of thecompetition is winning. For example, as the result of per-sistent problems with violent fans, certain European pro-fessional football (soccer) matches have been played inempty stadiums.

2 For example, there has been research on restaurantworkers (Leidner 1991, 1993; Erickson 2004); paralegals(Pierce 1995); luxury retail workers (Martin, Knopoff,Beckman 1998; Godwyn 2006); police (Martin 1999);mortuary science students (Cahill 1999); professors(Bellas 1999; Harlow 2003; Vannini 2006); door-to-doorsalespeople (Schweingruber and Berns 2005); nursinghome workers (Lopez 2006); and hotel workers (Otis2007; Sherman 2007). For a comprehensive review of thefirst two decades of literature, see Steinberg and Figart(1999).

158 SOCIAL PSYCHOLOGY QUARTERLY

effects of emotional labor in occupational set-tings. More recent studies within the privatesphere (DeVault 1991, 1999; Lois 2006), theglobal context (Otis 2007), and the “marke-tized private life” (Hochschild 2003) havebroadened the scope of emotional laborresearch; yet, the bulk of research remains ori-ented towards behavior governed by a profitmotive. The emphasis in this literature hasbeen on what Hochschild describes as thethree characteristics of jobs that involve emo-tional labor: “face-to-face or voice-to-voicecontact with the public”; the requirement thatworkers “produce an emotional state in anoth-er person—gratitude or fear, for example”;and lastly, providing the employer “a degree ofcontrol over the emotional activities ofemployees” (Hochschild 1983: 147).

Moreover, emotion-management researchremains focused on individuals within female-dominated occupations who do service workand use “face-to-face or voice-to-voice con-tact.”3 In these contexts, behavior is primarilyorganized by the structure of the market andthe effects of individuals (who are dispropor-tionately women) selling their labor for a prof-it. In general, the focus has been on the nega-tive effects of emotion work that have devel-oped as a result of the transition to a more ser-vice and information-based economy.

The present study of professionalwrestlers extends and refines current researchon emotional labor in three main respects.First, professional wrestlers (at the “indy”level studied here) are not performing for theirimmediate livelihood, hence their work is notdriven by financial incentives. This voluntaryemotional labor—work that is an aspect ofbusiness entertainment though not directlyimposed by profit-driven schema—allows usto examine the association between emotionallabor and identity as shaped within the contextof a recreational physical activity.

Second, instead of traditional emotionlabor, which is intended to produce a “sense ofbeing cared for in a convivial and safe place”(Hochschild 1983: 7)—work that produces“soft emotions” (Price 1994), traditionallycoded as feminine—pro wrestling is physicalwork intended to create passionate feelings ofcontempt, indignation, and suspense amongthe audience. Positive feelings like adorationand appreciation are also summoned, but onlyin conjunction with a more “evil” emotionworker. Therefore, the study provides a closelook at the work that goes into “surface acts”(Hochschild 1983) of hostility and aggression,acts that are less examined in the literature.

Most importantly, this study complementsour understanding of emotion work by scruti-nizing professional wrestling as an instance ofthe joint performance of emotional labor.4 Theperformance is an enactment of a duelbetween two or more fighters who are, in actu-ality, colluding with one another. Unlike otheremotional work (where, for example, an indi-vidual worker serves customers, or an individ-ual professor teaches students), pro wrestlersdo joint emotional labor with one or more fel-low opponents. The performance is designedfor the enjoyment of numerous spectators andis therefore a case of “interpersonal emotionalmanagement” (Thoits 1995; Francis 1997),yet the passionate frontstage interaction withfans is impossible without an elaborate,skilled, backstage social relationship betweentwo wrestlers. This unique case of interactive,backstage emotion teamwork is the focus ofthis analysis.

My analysis of emotional labor, based ona long-term ethnography and participantobservation of professional wrestling, beginswith a description of independent prowrestling and its participants. I explain mymethodology and describe the frontstage, pub-lic emotion work between participants andfans. I then analyze what I call their passion

3 Noteworthy exceptions are studies of bill collectors(Hochschild 1983; Rafaeli and Sutton 1991), police work-ers (Stenross and Kleinman 1989; Martin 1999), insur-ance agents (Leidner 1991), criminal interrogators(Rafaeli and Sutton 1991), paralegals (Lively 2000), andbooksellers (Schweingriber and Berns 2005).

4 There are a few cases of other emotional work per-formed jointly, such as two flight attendants serving pas-sengers together (Hochschild 1983) or the staff at a psy-chodrama support group (Thoits 1996). With the excep-tion of criminal interrogators (Rafaeli and Sutton 1991)and paralegals (Lively 2000), these are generally briefdescriptions.

EMOTIONAL LABOR IN PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING 159

work. Passion work is jointly performed emo-tional labor intended to elicit a passionateresponse from subjects through an impressionof extreme states such as joy, agony, or suffer-ing. Ideal performances of passion work suchas pro wrestling are situations in which two(or more) performers jointly perform emo-tional labor in a high-stakes context wherethere is great risk for pain, injury or death. Inthis paper, my analysis is divided into emotionwork on the self, techniques of joint emotionwork, the ideals of skilled joint labor, thelatent empathy, and, lastly, the managementfailures in which this passion work breaksdown.

This study demonstrates that the joint per-formance of passion work, like other emotionwork with the public, requires and values themanagement of “surface acting” and “deepacting” (Hochschild 1983). However, by high-lighting the jointly performed labor, my analy-sis of wrestling affords an opportunity for the-oretical refinement of extant emotion scholar-ship (Snow, Morrill, and Anderson 2003).Participants conduct emotional labor that isthe reverse of typical emotional labor in that,instead of females serving customers with asmile, this is men working together to serve anaudience with a performance of pain, suffer-ing, and antagonism. For these performers,hostility is almost always displayed, althoughempathic feelings of cooperation, protection,and trust are often actually being felt.Furthermore, within such a high-risk set-ting—a recreational setting in which partici-pation is voluntarily, and motivations are notdriven by financial incentives—wrestlers per-form intimate emotional labor with one anoth-er. The attraction to such a dangerous pursuitis due in part to the product generated fromthis elaborate labor.

RESEARCH SITE AND PARTICIPANTS

Pro wrestling is best known for the highlystylized, televised programs produced by thewell-financed, publicly-traded, and extremelysuccessful World Wrestling Entertainment(WWE) Corporation. Beyond the purview ofthese popular shows, however, is a thrivingindependent professional wrestling scene

known as “the indies.” This loose-knit associ-ation of low-budget, community-based enter-tainment lacks affiliation with the WWE andconsists of pro wrestling schools, websites,and regional promotions held in modestvenues. Indy promotions have no televisioncontracts (other than occasional local cableaccess) and each federation is funded by thesmall revenue from ticket sales and neighbor-hood advertising at shows that are held aboutevery four to six weeks at available localvenues (e.g., bingo halls or, as in this case, acommunity center). Unlike WWE stars suchas “The Rock” and “Hulk Hogan,” a well-respected veteran performer in the indiesattracts relatively little recognition outside ofthis reference group.

Training begins at a school owned and/ormanaged by a former pro wrestling star. It isan informal organization without activerecruiting, and nearly all participants find theschool through social networks or the Internet.Dropping out comes with little or no socialpenalties since the school is a voluntary asso-ciation. Because the training cannot easily befound elsewhere—there is no “little league prowrestling” or Police Athletic WrestlingLeague—wrestling trainers exert a consider-able amount of influence on students. Afterstudents have paid for their training for(roughly) a year, no regular dues are collected,though certain duties and obligations areexpected (moving and setting up the ring, forexample, or selling tickets and helping to pub-licize shows). Most participants begin with thedream of making it into the higher level WWEbut eventually recognize, after a few years ofparticipation, how unlikely it is that they willever be recruited.

In the promotion researched here, thelineup of matches for the show (as determinedby the booker) is largely drawn from the samepool of performers who practice together inthe training space. When new talent performs,the individual always has prior ring experienceand, typically, an established name within theindies. Many matches feature men who areacquainted, though they may or may not havepreviously performed together. The bookerand promoter manage the shows and controlthe storylines (the dramatic scripts creating


the rivalry between opponents). These storiestypically carry over to the next show, and mostof them play on American cultural tropes(patriotism, chivalry, heroism, honor) as wellas their villainous opposites (rebellion, defi-ance, rudeness) (Smith 2004).

Indy wrestlers have day jobs, since per-formers have no labor contract from the pro-moters. If there is compensation for perform-ing, it depends on the given promoter and thesize of the house attendance. Some promo-tions provide a small stipend for that night’sperformers ($25–$75), but it is very commonto receive no pay at all. Younger, less experi-enced wrestlers are usually satisfied simply tobe in the show, and financial compensation israrely expected. For a successful veteran per-former, the money earned from wrestling inthe indies might be a meaningful supplementto another job, but it is not nearly enough to beone’s primary source of income. After factor-ing in costs for meals and travel (and occa-sional lodging), a mid-level indy performercomes out about even, if not at a loss.Furthermore, promoters have little regard forthe wrestlers’ long-term healthcare. There isno provision for health insurance or compen-sation for sports-medicine support or medicaltrainers, which, given that injuries are so com-mon, often proves quite costly.5

Since the 1990s, indy promotions havehad a reputation for “extreme” performancesthat are more violent and spectacle-like thanthe “family friendly” entertainment of earliereras. “Extreme” wrestling promotions are avariant of risk-taking “edgework” (Lyng1990), that incorporate more high-risk stunts,“high spots,” and props such as tables, ladders,chairs, trash cans, barbed wire, and cages. Theextreme-themed shows target a young maleaudience and emphasize “exciting, risky,action-packed sports that are culturally codedsites of individual rebellion and creativity”(Messner 2002:82). The most well-known

extreme wrestling federation is the ExtremeChampionship Wrestling (ECW) promotionand a leading ECW star trains students at theschool researched here.

In the indy federation researched in thisstudy, there are twenty participants.6 Contraryto the stereotype of pro wrestlers as massivestrongmen, most of the participants are ofaverage body size, weighing between 160 and200 pounds and standing between 5’8” and6’2” in height. Within the group, there is anestablished hierarchy based on experience andpublic performance exposure. Those withhigher status are the older, more veteranwrestlers. These “vets” have typically been inthe indy scene for at least five years, and sev-eral have had some television coverage. In themiddle stratum are those wrestlers who haveat least a couple of years experience and haveperformed in at least one public show. At thebottom are “green” wrestlers, who are intraining and have not yet participated in apublic performance.

Data and Methods

I conducted over three years of ethno-graphic research at a school that trains men tobe professional wrestlers and at the school’saffiliated event promotion. I observed overtwenty-five public wrestling events andattended over 60 three-hour-long practices,amounting to over 350 hours of research inthe field. My data are derived from partici-pant-observation of the interactions amongthe wrestlers at their practice site and public-event shows (both frontstage and backstage);fifteen in-depth interviews with wrestling par-

5 The only exception is “event insurance,” which coversthe overall production and the doctor who checks partici-pants before taking to the stage at public shows. The doc-tor, as mandated by the state, checks blood pressure,pulse, and briefly inspects the performers for any obviousphysical signs that would preclude their wrestling thatnight.

6 Most participants are white, working-class men whorange in age from eighteen to thirty-five, have a highschool education, and work part-time in low-level servicejobs in a metropolitan area. Five have attained a B.A. at alocal college, and four of these five are public schoolteachers. Five members come from a lower-middle-classto middle-class socioeconomic background. Four men aremarried and have children. Eleven of them are single andstill living with one or more parent(s). Some of theiroccupations include: security guard, CVS clerk,Blockbuster clerk, UPS warehouse distribution worker,and customer service representative for a local newspaper.One female, and two men of color, are in the group.


ticipants; and three interviews with promoters(both indy and WWE).

I socialized informally with the wrestlersin restaurants, bars and gyms, and in carswhile traveling, and I observed other regionalwrestling schools and public wrestling perfor-mances. While my main focus was on thesame group of about twenty wrestlers, I alsospoke with pro wrestlers who had moved up tothe next level and were performing in theWWE or one of its feeder federations. I notonly observed and conversed with “wrestlersin their places,” to echo Zussman’s (2004)phrase, I also collected data on their behaviorwhile they performed at public shows, relaxed,trained, and attended other performances.Additionally, I saw these behaviors evolveover time as I was in the field with this groupfor over three full years. I gathered datathrough notes, photographs, emails, and audioand video recordings.

PRO WRESTLING’SFRONTSTAGE EMOTION

WORK

I go for cover on Joey.Then people are like, ‘Ohthat’s it. One, two, kick-out. They go, ‘Oooh!’False finish. Then youbump the referee. And thenwhen you bump the refer-ee, people are like, okay,bad guy’s going to win.They think that. Then westall a little more. Playingwith people’s emotions isreally what we do.

—Mickey, a nine-yearveteran and booker for

promotions

—Professional wrestlingis physical theater inwhich participants act outa fight in front of payingspectators. The duel isgoverned by sportingsymbols,7 but outcomes ofmatches are fixed.Individual success is not

determined strictly by physical merit, and per-formers must achieve emotional responsesfrom the spectators. Instead of the traditionalsports credo—“higher, faster, stronger”—prowrestling’s credo might be, “Tell a story, sellyour move, get a pop from the crowd.” Toreceive a “pop”—a strong reaction, positive ornegative, from the audience—wrestlers mustestablish who their characters are, what thatcharacter represents (“babyface” or “heel”),8

Image 1. High Spot

7 For example, there is always a ring, a referee, adeclared winner of each match, and the singing of thenational anthem. Also, pro wrestling is regulated by theState Athletic Commission, which “enforces the rules andregulations pertaining to the supervision and regulation ofboxing and wrestling” activities (NYSAC 2005).

8 Babyface (often shortened to “face”) is the good guy;the heel, of course, is the villain. Establishing what theyrepresent is done with a variety of symbols of the “per-sonal front,” such as flags, dress, speech etc. (Goffman1959).


and why there is something at stake in the par-ticular fight. As Roland Barthes observed,“everyone must not only see that the man suf-fers, but also and above all understand why hesuffers” (Barthes 1957:20; emphasis added).

Through the interaction with his oppo-nent, the “wounded storyteller” tells a dramat-ic story of vulnerability, triumph, or defeat(Frank 1995). Bodily movements and face-to-face contact narrate the “mythical violence”(Collins 2008), and most stories strive toevoke passionate feelings among audiencemembers through acts of injustice (or justice).“[M]otion and emotion are intimately linked,”and emotional display is immediate and unfil-tered (Elias and Dunning 1986:50).

Yelling, cheering, and verbal tauntsexchanged between the wrestlers and specta-tors all work to set the emotional mood, notunlike the manipulative atmosphere in PeggyThoits’ study of encounter groups—wheremusic, lights, and smoke “intensif[y] themood of the moment” (1996:91). There is typ-ically very little subtlety; indeed, pro wrestlinghas been described as carnivalesque “specta-cle” (Barthes 1957; Mazer 1998), “masculinemelodrama” (Jenkins 1997), a “land of maskand monstrosity” (Henricks 1974:178), and“non-ambiguous” (Mazer 1998). The show, asJeffrey Goldstein contends, makes violententertainment appealing: It contains “clues toits unreality” (the staging and setting); it por-trays an “engaging fantasy”; it is “exaggeratedand distorted”; it has a “predictable outcome”;and it usually “contains a just resolution”(1998:223). Despite the staging, this specta-cle, as Guy Debord suggests, is “the very heartof society’s real unreality .|.|. the spectacleepitomizes the prevailing model of social life”(Debord 1967:13). Henry Jenkins argues thatpro wrestling’s enactment is widely adoredbecause it allows male spectators to expressemotion overtly (1997).

Performers follow interactional rules sim-ilar to those governing magicians: make your“move” appear as real as possible—without itactually being real. Participants refer to thisillusion of realness as “kayfabe” (pronounced“ka--fa-b”). Wrestling with kayfabe requiresthree essential qualities: charisma, psycholo-gy, and physicality. Charisma refers to the

spirit and dramaturgical skills of the wrestlingcharacter, psychology describes the interactionwith the spectators, and physicality refers tothe kinesthetic moves and motions conductedwhile interacting with your “opponent.” Allthree skills require extensive facility withemotional management because the wrestler issimultaneously managing two separate inter-actions that have separate “feeling rules”9—the frontstage relationship with the audience,which attempts to evince passionate emotions(such as awe, fear, and anger), and the back-stage relationship with the fellow partner,which demands skilled coordination, control,trust, and empathy. Kayfabe is a derivative ofthe management of these two simultaneousinteractions. Wrestlers refer to such managingas “working.”

KAYFABE:EMOTION WORK IN THE BACKSTAGE

Performing with kayfabe means negotiat-ing a demanding—and often contradictory—emotional landscape in which the feeling rulesthat govern the backstage conflict with thosegoverning the frontstage. Most important isthat in order to create passionate indignation,adoration, and “expressive emotion work”(Hochschild 1979: 562) in the publicfrontstage relationship between wrestlers andfans, trust, protection, and empathy arerequired within the backstage relationshipsbetween the two performers working jointly.The frontstage fight is designed to appear asout of control—rage, mayhem, and destruc-tion running amok. Yet performers are (at leastideally) in complete control. Additionally,agony and the infliction of pain are enthusias-tically celebrated in the frontstage at the sametime that they are skillfully avoided in thebackstage. The following section describes theset of techniques which help wrestlers per-form emotional labor jointly.

Initially, before one learns to “work”jointly as partners, each participant must

9 Hochschild defines feeling rules as a set of “sociallyshared, albeit often latent (not thought about unlessprobed at) rules” (1979: 563) that create “guidelines forthe assessment of fits and misfits between feeling and sit-uation” (566).


adjust his orientation to his own emotions.10 Ingeneral, this initial, individual emotion workis governed by feeling rules associated withideals of “hegemonic masculinity” (Connell1987), such as stoicism, toughness, and inde-pendence. Like the rookies in a police acade-my, new wrestlers learn that behavior anddemeanor consist of the repression of emo-tional displays (Martin 1999:121).11

Even though violent performers might beconsidered to be naturally predisposed to han-dling a higher threshold of pain, a “natural”acceptance of pain did not in fact exist formost participants. Emotion work is utilized toassuage the initial transition, which is evidentwhen students first learn the most fundamen-tal pro wrestling move, a “bump.” A basicbump entails falling backwards onto the upperhalf of your back from a standing position inthe ring; no partner is needed to learn it. Awrestler who cannot adjust the deeplyingrained relationship to pain has no future inpro wrestling. Cuss, the lead trainer, explainedhow some students never get past the initialfear of hurting themselves: “A lot of time it’sjust fear. It’s not natural to fall backwards andexpect to be okay. Some people can get overthat, some can’t. If you can’t, you’re in thewrong business. We’ve had students that I’veactually told, ‘You’re not cut out for this.’”Therefore, the initial test is whether one canmanage his own emotions, in this case fear.Surely some new students start off with lessfear than others, but even for them, there is an“instinct you fight.” Damon, a wrestler withfive years of experience, gives an account ofthe “instinct” and the need to “psych oneselfup.”

If any wrestler tells you they feel fine, they’relying.|.|.|. There’s a certain instinct you fightwhen you learn to wrestle, because you’re throw-ing yourself at the ground on purpose. No onefalls down on purpose except pro wrestlers. Andso, it’s something you need to train your body notto react to. And it’s something you need to psychyourself up to do. It’s probably something youshouldn’t be doing.

This conditioning resembles that needed by aboxer, who must “harden oneself to pain, toget one’s organism used to taking blows: to gethit regularly and progressively adjust to it”(Wacquant 1992: 246). But it also represents acentral tenet of the crucial emotion work onthe self: the need to take an “active stance vis-à-vis feeling” (Hochschild 1979: 561).

As in the culture at large, being able tohandle a great amount of pain is a source ofpride (Nixon 1996; White, Young, McTeer1995; Young 1994). When a wrestler with lit-tle status expresses any vulnerability or pain,it is usually met with a veteran’s harsh dis-missal, such as, “You still bitchin’ about yourneck?” (Fieldnote 1/12/04). For wrestlers oflower status, admissions of distress are rhetor-ically sanctioned, which serves to silence anyfuture confessions of such feeling.

When a wrestler experiences pain in thebackstage, he is expected to work hard todeny, overcome, and control any response(Smith 2008). Cuss, who also heads the schooland is a veteran wrestler, recalled his failedattempt to control pain after his very firstinjury several years back.

I fractured two ribs. So I was out for like four orfive weeks. I had two fractured ribs, [but] youknow, you don’t know what happened, what it isat the time, and you don’t want to look like asissy. So, you know, you do more. Then it hap-pened, and I’m like, ‘Yeah, I’m okay, I’m okay’Then you get thrown around again, and I’m like‘Ah .|.|. maybe I’m not okay.’

Moments like this, where participants sup-press feelings of vulnerability, often occur, butthey are seldom articulated so starkly. In thisparticular instance, Cuss could no longer denythe pain and he had to speak up, but, of course,“failed acts of management still indicate whatideal formations guide the effort” (Hochschild1979: 561).

10 Hochschild explains the different ways that emotionwork can be done “by the self upon the self, by the selfupon others, and by others upon oneself ” (1979: 562).

11 Local emotional edicts can be at odds with largergoals, even when both are determined by the same lead-ers. Veterans’ insistence on backstage feeling rules thatstress independence, stoicism, and homophobia can hin-der the development as a performer because, for the pub-lic performances, bodily contact is mandatory, emotiveexpression is valued, and cooperation is a necessity. Thisreveals how the more immediate feeling rules—whatHochschild calls the “bottom side of ideology” (1979:566)—might sometimes be counterproductive to thebroader objective.


The primary bodily technique forwrestling with kayfabe is the development ofa loose and light body. When both performersare malleable, pliable, and relaxed, moving asa synchronized couple is easier. The adjust-ment to the pro wrestling praxis demandsemotion work because it is antithetical to theordinarily, hard body of an athlete. As MichaelMessner contends, if an athlete is to be suc-cessful, he must “develop a highly goal-oriented personality that encourages him toview his body as a tool, a machine, or even aweapon utilized to defeat an objectified oppo-nent” (1987:323). This traditional understand-ing must be deconstructed by new wrestlingparticipants. It proves to be counterintuitivefor new members since being hard and firm isvalued by men, especially athletes, in almostevery other context.

The need for a more flexible, malleable,and loose body is difficult to adjust to becauseit is not easy to remain calm during an “alarm”(Goffman 1971: 238), such as when someoneruns at you with an outstretched arm, or jumpson you from a height of five feet. Those whodevelop skills more quickly learn to releasetheir inhibitions and “submit.” Damon, aquick learner, referred to himself as a “meatpuppet”:

You get to be what I nicknamed a ‘meat pup-pet’.|.|. I was easy to put into submission moves.I went up light, I came down fine, no matter whatpeople did. So if somebody wanted to try and cre-ate a move or invent a move, or see if they coulddo something on someone my size, [they’d] dragme into the ring and see what happened.

Wrestlers are also encouraged to use“light touches,” soft grasps of the opponentthat help performers lead and/or manipulateeach other. This looseness enables your oppo-nent to move your body in the desired motionor direction. Bobby, a regular performer,explained a light touch when describingHammer, another wrestler with excellentskills.

[Hammer’s] a great worker. When I wrestled himat a practice, I wasn’t sure when to sell becausehe was so light. But if you look at him, he lookslike he’s wrenching and wrenching and wrench-ing, but he had me in an arm-lock and I didn’tfeel anything. That’s the kind of worker for the

WWE. They want you to be as light as you possi-bly can be.

This illustrates prototypical emotion work, aswell as distinguishes it from other traditionalgendered types (in which warm cheerfulnessis displayed). Hammer displays gritty tough-ness and bruising strength to the audiencewhen, in actuality, he is employing delicate,nuanced, and respectful “body labor” (Kang2003).

Hammer himself supported this essential,although rarely stated, guideline when askedabout his experience in the WWE. About the“touch,” he said:

With each other.|.|.because they’re on the roadfour or five days a week, they’re not going to killeach other. There’s a difference if I grab your armand flex my muscles and it looks like I’m squeez-ing you. It’s a trick. As opposed to doing this[yanks my arm forcefully behind my back]. Soyes, I would think ‘the touch,’as you put it, is cer-tainly more advanced .|.|. Without a doubt.

Hammer’s account reveals the importance ofthe light touch for playing a “trick” on theaudience as well as its function for maintain-ing good relations with other wrestlers.

TECHNIQUES OF JOINT EMOTION WORK

If you don’t take the time to establish that bond,like I’m the good guy, you’re the bad guy, I needyou to clap for me, I need you to make fun of himhere, we hate each other because why—[Then]why does the match matter? These are all thingsyou need to establish.

—Fishman, a wrestler of four years

In nearly every match, the script calls forwrestlers to implement an “emotional contraststrategy” (Rafaeli and Sutton 1991), whereone wrestler represents good, the other bad.12

The following set of skills are the primarytechniques that wrestlers use to jointly “work”the collaborative illusion:

12 Of the five strategies identified by Rafaeli andSutton, the wrestling performance most resembles the“simultaneous good cop, bad cop” strategy.


a) Sell your moves. When your opponenthandles your body, make a convincingfacial expression of sheer agony, pain,and distress. At the same time, makeloud grunts and groans to further con-vey the physical duress.

b) Sequence and build. To follow thelogic of the story, wrestlers mustunderstand the sequence of moves thatsensibly follow one another. To createdrama and maintain suspense, like anygood story, the fight must “makesense.” For example, if one performeris (supposedly) stronger than theother, this superiority must emergeafter an initial period of give and take.As Mickey, the veteran, says, “Likeyou can’t start the match with a doublearm flippin’ crazy DDT and then doan arm bar.13 Who wants to see that?You have to build.” Performers alsoneed to be cognizant of what hasalready occurred in the match. For

example, if someone has wrenched onhis opponent’s arm and (supposedly)inflicted harm, it would not makesense for the opponent to then imme-diately use this “damaged” arm withgreat ease or force.

c) Time your moves. Wrestlers oftenneed to relax and slow down toachieve proper timing. The followingexample from my fieldnotes demon-strates the use of “trained imagina-tion” (Hochschild 1983: 83)—wherecomprehension of the emotion neces-sary for the act is drawn from experi-ence—to help learn the sense of prop-er timing.

Dan and Pete were working each other. Cussgives some basic pointers about being a heel. Hesaid, ‘Remember, when you are the heel, think ofit like you are being paid by the hour.’ I am notsure what he means, so I ask Fishman for clarifi-cation. He says, ‘Take your time,’ as he raisesboth his arms up and slowly walks around whilegrinning, gesturing toward an imaginary crowd.He says, ‘You go slow and milk everything.’[Fieldnotes 10/10/04]

Image 2. Selling the Agony (Image taken by Mark Stehle)

13 The “DDT” is a move in which a wrestler falls downor backwards to drive a held opponent’s head into the mat.It stands for “Death Drop Technique” or “Demonic DeathTrap,” depending on whom you ask.


d) Avoid the harder, bony parts of thebody. Closed fists are usually avoidedbecause wrestlers want to make con-tact with the more fleshy parts of thebody. This softens the blows andmakes the noise from contact moreaudible.

e) Work the left side. Grab your oppo-nent’s left arm or leg so that he knowswhich limb you expect to grab andwhich of the two to give you.

f) Use proper footwork. Before execut-ing a move, a participant should movetowards the center of the ring so hisopponent will know where to find him(often not having the opportunity tosee clearly) and avoid getting tangledin the ropes.

g) Jump upwards. At the exact momentyour opponent needs to lift you in theair, jump up. Instead of straining tohoist a two hundred pound man in theair unaided, he lifts a much lighter per-son because the opponent is simulta-neously rising. When executed cor-rectly, the fans will not notice that onewrestler is assisting the other with theheavy lifting. If poorly timed, a

wrestler is obviously leaping upwardsonto the back of his opponent, andfans see that the two fighters are col-luding, thereby breaking the kayfabe.

Shared Understandings

Performers develop shared understand-ings of what to expect from each other in thering. These are conveyed in three main ways.First, opponents talk in the locker room beforethe match. The booker has already decidedwho will be “going over” (winning), but per-formers still need to know the general plan forthe match. The heel typically dictates the pro-ceedings with a discussion that varies in preci-sion depending on a variety of factors, such astheir familiarity with one another, the largerstoryline, and the desired excitement level. Onthe whole, performers establish a generalframework with a beginning, a “finishingmove,” and a few moves in the middle. Theframework helps wrestlers know that theyneed to be in certain positions at given times,but like a jazz performance, there is ampleroom for improvisation. As Mickey put it,“The heel normally calls the match, the pacingof the match. But it’s up to the baby face to

Image 3. Working the Left Side


know when to fire up and get the people intoit.”

The second way of conveying expecta-tions is brief directives during the match itself.Wrestlers use subtle whispers while perform-ing. When closely embraced in a corner of thering (or positioned in a “submission move” onthe mat), wrestlers exchange instructions thatare inaudible to the audience. The followingexcerpt from my fieldnotes illustrates this:

While we are all in the backroom watching thevideo of a previous night’s match, Danny relayedthe conversation he had had with his opponent inthe midst of setting up his “finishing move.” Onthe screen are two men embraced while standingseveral steps up a ten-foot metal ladder stationedin the corner of the ring. Danny recounted theconversation on the ladder. “He said, ‘Do youhave me?’ and I told him I had him. I said, ‘No,it’s alright.|.|.put your arm here’ .|.|. He neededto move his leg and I told him to move his leg.”(Fieldnotes 12/12/04)

The two performers then flew into the air anddid a flip while embracing (see Image 4).

They landed safely on the mat nearly tenfeet below and the crowd roared in apprecia-tion. This move, one of the most spectacular

and (apparently) painful of the match, demon-strates in crystallized form the importance ofjoint work in managing the emotions of theaudience. It provides insight into the back-stage emotion management (of anxiety, in thiscase), since these whispered interchanges areessential to avoiding the sort of slight mis-match of actions that could produce a seriousinjury in one or both wrestlers.

The third way is the ideal—performersuse their intuitive “sense” of each other.Opponent’s positions are anticipated withoutany audible information being shared. A forth-coming swing or kick is sensed by readingeach other’s “cognitive,” “bodily,” and“expressive” cues (Hochschild 1979). Likeprofessional dancers, this type of synchronici-ty can develop only with two wrestlers whoare well acquainted and have previouslyworked together in tandem. Hammer, a veter-an, explained this phenomenon:

You’re sitting up, for instance. I might say, ‘Juststay.’ And you don’t know what I’m doing, but Imight just—boom [stamps his foot]. I’ll do this,you come up again. And if you’re smart, you’lljust stay there [seated] because the people willbe popping. But you have to really have this

Image 4. Danny’s Finishing Move


[sense] with somebody, because what if—boom!He puts his knee up. ‘Oh, fuck!’ you know?

Because Hammer has confidence that hispartner will not lift his knee at the crucialmoment, he can execute a spectacular maneu-ver that makes the crowd “pop.” Such confi-dence allows the performers to seamlesslymove and coordinate with one another. In thiscase, the movements flow from their synergyand trust of each other.

IDEAL PERFORMANCES OF JOINT LABOR

As with all forms of work, workersimprove with experience; this is no differentwith pro wrestling emotion workers.Confirming the research of Erickson andRitter, veterans with higher status tend to havemore control over their emotional labor skills,which are smoother and (apparently) moreeffortless than the skills of novice wrestlers(2001:148).

In general, less experienced, (green)wrestlers progress from a performance heavi-ly reliant on physicality to a performancemore reliant on “charisma” and “psycholo-gy”—the dramaturgical skills and the interac-tion with the audience. New wrestlers arealways encouraged to master bumps, this fun-damental move is consistently emphasizedduring training because loud thuds add animportant audible dimension to the theatrical-ity. But physicality and bumps are not essen-tial for “drawing heat” and getting the crowd“fired up.” As Fishman states, “You need tostop, take your time and make things matter. Alot of times at that first match, you’re just try-ing [so hard] to show people how good you arephysically that you miss that whole other hugething that makes the match.”

Veterans learn to limit the number ofbumps in their performance. Cuss, a veteran,explained this acquired knowledge during aninterview.

Now, I realize that I don’t have to do as much.You know, you can kind of tell what the crowdwants. I don’t have to kill myself anymore to geta reaction. Back in ’99, I wrestled this guyalmost every week in some kind of three-waymatch or four guys, whatever. And, you know, Igo to the locker room after the match, and I was

always the smallest guy there. I’d hear him say, ‘Ionly bumped once.’And this other guy, he says, ‘Ididn’t bump at all.’The other guy, ‘I only bumpedonce.’ Meanwhile, I bumped twenty or thirtytimes. Oh my God, Jesus! Maybe I shouldn’t bedoing this. These guys are walking around likenothing, and I’m half dead.

Instead of repeatedly battering the bodyfor “pops,” performers learn to assist oneanother by selling their painful agony (to theaudience) with convincing expressions of puresuffering. The shared, implicit truth is thatconvincing portrayals of hatred, agony, anddomination matter as much, if not more, thanhard contact.14

Mickey, a veteran of eight years, explainshis “knack” for using joint emotion work toreduce drastically the hard physicality whilestill creating passionate emotions for the audi-ence.

I seem to have a knack, thankfully, of controllingpeople’s emotions, which a lot of guys don’t have.|.|. when you turn around, I poke you in the backof the head and poke you in the eye. Which isdesigned to make you [the fan] pissed off. ‘Nowwhy’d you do that? You didn’t need to do that!’And I beat up on your favorite [guy] for a littlewhile. I do the simplest things—the other nightwith Wayne I stood on his hand while talkingtrash to the crowd. And people were into it. So Isay, ‘Okay, why get away from that and take sev-eral falls on my back and run around when, if Istand on your hand, I’m going to get the kind ofreaction I want?’ Smart way of working.

Even though he describes it as doing “the sim-plest things,” it in fact involves significantskills in joint emotional labor: the opponent isin position, the gimmick makes sense in termsof the sequence and timing of the story, the

14 Being too light can also be a problem. But if the for-mat of the WWE production is an indication of properperformance techniques, we can infer that well-performedemotion work utilizes less physicality. The WWE formatbenefits from extensively crafted scripts taking place out-side the ring in hallways, interviews, and the locker room.Additionally, there are commentators who narrate thedrama and help tell the story. In fact, in two hours of pro-gramming, viewers likely see no more than thirty-sixminutes of in-ring physical wrestling; the rest is an “elab-orate, soap-opera-style story line detailing a host of feuds,rivalries, grudges, and byzantine subplots” (Rosellini1999:1).


partner is selling the agony, Mickey steps onhis opponent with only a light touch, and he istrash-talking to the crowd all at the same time.This illustrates the joint creation of indigna-tion.

This ability to work the crowd with titil-lating psychology becomes a source of prideamong the more experienced. The followingpassage describes exactly how a skilledwrestler might work jointly with an opponentto get a reaction from the crowd without rely-ing on more risky physical stunts.

Some guys feel.|.|.they have to do eighty flips toget a reaction from the people. But they don’tinteract with the people! It’s move, move, move,move, move. I’ll do moves, stop, and look atsomebody. The best people are kids and oldladies.|.|.you try to look for them. So you do amove and you do something right, and I’ll seeHammer creep out of the thing on the side—I’llstop and stare at him. And I’ll go and play to him.Maybe I’ll come back this way, and I’ll tell thelittle kid, ‘Let me know if he comes back and triesto get me!’ I’ll work, so I’ll say [to the opponent],‘Hey, give me a minute, then come get me.’ I’ll goup to Hammer, stop right in front of that kid.Then I’ll walk past him just a bit and as he’s com-ing from behind; the kid will say, ‘Mickey, he’scoming! he’s coming!’ Then the rest of the kidssay, ‘Mickey, he’s coming! He’s coming! And I’llgo ‘Ooh!’—turn around—and he’ll back off.

This passage illustrates the pride taken indoing savvy emotional labor. Mickey managesseveral simultaneous relationships and imple-ments (jointly with his partner), “deliberateprovocations” (Thoits 1996) for the sake ofthe fans. The outcome is a unique product ofjoint labor in which the wrestlers’ backstageinteraction with each other generates a height-ened suspense, largely unattainable from emo-tional labor done as an individual.

Not unlike veteran police detectives whocome to understand their interactions as“higher mental work” (Stenross and Kleinman1989), wrestlers take increasing pride in theseemotional skills as they progress. The man-agement of emotions becomes an importantresource that suggests that veteran memberswith higher status “influence and evaluate oth-ers in terms of their own standards of delicacyand poise.|.|..Theirs is the dominant culturalarbitrary of emotionality, defining the emo-

tional currency of social prestige” (Cahill1999:114).

LATENT EMPATHY

The high-risk performance is done withcare for the partner. Each performer, despitethe outward display of hatred and domination,is responsible for his opponent’s welfare. Thetwo main manifestations of empathy are pro-tection and trust. Rarely are these expectationsstated explicitly, but as with many of the mostrevealing moments of participant observationresearch, a disruption in the performance pro-vides a glimpse of the governing ideology(Goffman 1959).

One example is the following admonish-ment by Tyler (posted on the group’s Webmessage board) on the day after I witnessedhim sustain an injury during training.

I want to say thanks to those who called andemailed me about my injuries sustainedThursday night at the school. Doctors told me Ihave severe spinal and neck wear-’n’-tear for myage, and that it’s time to hang up the boots. It’snot something any wrestler wants to hear, but it’ssomething that time will decide. I will be out forthe next 2–3 weeks and hope that I will be ingood condition by the next show. I am gratefulbecause things could be much worse. With thatsaid I leave all of you with one thought: This is aserious business and we all MUST look out foreach other, and PROTECT each other. Accidentshappen yes, but if you are not comfortable takinga move, giving a move, and/or don’t know what amove is, you don’t have to take it, and youshouldn’t give it. I will be bored as hell these nextfew weeks SO SOMEBODY PLEASE BRING MESOME [wrestling video] TAPES!!!!!!

Instead of singling out Fishman, his partner inthe ring at the time he was injured, Tyler chan-nels his frustration into a strong edict thatstresses the collective need for protection.Tyler, who is age 28, took a couple of weeksoff, but he does not “hang up the boots” as hisdoctor recommended.

Another example of the protective dimen-sion of empathy work is the intense teamworkneeded when jumping, falling, and landing.These moves require a partner to catch or slowdown a flying body. Tony explained:


I did a diamond closeline to the outside, andVinny didn’t catch me. So I landed on my knee. Ifyou watch the tape you’ll see me limp. I get upand I limp because I’m like, ‘I have to catchTerror.’And once Terror did that, I just laid down.Oh, that was the worst pain! My girlfriend and Iwent home that night. She said in my sleep I wasmoaning and groaning. She said it was so badfor awhile she had to sleep on the floor.

Here the feeling of pain is actively suppressedon behalf of his opponent’s (and the entire per-formance’s) welfare. Despite the splittingpain, Tony must get in the proper position forthe next move. If he does not move into theproper position, his opponent would likelyhave suffered an injury far more severe than awrecked knee.

A corollary of the importance of protec-tion is the need for trust. Wrestlers must sus-pend any fear and entrust their body to theirin-ring opponent. Even among a self-selectedgroup of people who choose to become pro-fessional wrestlers, it is not “natural” to berelaxed when an opponent runs at you with hisarm outstretched, or when lying exposed as aman jumps down directly on (or next) to you.Suspending this instinct is a significant chal-

lenge for participants considering prowrestling’s danger. Hammer explains hisreliance on trust in the following statement.

You’re allowing me to put my hand behind yourhead. You’re allowing me to hold your arm—which can easily be turned into a very compro-mising position. There’s a difference betweenholding your arm like this, and holding your armlike that. It’s very simple. And a lot of these guysknow I can take the boney part of my arm [anddrill it] into your shoulders, into your rotatorcuff, into your elbows, underneath your neck.

This account demonstrates how prowrestling’s elaborate coordination is embed-ded within a relationship of mutual trust(Smith 2006). To remain a participating per-former, one must learn to rely on the precisionof the opponent’s movements. In essence,wrestlers develop and depend on feelings oftrust in order to maintain a surface act of pas-sionate anger, agony and subordination. AsCuss states:

When it comes to the big move and he picks youup over his head, if he’s blown up and can’tbreathe, he drops you. You’re at risk for beinginjured. He’s out of shape. And people won’t trustyou .|.|. [Essentially], well, you aren’t going to

Image 5. Positioning to Break the Fall of an Opponent (Image taken by Mark Stehle)


lie to me. I’m saying, ‘I trust you, I’m going togive you my body. You’re going to take care ofme.’

These words illustrate the implicit faith thatperformers must have in one another. Theimminent danger and risk of pro wrestling ismanaged with a backstage understanding thateach wrestler will safeguard his opponentthroughout the routine.

Occasionally, this reciprocal empathybreaks down. Mickey, the main booker andveteran wrestler, explained why he stoppedputting himself in a position where he had totrust his opponent.

I stopped doing crazy things. If I’m doing reallycrazy things, everything I do I make sure I cancontrol myself, or if something does go down it’smy fault. I’m not trusting somebody else, youknow. Like Warrior, it’s not that I didn’t trustWarrior, but I don’t want to take a chance of an‘oops’ happening. If an ‘oops’ happened, I did it

to myself. So I don’t put myself in posi-tions where I depend on someone else.

At the time of our interview, Mickeyno longer performed with “extreme”moves that involved flips, ladders,and pile drivers. Few wrestlers, how-ever, are in a position with enoughstatus or seniority to choose to mini-mize such risk. Wrestlers must fol-low the booker and/or promoter’splans if they want to be booked infuture shows. So, rarely does anyoneother than a senior performer (whoalso dictates storylines) have theopportunity to reduce risk in thismanner (Howe 2004: 184).Nevertheless, this exception furtherdemonstrates the (often implicit)negotiation that members mustalways operate within: follow therules of mutual trust and protectionor you will not remain a pro wrestler.

DISRUPTIONS: WHEN THE PASSIONWORK BREAKS DOWN

From time to time, the coordinatedlabor between performers breaks

down. Breakdowns are rare, but theyare exceptions that prove the rule and allow usto refine the limits of passion work. A disrup-tion typically occurs for one of three reasons:a) a performer’s labor is not well executedand/or signals are misread; b) a wrestler feelsdisrespected to such an extent that the collab-oration is called into question (often becausehe feels his opponent did not help to “sell” hismoves); or c) there is a perceived threat to thegroup’s hierarchy, and coordination isreplaced with true antagonism.

The most common reason for a disruptionis when someone’s work is not well enoughexecuted, causing signals to be misread. Propssuch as bats, chairs, ladders, barbed wire, andbroomsticks are often involved in these inci-dents. Such gimmicks raise the stakes by pro-viding a more spectacular violence as well asa greater risk of injury and mistakes. Take, forexample, Bobby’s explanation of a broomstickgimmick gone awry:

Image 6. Lifting the Opponent (Image taken by Mark Stehle)


I told him I had a broom under the ring. I hadsawed it down about half way, thinking, ‘Oh thisthing is going to break real easy,’.|.|.but I pulledhim over the apron and instead of just hitting himin that one area [of the broom], I hit him with thewhole broom and all you heard was Smack! AndI looked down and the broom didn’t break! I waslike ‘Oh, shit.’ So I took the broom and broke itover my knee. It was broken, it just didn’t break.It was at the maximum breaking point. So I musthave looked like a He-man. I whacked him withthis broomstick as hard as I could and it didn’tbreak, then I broke it over my own knee. But fromthe top of his shoulder here, diagonally downacross his back, it looked like he was caned. I feltbad about that.

Bobby is lucky in this instance because whilethe passionate hatred and agony are conveyedto the audience (and certainly felt by the per-former), no one suffered a serious injury.

As Bobby’s account shows, he appears tothe spectators as a powerful “he-man” imper-vious to emotion, even though he actually“feels bad” at this moment. He thus exhibits aform of “emotional dissonance” (Hochschild1983: 90) where he feels guilt and sympathybut displays anger and stoicism—one of manyinstances where we see the inverse of proto-

typical emotion work. Instead of an errorcausing feelings of “agitation” (Erickson andRitter 2001) and frustration (veiled by a dis-play of ease and nonchalance), we see an errorcausing concern (veiled with anger andintent). Pro wrestling work presents manyanalogous moments where emotions of rageand anger are displayed when in fact sympathyand concern are felt.

The second form of disruption occurswhen the opponent is “big timed,” whichmeans a wrestler is too pompous to sell hisown moves for his opponent. Big timing dis-respects an opponent because his moves donot appear to have caused any pain or harm; itis deemed a breach in respect for your oppo-nent. Tony describes the arrogant attitude thisway: “Yeah, like I’m too big to bump for you,too good to sell for you. I’m somebody, you’renobody. Why am I going to put you over atall?”15

The third type of disruption is a “shoot.”In any match, either in the preparatory trainingor performance space, there is the possibility

Image 7. Metal Chair Prop (Image taken by Mark Stehle)

15 “Put you over” means to help your partner win thematch by losing.


of a shoot: a true fight where the implicitcoordination is suspended and painful “stiffs”are exchanged. One type of shoot is premedi-tated (from before the match begins); the otherbegins when someone accidentally stiffs anopponent too many times during the match,triggering an exchange of stiffs.16

An accidental stiff that triggers an escalat-ed exchange “happens all the time” because itis so easy to unintentionally stiff an opponent.Since the two partners are simulating a realfight with each other, performers comeextremely close to drilling an opponent’scheek, or choking their neck. As Slaughterstates, “Sometimes you accidentally stiffsomeone. Sometimes you just can’t help it.”

For a seasoned wrestler, the standardresponse in such accidental instances is tosend a firm shot back, known as a “receipt.”Below is an excerpt from my interview withMickey.

M: It happens all the time. [If] the mistake hap-pens repeatedly, you receipt the guy, give it backto him.

T: Doesn’t that escalate?

M.: A lot of guys get it. ‘Oooh, sorry.’ [But] Imean, you only say you’re sorry so many timesbefore a guy’s like, ‘Look, dude, you’re killing mehere.’ Then you give it back to him. [Some guys]will work as stiff as they can until you give itback to them. See how far they can push you. Seeif you’re a pansy or not.

T: So you get respect from pushing back?

M: [Yeah] otherwise they’ll just walk all overyou. Like the first time I worked with Gary. Hewas killing me with his kicks. He hit me right inthe back of the hamstrings, and I punched him

right in the face. And everything was fine afterthat.

Thus, receipts are not verbalized, but rather,negotiated with one’s body; the “duration,”“degree,” placement (or “direction”), and tim-ing of bodily contact conveys intent(Hochschild 1979:564). The exchange is pre-carious because a receipt is acceptable as anassertion of self-respect, but if it is understoodas unwarranted retaliation, it is disrespectfulto the higher status wrestler. Risk is height-ened by the fact that at public shows the crowdis cheering, adrenaline is flowing, andwrestlers draw on “emotional memory,” wherecharacter and self are often blurred(Stanislavsky 1967).

Disruptions can cause the match to lack acertain degree of kayfabe, potentially destroythe show’s storyline, and cause an injury. Anywrestler who repeatedly disrespects the rulesand causes disruptions is pressured to leavethe organization. However, these breakdownsin the joint labor are all typically backstage,for disruptions are usually invisible to thespectators. In the frontstage—not withstand-ing the big-time type of disruption—the spec-tators are still likely to witness the infliction ofsuffering, hatred, and physical confronta-tion—just as they would if the performerswere enacting it instead of (in these disruptedmoments) truly experiencing it.

CONCLUSION

This ethnographic study of pro wrestlinganalyzes the use of emotional labor to reenacta wild brawl between two performers. Insteadof strictly focusing on the overtly emotionalexchange with the audience, an exchange thatdefines the overall performance, this examina-tion analyzes the wrestlers’ more obscurebackstage emotion teamwork that takes placewithin the self and with other performers. Thestudy traces how performers do emotionteamwork with other performers, and thesocial consequences of such work. This analy-sis makes visible the joint emotion work thatundergirds passion work performances.

Prototypical emotional labor strives toinduce a state of comfort among clients, suchas workers serving customers with a smile.

16 Premeditated, intentional shoots are typically con-ducted to maintain respect for the group’s hierarchy. Aparticipant who is “not liked,” or someone who is getting“too big-headed” often has no warning—and it is not untilhe is in the ring that he finds out what he is in for. Theyare frightening because the taken-for-granted “feelingrules” (i.e.: “loose,” “relaxed” protocol) have been aban-doned by one member, thereby making the wrestler virtu-ally defenseless. Anticipating a softer, looser grip or con-tact—when instead, a firm arm is thrust—creates extremevulnerability because one cannot tense up and/or flinch inpreparation for the strike.


Professional wrestling, on the other hand, pre-sents a case of performers serving customerswith sneers, snarls, and scowls. Instead ofinducing a comfortable, relaxed emotionalstate, performers work to achieve a state ofagitation, indignation, and contempt in others.Performers do this jointly by using whatRafaeli and Sutton call an “emotional contraststrategy” (1991), where participants evokestrong positive feelings from the audiencelargely by engineering powerful negative feel-ings toward their seemingly dastardly partner.While this corroborates research that findsthat men excel at emotional labor calling forthe suppression of positive emotional displaysand the presentation of negative emotions(Erickson and Ritter 2001:148), it alsodemonstrates how such joint performanceallows for the sort of emotional breadth that isdifficult to achieve in solo emotional work.

The case of independent professionalwrestling also reveals the rewards of emotion-al labor. Emotion work is often analyzed ashaving negative mental health outcomes, par-ticularly as a threat to one’s sense of authenticselfhood (Erickson and Ritter 2001:148). Thefindings of this study suggest a contraryeffect. Participants’ intimate, physical emotionwork with each other within a high-risk, dan-gerous, recreational setting generates a mean-ingful product—a product that is neither tan-gible nor financial, but social. Rather thanexperiencing this passion work as harmful oralienating—as with most emotional labor—this joint emotional labor, because of its inher-ent empathy built upon mutual trust and pro-tection, is routinely connective, intimate, anda means for solidarity. At the same time, itdemonstrates a dynamic in which thefrontstage performance of violence provides aveil for the expression of empathy betweentwo men who would, in all likelihood, nototherwise share it.

While the case of passion work amongprofessional wrestling performers is unique,the principles of these social dynamics arenot. Passion work operates in most instancesof stage or ritualized violence that are orga-nized around audience appreciation. Two stageactors on Broadway acting out a passionatedisplay of vengeance do similar surface acts of

hostility, while simultaneously coordinatingtechnically precise movements which place aparticular premium on cooperation and trust.Therefore, a range of physical performances,not necessarily those set on stage, deploy acertain degree of collaborative passion workin which workers deploy surface feelings thatevoke uncertainty, suspicion, anger, and fear,while simultaneously drawing on “deep feel-ings” of protection, care, respect, and trust foreach other. These include stunt men, magi-cians, (e.g., knife throwers), figure skaters,circus performers, dancers (e.g., break-dancers), and street performers.

Indeed, a version of joint passion workoperates in several less physical contexts aswell. Two police detectives interrogating asuspect, two lovers being publicly affection-ate, and two con artists snowing a subject witha confidence trick, all enact a form of jointpassion work. These actors collaborativelywork to induce a particular feeling from theirsubject, and for the overall interaction to suc-ceed, they must rely on skilled coordination,respect, and a measure of empathy for theirpartner.

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