Why WWE F*cked The Revival Last Night
The Bálor Club looked less like peers, more like fans indulging in a spot of hero worship. They fared considerably better than the Revival tandem of Scott Dawson and Dash Wilder, who spent the resulting two minute, one second impromptu match flailing about like a**holes. “Is this it?” said Jerry Lawler, in one of several telling calls, as Luke Gallows and Karl Anderson delivered the Magic Killer. Incidentally, that name will never seem more on-the-nose as it did last night. In the aftermath, Scott Dawson squared up to the Kliq - and this was the Kliq, not DX, make no mistake - before Razor struck him with his toothpick. X-Pac dropped Dawson with the X-Factor. Road Dogg hit him with some of that Shake, Rattle and Roll - before Gunn flattened him with the Famouser.
The Superkick and Pedigree completed the full six-foot underground burial - and that’s what it was. It doesn’t matter that Dawson and Wilder were mere collateral victims, or are more well-liked and more promising than the Ascension or Damien Sandow. If you remove the NXT prestige - and WWE effectively did, in the span of a five minute cameo - Dawson and Wilder are two injury-prone, colourless guys devoid of momentum or credibility. This time last year, they were the greatest doubles act on the planet, fusing old school artifice with the evolved athletic art of modern pro wrestling.
It’s a strange angle to gauge; usually, only those broadly comedic in depiction or limited in ability are lumbered with this treatment. People were flummoxed by that Ascension angle, more than they were saddened by it. This was the Revival in there. A castration of this magnitude was unprecedented.
What were they thinking? Why did WWE f*ck the Revival?
Ultimately, WWE f*cked The Revival because a few pitiful egomaniacs fancied playing around with their buddies. That is it. It was destructive, and it was senseless - but Triple H and Road Dogg may not have seen it that way. Perhaps their egos have swollen to such an extent that they genuinely believed this represented a “rub”. The Revival got their asses handed to them - but by real stars, like us! That is a facetious, snarky assessment - but Triple H does snag himself the best, hottest performers with whom to feud. Look who he targeted at last year’s Survivor Series.
Moreover, Vince McMahon hates tag team wrestling. He hates the word wrestling as much as Dawson and Wilder manifestly love it. McMahon hates the fact that these unambitious millennials don’t detect the chum in the water, don’t stand up for themselves. Viewed through the most cynical lens imaginable, one can all too readily grasp his thought process.
Triple H, the executive, cares about the future of the industry - unless that future is remotely in the orbit of Triple H, the character. He simply cannot help himself but conflate the two, and simply has no excuse. In a suit, Triple H is a force for good. Rocking a leather jacket, he transforms into a defensive disgrace of a performer. CONT'D...