Everyone wants to call wrestling 'the business.' Why don't you

Host: The morning light cut through the cracked blinds of an old gym on the edge of the city — that kind of place where the floor smells like sweat, iron, and dreams that never quite made it to TV. Dust hung in the air, illuminated like smoke. The faint thud of a distant punching bag echoed between walls lined with faded posters of long-forgotten wrestling heroes.

Jack sat on a bench, wrapping tape around his calloused hands, each pull deliberate, each movement carrying the weight of someone who’d been around too long to still believe in glory. Across from him, Jeeny adjusted the lens on a small camera, prepping to film an interview that probably no one would ever see.

The world outside was moving on. Inside, time stood still — as if the ghosts of every match still lingered, whispering old chants of victory and loss.

Jeeny: reading from her notes softly “Kevin Nash once said, ‘Everyone wants to call wrestling “the business.” Why don’t you treat it like a business? I don’t care if you’re running a diner, a car wash, or a wrestling company. It’s all business.’”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted slightly, the faintest smirk curling his lips.

Jack: “He’s right. Always was. You treat it like a business, you survive. You treat it like art, it eats you alive.”

Jeeny: “So there’s no room for love in what you do?”

Jack: chuckles “Love’s what gets you in the door. Business is what keeps you from sleeping in your car later.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical.”

Jack: “That’s experience.”

Host: The gym lights flickered overhead, humming like an old neon sign that had seen too many nights. The sound of a distant ring bell echoed, faint but haunting, as if time itself was replaying a memory.

Jeeny: “But wasn’t wrestling always about storytelling? About connection? The show, the emotion — the human side of it?”

Jack: “Yeah, that’s what the fans buy. The illusion. But behind the curtain? It’s contracts, politics, paychecks. Same as any hustle. You think Kevin Nash didn’t know that? He made a career reminding everyone that heroes still need to get paid.”

Jeeny: “So it’s just about the money?”

Jack: leans forward, voice low “No. It’s about respect. Money just measures it.”

Host: Jeeny lowered her camera, intrigued now — not by the story she was supposed to capture, but by the truth bleeding through his tone.

Jeeny: “You make it sound cold. Like success costs warmth.”

Jack: “It does. Every time someone claps for you, someone else wants your spot. The ring’s a circle for a reason — you rise, you fall, you come back around. And if you don’t treat it like business, someone else will — and they’ll sell your passion for parts.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the tragedy? That something born from love turns into a ledger?”

Jack: “That’s not tragedy. That’s survival.”

Host: A long pause filled the room. The faint buzzing of the overhead lights was the only sound between them.

Jeeny: “You ever miss it? The part before the business — when it was just a dream?”

Jack: stares at his taped hands “Every damn day. But dreams don’t pay hospital bills. You learn that after your first surgery.”

Jeeny: softly “Then what keeps you going?”

Jack: “Habit. Pride. Maybe stupidity.” He smirks. “Same thing, really.”

Host: He stood, stretching his shoulders, the sound of old joints cracking like firewood.

Jeeny watched him, her expression softening.

Jeeny: “You know, Kevin Nash didn’t mean to kill the art. He meant to protect it — by making it sustainable.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, tell that to the kid who still thinks he’s climbing into the ring for honor. He’ll find out the truth soon enough.”

Jeeny: “What truth?”

Jack: “That every story has a price tag.”

Host: The door creaked open. A faint breeze slipped in, carrying the distant smell of street food and asphalt. The world outside was alive — commerce, chaos, the everyday grind — and it felt almost poetic in contrast to the hollow quiet of the gym.

Jeeny: “Maybe business isn’t the enemy of art. Maybe it’s the frame that keeps it from falling apart.”

Jack: looks at her, half amused, half tired “You sound like someone who’s never had to choose between art and rent.”

Jeeny: “I sound like someone who still believes they don’t have to.”

Host: Her words lingered, gentle but defiant, like the last echo of a bell in an empty ring.

Jack: “That’s cute, Jeeny. But you’ll learn. Every passion eventually becomes paperwork.”

Jeeny: “Only if you let it.”

Host: Jack laughed, not mockingly — more like a man who recognized a ghost of his younger self in her voice.

Jack: “You sound like me when I was twenty-two. I used to say things like that before I signed my first contract. Thought I was gonna change the system. Thought heart was enough.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it still can be. Systems break. People endure.”

Jack: “No. People adapt. That’s how we survive.”

Jeeny: “And survival’s enough for you?”

Jack: quietly “These days, yeah.”

Host: The camera light blinked red — recording again — though neither of them noticed.

Jeeny: “You know, Nash wasn’t just talking about wrestling. He was talking about life. Every diner, every car wash, every dream — it’s all business, like he said. But what he didn’t say is that business only works if you remember who you’re serving.”

Jack: “And who’s that?”

Jeeny: smiles faintly “People. The ones watching. The ones paying. The ones who believe in what you’re doing.”

Jack: “And what if you stop believing in it yourself?”

Jeeny: “Then you find a reason to again. Or you walk away before you turn into what you hate.”

Host: The clock ticked loudly above them, its second hand jerking forward like the rhythm of a tired heartbeat.

Jack: “You really think it’s possible — to do what you love and treat it like business without killing it?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. If you do it with honesty. Business isn’t greed, Jack. It’s structure. It’s boundaries. It’s the promise that your passion won’t burn out before you do.”

Jack: nods slowly “Maybe Nash was right, then. Maybe professionalism’s just passion with a plan.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The light outside shifted — morning settling in, dust motes turning gold.

Jack reached for his duffel bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

Jack: “You know something, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “Maybe the real art is learning to sell your soul — without losing it.”

Jeeny: smiles “Then maybe that’s the match that never ends.”

Host: The door swung shut behind them as they stepped out into the waking city. The faint hum of traffic rose, a chorus of engines and ambition.

The gym stood silent again, empty but not lifeless — still carrying the echoes of every deal, every dream, every fight.

And somewhere, in that silence, Nash’s words seemed to hum like an old mantra carved into the air:

Treat it like a business — or watch it die like a dream.

Because in the end, the difference between both
isn’t profit.
It’s purpose.