The high-flying moves, big falls, and cartoonish storylines of pro wrestling often overshadow the stark reality faced by its performers regarding labor rights and unionization. Nevertheless, the discussion about unionizing within wrestling — and extending to other combat sports like boxing and MMA — resurfaces periodically, often triggered by high-profile departures or disputes.
Take the case of current WWE superstar Zelina Vega, whose real name is Thea Trinidad. Her 2020 release reignited discussions on unionization after she expressed opposition to WWE "requiring talents to acquiesce control" of their accounts on third-party platforms. I messaged her after that unkind cut and we briefly discussed the possibility of talking about this on the podcast I co-hosted. Nothing came of it, and when she re-signed in 2021, I was — understandably! — blocked on all her socials.
Trinidad's story is a common thread in the fabric of wrestling's labor issues. Wrestlers, classified as independent contractors rather than employees, nevertheless find themselves under the restrictive control of promotions that dictate not only their in-ring personas but also their ability to generate revenue through platforms like Twitch and OnlyFans. But there are only a handful of buyers for their in-ring talents, so whenever the biggest player in the game is offering decent pay for the work of falling down, it’s understandable that these folks will step over each other to seize that do re mi.
Historical attempts at unionization in wrestling have been sporadic and largely unsuccessful. Jim Wilson's efforts in the 1970s are particularly notable. Alongside the idiosyncratic African American wrestler Thunderbolt Patterson, Wilson tried to organize wrestlers in Atlanta, but the NWA cartel ensured that their efforts dissipated without achieving significant traction.1 This lack of success underscores the challenges of organizing in a field where the worker pool is both small and geographically dispersed.
The scripting of wrestling, which dates back to the early 20th century and perhaps even slightly earlier, further complicates unionization efforts. Figures like Joe Stecher and Srangler Lewis laid the groundwork for what would become a meticulously controlled sport, where promoters wielded significant power over wrestlers' careers. This control was evident in the 1980s when Jesse Ventura, leveraging his charisma and understanding of the industry, attempted to rally wrestlers around unionization. However, his efforts were undermined when Hulk Hogan reportedly informed WWE management about the union talks, leading to Ventura's isolation.
Into the modern era, the plight of wrestlers remains largely unchanged. Even ventures like Jesse Ventura's, which seemed promising due to his understanding of both the sport's inner workings and broader labor movements, faltered amid the industry's entrenched power dynamics. Ventura's case is particularly poignant; despite his sharp wit and instinct for winning lawsuits, he could not shift the tides in favor of labor.
The scenario isn't much better in MMA, where the UFC dominates and a handful of other players pick up the scraps. Fighters here, too, are mostly classified as independent contractors, with little leverage to negotiate better terms. The situation is somewhat mirrored in boxing, although the absolute top-of-the-pops boxers often can outearn mixed martial artists by 10x or more.
This ongoing saga occasionally sees new figurehead champions of the cause, like David Starr, an indie wrestler who also couldn't make significant headway toward unionization before his career was derailed by controversies during the #SpeakingOut movement. Starr’s efforts, while good at getting him some press in spite of middling in-ring talent, highlight the transient nature of support for such movements within the industry.
In essence, the story of unionization in wrestling, boxing, and MMA is one of fragmented efforts and powerful opposition. Figures like Jim Wilson, Jesse Ventura, and David Starr all briefly served as would-be leaders of a movement that will always struggle to gain momentum and unity. As it stands, the wrestling world remains a tough environment for unionization efforts, largely due to the overpowering influence of a few key promoters (who pick the winners) and the inherently individualistic nature of the performers (who need to fall in line, lest other people get hired to do their jobs).
Epilogue: The Rise and Fall of David Starr
In the carny world of wrestling, where every move is choreographed but the pain can be all too real, lanky indie grappler David Starr stood out — not just as a combatant in the squared circle, but as the would-be mouthpiece for a revolution that never came to pass. He pitched himself as the underdog's champion, a grappler gunning for a new order in the wrestling world, where socialism would replace suppression, and unionization would knock out exploitation.
Starr talked a big game, see. He was slick, a smooth talker with a baritone that could sell sand in the desert. He spun tales of wrestler woes and capitalist crooks with a fervor that could convert the cynics. The spotlight loved him, and for a while, he loved it right back. His voice echoed in the halls of VICE, which painted him as a modern-day Robin Hood in spandex, ready to lead the downtrodden wrestlers out of the wilderness of gig contracts and into the promised land of fair wages, pensions, and health benefits.
But here's the rub — behind the charisma and the calls for change, another story was writing itself, one that would turn the hero's tale sour. When the #SpeakingOut movement swept through the wrestling world like a hurricane, it dragged Starr's darker deeds into the glaring light of the public eye.2 Accusations flew faster than a haymaker in the ring, painting Starr not as the champion of the people, but as another carny scumbag,3 playing the crowd for fools while playing dirty away from the cameras.
The fallout was swift and savage. Promotions cut ties quicker than a crooked referee's three-count, leaving Starr isolated, a pariah in the very world he was claiming he wanted to save. His fall from grace could’ve been a noir classic in the grand style of Night and the City — a grifter who flew too close to the sun on wings of hubris and hypocrisy, only to plummet back to the hard reality below.4
Starr's saga is a cautionary tale, a stark reminder that in the fight for justice, the messenger's mettle matters as much as his message. It's a grim narrative about the peril of placing heroes on pedestals in a world where the shadows loom large and every light, even one as dim as Starr’s, casts a dark corner. In the murky depths of wrestling, where every story has its twists and every character has their flaws, the fall of Starr reminds us that many of the clout-chasing people purporting to “do the work” are actually working us.
Read “Big” Jim Wilson’s full story here.
You couldn’t work from the left with accusations like that hanging over your head, especially not in 2020. If I were Starr — and I’m glad I’m not — I would’ve leaned into the story and gone far right, as left-to-right crossovers following cancellations peaked that year and playing a woman-hating MGTOW/manosphere figure might draw some cheap heat.
Many such cases!
I mean, the guy was an indie wrestler getting write-ups in VICE. This wasn’t Gary Hart engaging in “Monkey Business.”
I won't hold my breath for unionization of professional wrestling (or any industry, for that matter). I've been reading a bit about labor history lately, and these tactics employed against Ventura's efforts and Starr's are tried and true. The bosses didn't even have to resort to violence. My maternal grandfather, a union rep. for IUEW's Local No. 905 in Indiana, took a knife to the gut by a company thug! That sort of thing used to be a lot more common, evidently.
Spot on in your analysis on Starr. If you want to change things you have to be a boy scout. The allegations are serious but had it been discovered that he stole candy bars as a kid it still would've hurt his cause.