Though modern mainstream pro wrestling has seemingly evolved beyond the extreme substance misuse, endlessly grueling travel schedules, and excessive brain trauma that contributed to the deaths of innumerable wrestlers in past generations, it certainly feels like in-ring risk-taking has only increased.

As fans, we tacitly endorse what we're witnessing in the ring by attending events, buying PPVs, and cheering for our favorite performers. Often, the thrill of the sport results from the blurry line between dangerous and safe performances.

I'm fascinated by this contradiction. Should we feel responsible for increased risk-taking? Should the responsibility for setting safety standards fall to the wrestlers? Can they be trusted to set these boundaries, or should management intervene to save workers from themselves?

Spring Forth, Burly Protector 

I spoke with several pro wrestlers and promoters on this topic, who mostly seemed to agree that wrestler safety was a multifaceted issue that largely depends on the type and size of the event.

Large-scale, mainstream wrestling companies employ agents and producers to provide a layer of accountability when planning matches, both for continuity and safety purposes. These teams of professionals seem to be the logical place to direct responsibility if something goes wrong in the ring. 

Issues related to risk-taking apply on the micro and macro levels — individual risks require the workers to take care and ensure the safety of everyone involved, but management should also steer the direction of the company over time to protect its workers and avoid a culture of egregiously risky stunts.

Independent wrestling shows, on the other hand, are often threadbare operations, in which management pulls double, triple, and quadruple duty by ripping tickets, selling concessions, announcing wrestlers to the ring, and providing commentary, on top of their booking and organization duties. 

Still, independent promoters and management should always aim to mitigate negative outcomes in the ring, including by tamping down wrestlers' riskiest ideas. If you have taken the steps to organize a show, you have an obligation to ensure the safety of the workers and fans.

A Crisis of Safety Policing

On July 4, 2019, I attended Game Changer Wrestling's "Backyard Wrestling" event. Though maybe most notable for Alex Zayne springboarding his career with a picture-perfect 630 Senton onto Tony Deppen, I have a more personal memory of experiencing an internal crisis of Safety Policing.

During the main event of G-Raver vs. Jimmy Lloyd, the GCW ring crew began building a tiered structure next to an adjacent garage for one or both of them to fall through. I’d estimate that it was about an 18-20 foot drop.

At that moment, we were still Before Bump. Theoretically, the wrestlers could be stopped from going through with the spot, thereby avoiding the risk. Of course, I wasn't about to intervene — I was simply overcome with the paralysis of that liminal space. We were still Before Bump.

At this point in the show, most of the wrestlers were in the crowd, mingling with fans and enjoying themselves. I approach one of them and explain how I'm grappling with the fact that we were currently Before Bump. He simply replied:

"Hey man. They're two consenting adults."

The spot went as planned, best as I can tell, with G-Raver cascading from the top of the garage through several tiers of plywood and kinda-sorta hitting a mattress at the bottom.  

Still, if you saw something, you'd say something, right?

On June 21, 2008, a friend attended IWA Mid-South's Queen of the Deathmatches event. Though maybe most notable for its unplanned, unsimulated, and unacceptably harrowing beatdown of Mike Levy (guilty of the crime of …being annoying online?), my friend left with a more personal memory after experiencing a crisis of Safety Policing.

During the tournament finals, a Fans Bring the Weapons match between Mickie Knuckles and Rebecca Payne, my friend spotted a spiked 2x4 lying in the ring and noticed that its spikes were a bit too far apart, creating the potential for significant harm. 

He stood up, approached the ring, and slid the weapon out of harm's way. Moments later, Mickie applied an Electric Chair Slam, causing the back of Rebecca's head to land where the spiked plank had sat moments prior.

Though sparsely attended deathmatch shows and stadium-filling PPVs may not make for the best comparison, they both represent the sport of professional wrestling. Workers and fans still deserve protection, regardless of the level or type of wrestling event.

Don't Tell Mike Tyson How To Box

The wrestlers and promoters I spoke with did not indicate that they felt fans should feel at all responsible for risks taken in the ring, with some referring to the idea that the viewer often lacks sufficient knowledge about performing wrestling to identify what could be deemed "safe" or "unsafe." 

In our conversations, some wrestlers suggested that professional wrestling, like other sports, is inherently composed of violent acts, and if it were made to be sufficiently "safe," it would cease to exist as we know it. Pain is an accepted part of the performance, and wrestlers know what they've gotten themselves into — within reason, of course.

Plenty of deathmatch workers have walked away from bloody brawls without any long-term damage, while the "safest" wrestlers have also become injured performing basic moves, after all. The magic of pro wrestling often lies in the illusion that the most dangerous-looking maneuvers do not cause the significant harm they appear to.

In the exhilarating finishing sequence of the July 2023 Forbidden Door match between Kenny Omega and Will Ospreay, Will connected with a Tiger Driver '91, dropping Kenny directly on his neck. Following much discourse, Omega responded in Sports Illustrated, saying:

"Don't tell me not to wrestle the way I know how to wrestle [...] Is there a risk? Was there a risk when Mike Tyson was fighting within inches of space between another championship-level boxer throwing power punches? Of course. But Tyson was confident in his abilities, and he knew he was the best. So don't tell Mike Tyson how to box, and don't tell [Kenny Omega] how to wrestle. You aren't even close to being qualified. Just shut the fuck up."

Bad-faith critics weaponize Safety Policing by complaining about wrestlers, matches, and promotions that they otherwise have no earnest interest in. They use concern trolling to label companies as "dangerous" or "unprofessional," effectively propagandizing for a specific type of "safer" wrestling. Kenny continued, responding to these critics:

"There are a lot of people criticizing who do not have my best interests at heart. They just want to put a dark mark on that match, which is a performance I'm extremely proud of." 

I trust Kenny, a world-class performer who appears to know his limits. Still, as a viewer, the fear can crop up when a wrestler's ambitions outweigh their ability to recognize their limits.

I'm So Grateful To Be Alive 

I'll likely continue to struggle with the fear of something going catastrophically wrong in professional wrestling, and I've come to terms with the fact that the thrill, as a viewer, often comes from this latent fear. I aim to trust the top wrestlers in the world to protect themselves. I hope that management at every level of wrestling knows how and when to set limits for their performers when necessary.

Like Omega, deathmatch wrestler Jun Kasai is a top-level performer in his field. He detailed the importance of safety for himself, his opponents, and viewers in a 2022 interview with Project DEATH, later translated into English by blogger Thistle:

"It seems to me that deathmatch wrestling is simultaneously a way for wrestlers to feel truly alive, and a way for those who watch it to feel more positively about living. [...] If you get in a ring where you might die or get seriously injured, and you do die, or you do get seriously injured, you're no different than a rank amateur, right? But a guy who dives into a deadly, dangerous situation and returns from that ring unharmed, he's the absolute greatest.

In a life-or-death battle in a deathmatch ring, after you step down from that ring, that's exactly what you feel. 'Ahh, I'm alive. I'm so grateful to be alive.'"

Photo credit: Yuji Ozawa

Matt Whittle is a freelance editor and writer who has covered subjects such as education, healthcare, and wine. He also records music under the name Seagulls.