John Cena’s spinning variation of the WWE Championship wasn’t mere visual pollution.
It was that, obviously. A gaudy, jewel-encrusted disgrace, it betrayed its own lineage. It conveyed none of the prestige the title had accrued as an achievement—the highest achievement—in a predetermined non-sport. It looked like something Xzibit would do to a vintage sports car. The sight of the old winged eagle felt like an additional insult, as if John Cena had grabbed Hulk Hogan by the back of the head and smeared his face in sh*t.
Several of Cena’s successors were made to wear the strap long after his epic, early reigns. We could see John Cena. We saw him everywhere.
If you could bring yourself to look at its tasteless horror, it reflected Cena in the image of everybody who could not escape his shadow.
