Sour

On the morning of my ninth birthday, I made a wish. Not a birthday wish, though — or at least not the kind you make before blowing out candles. It wasn’t something you wish for with a smile on your face, around family and friends. It was something you wish for alone, in your bedroom, in the quiet moments. 

So that’s what I did. I woke up … I got out of bed … I took off my clothes … I stood in front of the mirror … I looked up and down at my reflection. And I wished for the same thing I’d wish for every morning, of every day, for the next almost 15 years.

To be absolutely anyone else.

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Like most long stories, mine starts in Florida.

I grew up in Tampa in the ’90s in a household that was very conservative. My parents were both Caribbean immigrants: My dad, an Apostolic preacher, came from Jamaica in the ’70s. My mom came from a tiny island called Monserrat. We had our own small community church, which my dad loved to tell people he built with his bare hands. He’d say it in this way that made it sound like a tall tale, but it was true. I watched him do most of the construction myself. It held 60-70 people at capacity, though on some nights we’d be lucky to have 12. I remember it had this pool on one end with a sliding glass door. The idea was that you could see people get baptized without leaving the pulpit.

We went to church constantly. Six hours on Sunday, another six or so hours during the week. Sometimes in the summer we’d do these “revival weeks,” where there’d be tent revivals for seven full days. If I wasn’t at church, I was mostly expected to be at home. If I was at home, I was mostly expected to be reading the bible. I never had a sleepover, never trick-or-treated on Halloween, never went to a high school dance. Nothing like that.

I don’t mind saying I grew up fearing my dad. I think my sisters did, too. If we broke a rule, he’d tell us we were going to burn in hell for disobeying him. If we missed a spot while dusting, we’d get spanked. I remember I forgot to turn the alarm off in our garage once, and I set it off, and he shoved me into a wall. We had a roof over our heads, food on our table, everything he felt we needed. But emotionally, there was this void. 

I think my dad was raised by his parents the same way — with that same void. He filled it with godliness. And my mom sort of followed in his footsteps. I have these memories, or more like pieces of memories, of feeling love and softness from her when I was really small. But then my dad would scold her and say things like “don't pick them up” or “let them cry.” I think she felt a pressure from him to not be too nurturing to us. To not let us get too close.

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So much of what I did, growing up, I did to escape. 

Football was probably the first true rescue I found. I think it lined up with my parents’ sense of discipline, so they let me play. I started at age 7 and felt drawn to it almost instantly. I had all of this aggression to get out — football tapped into that. First I played in the Police Athletic League, then in the Tampa Bay Youth Football League. I was on the Citrus Park Bills, mostly at lineman. (They don’t call me “Little E,” you know?) I just loved hitting people. Honestly I loved everything about youth football. I know it’s frowned on more now and I get why. But for me, back then? It was like a social life and a support system, rolled into one. It was a safe haven.

The other big escape hatch I found was culture. 

My parents sent me to a school called Tampa Prep, and I had an amazing English teacher there named Mrs. Adams. She had this avant garde look … flowing clothes, wild gray hair. We had her first period, and I remember she’d have the lights turned real low when we walked in every morning. Then she’d put these little lamps out on the table for “mood.” She’d play Enya for us, and spoke really softly. I loved how she always made me feel capable. She’s the first person who made me believe that I could write and speak in a way that meant something — in a way that could express something true.

I was always reading books. First for school, stuff like Animal Farm, Huck Finn, Fahrenheit 451. Toni Morrison really stuck with me. The Bluest Eye. A big moment later on was when I discovered Erasure, the Percival Everett novel that came out in 2001. I’d never read a book like that before, and I think I’d built up all these assumptions about what Black literature could or couldn’t be. Seeing a Black writer be witty, and irreverent, and crude, while still having so much to say … it changed my perception of what was possible. It helped me understand that my definition of Black art was too small.

I also fell in love with hip-hop. I still remember the first two albums I bought: NWA’s Straight Outta Compton and this Bone Thugs-n-Harmony hits compilation. I was only allowed to listen to classical and gospel music at home, so I had to hide them from my parents, but I’d listen any chance I got. I wore those CDs out. TV helped, too, and I discovered a lot of artists through music videos. I got really into 2Pac. Scarface. The Clipse. (Also that Alien Ant Farm cover of  “Smooth Criminal,” I won’t lie.)

My sisters and I, our favorite TV show growing up was All That. It was basically SNL for ’90s kids — and one famous thing about that show: the theme song was incredible. I think TLC recorded it around when they were making CrazySexyCool, and it was an actual bop. OHHHH, OH-OHHHH / THIS IS ALLLLLL THAT / THIS IS ALLLLLL THAT!!! You’d hear that chorus and you’d know it’s about to be a night. 

The only problem was what comes after the chorus: Left Eye starts rapping. Nothing bad. G-rated. But my girl is rapping rapping. And for my parents, like I said, hip-hop was not allowed. So my sisters and I had a system. We’d turn on All That at 8:30 sharp … then flip to another channel at the exact moment the rap was about to come in ... then silently count out the seconds of how long we knew Left Eye’s verse was … then flip it back to Nickelodeon and enjoy the show. I laugh so hard thinking about that now — the three of us launching this elaborate CIA operation, every Saturday, just to watch a little TV. But that’s what it took! We did what we had to do.

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My dad drew a lot of hard lines in the sand when it came to pop culture. For whatever reason, though, there was this one line he didn’t draw — this one thing that, not only did he let me enjoy, he enjoyed right along with me. You can probably guess but I’ll tell you.

The man. Loved. Wrestling. 

I think some of it had to do with him being an immigrant. You come over to a new country, and there’s this whole new culture to adapt to. Some parts of that culture are so specific, and can be hard to pick up. But wrestling isn’t like that — it’s a universal language. It’s good guys and bad guys, it’s classic storytelling. It’s not really something you have to “learn.” It’s something you can just connect with, on a human level.

And my dad really connected with it. He loved Thunderbolt Patterson, who was one of the great Black wrestlers and one of the stars of the territories era. My dad would always talk about going to see Thunderbolt and Dusty Rhodes wrestle at the armories in Florida back in the ’70s. Those were some of his favorite memories. He was a true fan.

And he stayed a fan through my childhood, which ended up coinciding with the late-’90s boom aka the Monday Night Wars. We could never afford pay-per-views, but we’d watch every hour of free TV that WWF and WCW put out. Raw and Smackdown. Nitro and Thunder. No joke, my dad got so into it that he started watching Raw three times a week. He’d watch it live on Mondays. Then there was a re-air he’d watch later that night. Then there was a Spanish language re-air he’d watch later that week. And no, my dad didn’t speak Spanish. He’d still watch that re-air though. He couldn’t get enough. 

Eventually my sisters got into it, too. That was big, because they’d let me use their Barbie Dreamcamper Van for the hardcore matches I’d put on with my action figures. And it really became like this whole shared fandom between the four of us. Wrestling was the one thing we all were into … and the one thing my sisters and I could do with our dad besides church. And even as our relationships with him strained over the years, I always felt that said a lot about what wrestling can be. Like — whether it’s the territories in the ’70s, or the Attitude Era in the ’90s, or whatever the business is now. It will always be a way to connect.

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I never had a lot of friends at school, but I have this one perfect memory. It’s from sixth grade. For the most part our school rented out classrooms from the University of Tampa — but in sixth grade, because of temporary space issues, we had to use this makeshift building instead. Which meant we were a little out of the way. We loved it, though. Because of where we were located, we got to go out onto this GIANT field at lunch time. OK … it probably wasn’t giant. But in my memory that field stretched out forever. 

This was ’97 or ’98, so right around when the nWo was really popping. And at the time, one of the only WCW guys who would stand up to them was Lex Luger. His finishing move was “The Torture Rack” — where he’d lift his opponent up over his shoulders until they were horizontal, then just shake the s*** out of them until they tapped. Simple but violent. Every Monday, man, Lex would be putting these nWo fools in the Rack to a huge pop.

Tampa was WCW country — so naturally everyone in my class’s favorite move was the Torture Rack. The problem with that move, though, is that it’s not like a Sharpshooter or a Rock Bottom, where pretty much anyone can “do it.” Nah. You have to be strong as hell to put someone in the Torture Rack.

Well: I was the only kid in our class who was strong as hell. So every day at lunch, we’d go out onto that giant field. And as soon as we were far enough past where the teachers could see, a bunch of my classmates would swarm my way. And they’d beg me to Rack ’em. So that’s what I’d do. Rack ’em up, put ’em down. One after another. By the end of lunch I’d be so exhausted. It was beautiful.

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Now might be a good time to go back to my ninth birthday.

Standing in front of my bedroom mirror, and making that wish … I’m not sure why that memory sticks out for me so vividly. It’s not like I woke up one morning and decided I was depressed. But I think that’s kind of my first memory of feeling like I was fighting against myself in some way. Of feeling like — in this way that I was only beginning to understand — I was trapped. 

That’s the thing. I feared my dad … but I wouldn’t say I felt trapped by him. Like, somewhere deep down, I think I knew I’d eventually be able to escape the household he raised us in. But as time passed, I started to realize more and more that what I actually couldn’t escape was myself. I started to have these sinking feelings: I was trapped in a body that I hated, and with a mind that hated me.

I despised how my body looked during those years. I was convinced it was too fat, too short. I wanted a six-pack I’d never have, and to be tall like I never would be. And honestly? I wanted to be handsome. That last one I felt a deep insecurity about, in this way that became a very sad cycle. I never felt I was attractive … so I never thought girls would want me … so I never felt comfortable around girls … so I never dated … which only confirmed to me how ugly I was. I didn’t have my first kiss until grad school. Which is embarrassing to admit, I guess, but I want it in here. It’s part of my story. I hated how I looked, and it haunted me for a long time.

And then as far as my mind goes … I don’t think I really understood what was even happening to it back then. I don’t think I knew I was “depressed” … but I definitely was. I don’t think I knew I was “suicidal” … but I thought about wanting to die daily. I just felt trapped inside my own head — like it was controlling me and not vice-versa. Like I was only along for the ride as it was taking me to some really dark places. And of course I’m writing this now and I have the vocabulary to explain all of that. But at the time I had nothing. It was the most confusing feeling in the world.

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The older I got, as I moved through high school and toward college, the more it felt like my body and mind were both slowly killing me. But it’s wild how it works in life. On the inside you might feel like you’re dying … and on the outside you might look like you’re not only coping, you’re thriving. 

In 11th grade, I received a Florida’s Bright Futures Scholarship, and was set to go to the University of Florida. Then in 12th grade, something unexpected happened. My parents couldn’t afford the tuition at Tampa Prep anymore, so they transferred me to public school. And while I was crushed to have to leave, there was a silver lining: Tampa Prep didn’t have football … public school did. So I joined the football team as a senior — and had a good enough season that I got offered a late scholarship to play at the University of Iowa.

I ended up accepting my Iowa offer. And that was an important moment for me, for two reasons. First, obviously, because going there changed my life. But also because I’ll never forget how I felt inside, on the day that I signed: the same. 

I felt the exact same — the same emptiness and sadness and frustration and confusion I always felt. And I remember that being so jarring to me. It was like, The most amazing thing just happened … shouldn’t I FEEL amazing?? Aren’t those, like, the rules?! Why don’t I feel better at all??

It turns out, those aren’t the rules. And instead it was this ironic situation, where I’m on my way to Iowa on a full ride, as this high-achieving guy who from the outside seems like he has it figured out. But on the inside? It’s as if that guy didn’t exist. I was a mess inside. Actually … I was more like a ticking timebomb inside. And my achievements were kind of this mask I wore. They were the outer layer that kept people from seeing the timebomb tick.

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And then my outer layer started to crack.

The first crack came on the academic side. I decided to be pre-med at Iowa, which was a terrible idea. My whole life, I’d loved reading and writing — and if I’d followed my heart, I definitely would have been a lit major. But I think I felt that pressure of like, What are you gonna do with a LIT degree?? Be serious. So I convinced myself I was making the responsible choice with pre-med. And let’s just say … science was not my calling in life. I was miserable, and my grades reflected it.

The second crack came on the athletic side. At the beginning of our season, Ron Aiken (our defensive-line coach) told me, “We’re thinking about not redshirting you. We want you to play.” I was so excited. This was a team that had finished #8 in the country the year before, and they wanted me to play as a true freshman. But maybe a day or two after hearing that from Coach, I tore my ACL. Just like that, out for the year.

We ended up winning the Big Ten that year — co-champs with Michigan. And while I was happy for my teammates, I remember feeling so down about not getting to be a part of it. In my head, I felt like I was being left behind. Like all those guys were making the school proud … while I was just burdening it, draining out resources to pay for my surgeries and rehab. And then as soon as I finished rehabbing my knee, it’s crazy: I tore my other one. 

I think that all this stuff just kind of accumulated and accumulated. And at some point I looked around and it was like……. Who even am I? I didn’t feel like a student, because I was so ashamed of how I’d struggled as a pre-med. And I didn’t feel like an athlete, because I was so ashamed of how I’d torn both ACLs and couldn’t play. And if I wasn’t a student, and I wasn’t an athlete — if I didn’t have either of those things?? Then maybe I was just no one. It’s like all of a sudden, I lost whatever was left of that layer holding the mess of me together. And I pretty much started falling apart.

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What had been vague thoughts of wanting to die became specific thoughts of wanting to hurt myself. It felt like overnight, my depression went from a cloud hanging over me to a full-on storm I was caught in. 

I started to dissociate. Well, first I’d have these headaches. These crippling, numbing headaches that weighed a ton. And then — OK, you know the famous “floating dolly shot” that Spike Lee uses in his movies?? I started to feel like one of those. Like I was frozen in space, while the world was going on around me. Like I was a fly on the wall but somehow I was the wall.

I also started to isolate more, and fixate, and spiral. I’d get these scary hallucinations. Like I’d be staring at the TV, turned off … when suddenly these demons would be all over the screen. Or I’d look up at the ceiling … and suddenly thousands and thousands of bugs would be crawling on it. And what’s crazy is, I’d know they’re hallucinations. I’d argue with myself, like, No. NO. That’s not real. But it wouldn’t matter.

Finally, and most terrifying of all: I started to have these episodes — where I would just totally lose control of my mind, and it would spin out into the most horrible ideas. Like, truly horrible. It would almost feel like I was being trolled by my own brain, as it tried to come up with the worst things it could possibly think of. Running into a school with a weapon … hurting young people … stuff like that. Stuff you know you’re not capable of, and wouldn’t want to admit you’re capable of even having the idea of. But it’s hard to ignore that the idea was still there. And when it would pass, I’d think, I’m sick, I’m evil, just for having those thoughts. And I don’t need to be here being a danger to people. I don’t need to be alive.

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If we’re being brutally honest: A lot of times this is where the story ends.

A lot of times, when someone’s mental health gets to as low a point as mine did, and they feel as messed up and hopeless as I felt…….. they don’t bounce back up. They keep spiraling downward, until there’s no more spiral left. That not only could have been how my story ended — it probably would have been. And the main reason it wasn’t? It’s something that sounds so simple. But if you know how this stuff works, you know it was a minor miracle: Someone noticed that I was struggling, and they offered to help.

For me, that someone was Coach Aiken. He never actually told me what it was specifically that he noticed. But the truth is, I doubt it was one specific thing. This was right after my second ACL tear, and I think he just sort of…….. paid attention. To my words, to my behavior, to my body language, to my disposition. To all those little hints a person can give that they might not be OK. 

The moment that Coach reached out, it wasn’t memorable or dramatic. But one day, quietly, he just pulled me aside to talk in private. And he basically told me what was going to happen: There was this therapist, Marvin Sims, and he wanted me to go see him. Then he gave me the info, I nodded, and I went on my way. I’ll always appreciate the nuance that Coach Aiken used in that moment. If he’d simply asked me to go, I’m not sure I would have. And if he’d forced me to go, I would have felt so embarrassed (and then who knows). But he put it in a way that just threaded the needle. It was stern yet empathetic. It was like, I really think this needs to happen. And I’m on your side. 

So at 19, for the first time in my life, I went to therapy. That wasn’t a happy ending in any way — it wasn’t some catharsis, or neat and tidy resolution. If anything, after starting therapy, my journey only got harder. What changed, though, I think, is that now I wasn’t on it alone.

In addition to talk therapy, I started to see a psychiatrist. Eventually I was diagnosed with what’s known as major depression with psychotic features. I tried a bunch of different medications, but struggled for a while to find the right balance. A few times, later on, the ups and downs of that struggle became overwhelming — so I asked my psychiatrist to put me in the psych ward of the hospital at the University. We also tried electroconvulsive therapy. We tried everything, man. Some of it showed signs of working. Some of it didn’t work at all. Some of it was straight-up traumatic. My life over those next few years…… it was like a perpetual trial and error. It was exhausting. Frankly, it was excruciating. But it wasn’t a spiral anymore — or if it was, it was a spiral slowly turning around. 

Then straightening out into a long, winding road.

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While football didn’t work out for me at Iowa, the Iowa football program was incredibly good to me. When I had to spend time in the psych ward, I remember feeling so ashamed — and so anxious about people finding out, and how they might react. But I’ll never forget who one of my first visitors was: Kirk Ferentz, Iowa’s head coach. Coach is a real Football Guy, you know what I mean? And not to set the bar too low … but I feel like there’s a very bad version of how a psych ward visit could go from the Football Guy head coach at a big-time college program. Coach Ferentz, though, he did exactly what you hope someone will do in that situation: He showed up. He didn’t stigmatize me or patronize me, and instead — just by showing up, and being kind — made me feel a little less anxious. And a little less ashamed. 

Unfortunately, the ACL tears were only half of my major injuries at Iowa. I played my redshirt sophomore year, then tore my pec. Then rehabbed it all the way back … only to break my patella. Once that happened, I knew it was over — my first reaction when my patella broke was actually to laugh. It’s like it was at that point where there was nothing to even cry about. I just felt relief.

Iowa agreed to continue to pay out my scholarship — so while I’d no longer be on the team, I was able to stay on campus as a student. And thankfully, the football program didn’t “dispose of me” the moment I stepped away from it (which I think says a lot). They told me that even though I was done playing, if I wanted to they’d still love to have me come by and work out.

I took them up on their offer and kept up my weight training. By then I’d also long since switched out of pre-med, and become a health and sports studies major. Eventually I added a minor in African-American lit. 

Two years later, I earned my degree.

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I ended up staying at Iowa for grad school — taking graduate-level classes in health and sports studies, while lifting weights any chance I could get. I also worked part-time at one of the great jobs our society has to offer: “bouncer at a bar where nothing happens.”

Right around that time, there was this guy, Mike Doughty. Mike was an accomplished collegiate wrestler at Iowa St. and Iowa, and became a lifer in the sport after that. And in 2009, he went down to the NCAA wrestling championships in St. Louis. On one of his flights, he happened to sit next to Jim Ross, the legendary wrestling announcer (and the voice of all those episodes of Raw from my childhood), who was working for WWE in talent relations at the time. Mike was wearing an Iowa Wrestling sweatshirt, and I guess the two of them got to talking. At the end of their conversation, JR essentially tells Mike: If there are any athletes Mike knows at Iowa who are done with their college careers and may want to be involved with WWE, to give him a call.

Mike Doughty then reached out to Mike Humpal, a friend of his and former teammate of mine who played for the Steelers. Humpal had missed most of his rookie season with an injury, but now was back in Iowa training. So he and I would always be in the weight room together. And when Mike Doughty reached out to him about his conversation with Jim Ross, Humpal was like, “Actually … I have a guy in mind who might be perfect.”

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It’s funny: When I first sat down to write this article, it was because we were celebrating 10 years of The New Day. I wanted to put down in words how much all of this has meant to me. Of course, the truth is, what The New Day has meant to me — it’s beyond words. It’s beyond anything, really. Where this last DECADE has taken us??? Man … it’s beyond literally my wildest dreams.

Because I’m someone who didn’t have wildest dreams.

I’m someone who, for the longest time, didn’t believe I deserved them — and believed they’d just be wasted on me anyhow. 

I’m someone who spent a lot of his past not being able to picture a future.

And I think about that so much when I look back on the story of our group. I think about all the different things we’ve accomplished, and been through, and come to represent. Things I’m truly proud of. Not in a self-aggrandizing way, or a self-important way — never that. But in a way that is just, like…… LIFE. Some of it’s crushing failure. Some of it’s wild success. Some of it’s deeply silly. Some of it’s quite serious. Some of it’s cringe as hell. Some of it’s cool as hell. Some of it’s painful. Some of it’s joyful. And every now and then, if you get really lucky, some of it’s meaningful.

When I look back on this decade I’ve spent together with Kofi and Woods … this decade in brotherhood … I think about all of those things and more. And I’mma write a few of them down now — but TLDR: I wouldn’t trade f***ing any of it.

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I think about kismet. 

It’s crazy how life works. After leaving Tampa, moving all the way to Iowa, and going on this journey there that flung me from pre-med to football to four major surgeries to starting therapy to getting my degree to enrolling in grad school … I end up getting this opportunity of a lifetime — with WWE of all places. WWE!!! Like, what a world. And out of all the places in that world for their developmental program (FCW) to be located??? Yeah, of course. It had to be Tampa. And since I couldn’t afford rent for an apartment, I moved right back into my childhood bedroom.

I wish I could tell you that moving back home led to some huge breakthrough between me and my parents … but it didn’t. I think it was still a breakthrough for me though. I wasn’t the same kid who’d left for Iowa five years earlier, sad and afraid. Without even realizing it, I think I’d built up this strength over those five years … and the beginning of a sense of self. And I think it meant a lot to me to be able to go back home, into the belly of the beast, and not get knocked off my axis. I still coped through escape: I remember if we had a free Saturday, and I wasn’t going to be at FCW, I’d go to the movie theater and I’d stay there from the first movie until it closed. Not even kidding, I’d wear these cargo pants and pack peanuts in them with grilled chicken, all my food for the day — then I’d see like four movies in a row. Anything to not be in the house. Anything to just get through. 

At FCW, I definitely wasn’t a prodigy like you hear stories about with certain wrestlers. But I held my own. I also met some cool people there. For example this one guy, Austin. A very weird dude and I mean that in the best sense. Like, there was just something about him — he was so damn creative. His mind worked in this way unlike anyone’s I’d ever met before. He also acted unlike anyone I’d ever met before. I still wasn’t totally comfortable in my own skin yet, and it just blew me away how unabashedly himself this guy was. He’d always be talking really loudly about whatever stuff he was into at that moment … anime, video games, changing his hair up, going to raves … in this way where, if anyone else talked like that, they’d probably be annoying or alienating to people. But he was so confident with it, so unapologetic, that it only ever sounded cool. He was just different. We worked together in FCW a bit — they gave him the name “Xavier Woods.” 

They gave me the name “Big E Langston.”

Flash forward to 2014 — and that’s when I experienced a second piece of kismet. After a few years in FCW (which then became NXT), I’d made it up to the main roster in WWE. And to be totally honest: It wasn’t going well. I’d had some good moments. In my debut, I gave John Cena a beatdown (sorry, John). I got to work with some amazing talent like AJ Lee and Dolph Ziggler. I won the IC title. But in terms of finding that One Thing — that one thing that makes you you, that helps you connect? I hadn’t found that. I felt like I had all of this personality inside of me, all these sides of myself that I wanted to let out. But it’s not that simple in wrestling. You can’t just walk in the door as a young wrestler, be yourself, and expect that fans will organically find you. You need a hook, a character, a way to get noticed by “the office” and get on TV. I didn’t have mine … and I started being used less and less. Which is often what happens before you get released. 

Then there was this one day — I know the exact date, because it was on the afternoon of our Extreme Rules show that year. May 4th, 2014. I get pulled aside by Road Dogg (the former wrestler who’d become a producer at WWE) and he tells me, “Alright E. We want you to go to the pretape room and just … try some stuff.” That’s code for: We like you. But we don’t have anything for you. It’s the doctors telling you, “We’re not giving up. But it’s bad.” It’s the writing on the wall.

Later that same day — that SAME DAY, backstage at Extreme Rules — I get a tap on the shoulder. It’s Xavier Woods. He’s on the main roster too, now, in a spot similar to the one I’m in. And he wants to pitch the office on a new group. He says he has some great ideas for it … but the basic one is: Three young Black wrestlers, all struggling to break through. Teaming up.

And trying to break through together.

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I think about multitudes.

You know that famous Walt Whitman quote, “I am large, I contain multitudes”? That’s been on my mind a lot while looking back on The New Day. I’m no expert, but I think what he means basically is that we’re all contradictions. None of us can be reduced to a single identity — there are many different versions of ourselves, within ourselves. And if I had to explain what it’s been like, historically, to be a Black wrestler, I think how I might put it is: You’re not always allowed to contain multitudes. 

Earlier, I mentioned how this big part of wrestling’s appeal is its universality. Good vs. evil, classic storytelling. A universal language. And that’s very true. But the downside of universality can be over-simplicity. Characters that are based on stereotypes, or painted with a broad brush, or put into a limited number of boxes. And you can see that downside in how the industry has treated Black wrestlers over the years. They’ve often been cast as brutish thugs, or as smiley, unthreatening types. They’ve often been presented as angry or unintelligent or both. And they’ve often been “underpushed,” i.e. not gotten the opportunities they’ve deserved. When The New Day debuted, The Rock was the only Black man ever to have been WWE champion.

Actually, Woods’s initial idea for The New Day was to reboot the Nation of Domination, the Attitude Era group that The Rock got his start in. The Nation was a faction of Black militants. And while it had a lot of cool moments (and those guys are all legends) … Woods, Kofi and I are not militants. But I think that just tells you what it’s been like at times to be a young Black wrestler trying to make it. You pitch based on what you feel will get you on TV. And what you feel will get you on TV is probably what’s gotten on TV before. And what’s gotten on TV before is a very narrow definition of Blackness.

That’s pretty much how we ended up being given the gospel-inspired idea for our debut. The day that Road Dogg sent me to pretapes, I played around with a bunch of different deliveries. And the one thing they liked was when I started using this voice that was kind of this Apostolic style of preaching — the style I grew up with. Then I guess the office heard it, and decided, you know, Let’s lean into the gospel!!! Because for some reason they were enamored by the southern Black church. That was a tough one. Black gospel is not who I am, and it’s definitely not who Kofi and Woods are. But we weren’t really in a position to push back on it. So even though we knew we were about to get booed out of every building……. we just did our best.

And then of course we DID get booed out of every building, which turned us heel, which was the greatest thing that ever happened to us. The thing about being a heel is, it’s a lot easier to get people to boo you than it is to get them to cheer you. You just have a wider breadth of things you can draw from. You can be obnoxious. You can be whiny. You can be a cheater. You can be a dork. You can be a slimeball. You can be a weirdo. You can just try a lot of things as heels that wouldn’t be OK to try as babyfaces. Wanna dance over your opponents’ bodies after you beat them? No problem. Wanna play the trombone because, I don’t know, it’s strange and you’re Woods and you played trombone in middle school? No problem. As a babyface, the office is going to micromanage you and keep you on a very short leash. But as a heel, the leash is long. And once we realized that, I think it was like, OK … what do we want to DO with this long leash??? The answer was pretty obvious: Be ourselves. 

So we started to throw our own experiences into the group. Some of my favorite things we did during that period were around stuff that just, like, made us laugh. Like there was that really popular little Black girl who went viral, dancing while someone else is off to the side saying, “Do it for the Vine.” (And she goes, “I ain’t gon’ do it.”) The three of us loved that video. So we just started saying it to each other on TV, but with our own lil New Day spin. Do it for the Day—I ain’t gon’ do it. Do it for the Day—I ain’t gon’ do it. It was just this tiny piece of culture that resonated with us. And I think what we started to realize is how many wrestling fans this stuff resonated with too.

So many, in fact…….. that they turned us right back into babyfaces.

Only now we got to do it in a way that felt like us. Like, our WrestleMania 32 entrance — that’s just Woods being Woods. He had an idea based on Dragon Ball Z (he and Kofi are both fans), and this talented designer named Mikal Mosley helped us bring it to life: where not only would our gear be inspired by Dragon Ball Z characters … our entrance would look like we’re toys being poured out of a cereal box. (I still can’t believe they pulled it off.) Or like — Kofi, he’s a massive sneaker head. And one day on Twitter there was this “controversy” brewing around Steph Curry’s new “dad shoe.” Immediately we thought, Yeah. That’s a segment. So we found the nearest Foot Locker, picked up a pair of hospital-white Curry 2 Lows, and cut a promo on TV that’s literally just Woods and I roasting Kofi for wearing these shoes. Man … or even the rap battle segment. Like, we’re all such big hip-hop fans. But one of the rare times I’ve doubted Woods was during our feud with the Usos, when he said we should do a rap battle with them. I know rap well enough to know I shouldn’t be rapping. I’m thinking, This has a chance to be hot trash. But it wasn’t!!! And I think the reason why is how much LOVE went into it — and how clear it was that we were having fun doing it.

I’d never compare us to Percival Everett, who is objectively a genius. But I think back a lot to that feeling of first discovering Erasure. I remember how it changed my life, and why. It wasn’t really because of what that one book was — it was because of what it revealed about what other books could be. I grew up thinking that Black lit had to be this one thing, or maybe these one or two things, way over here. And then I realized, no, that’s not true. It could also be this thing. And if it could be this thing … Well, then, I guess it could also be this thing, and this thing, and this, and this, and this. And you just keep going and going until the world isn’t so small anymore. Until suddenly it’s a lot more than just books that can be anything. Music can be anything. Movies can be anything. Anime can be anything. TV can be anything. Gaming can be anything. Culture can be anything. Blackness can be anything. Xavier Woods the weird dude from FCW playing “New York, New York” on his trombone in front of 15,000 people at Barclays Center can be anything. Wrestling can be anything. The New Day can be anything. The New Day can be anything.

THE NEW DAY CAN BE ANYTHING!!!!!!

You know what I mean?? You realize three Black wrestlers contain multitudes and all of a sudden there is a universal language. It’s being seen. That’s what wrestling is — that’s what culture is. That’s what fandom is. S*** is infinite.

It’s someone somewhere seeing you and thinking, You’re one of us.

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Finally … I think about togetherness.

Those first five years, we’d never be separated. We’d always travel together, always be on the road together (minivans preferred). And of course when you’re on the road in wrestling you’re always checking in and out of hotels. 

Which led to this game we’d play called the Creep Shuffle. 

I don’t even know why it started, or what we thought was so funny about it. But we’d take turns booking the hotel. And the person who booked it would then be responsible for checking in and getting our keys. And when my turn came up, and it was time to pass keys out, I’d do this silly little one-two step — and, like, wave the keys in front of Kofi and Woods while I shuffled them. Almost like I was a vaudeville act or a street magician or something. “Who wants the keys, who wants the keys……”

Woods, annoyed, would tell me I looked “like a creep” when I shuffled. And somehow it turned into this game. Where you get your hotel key card, and it comes in one of those tiny envelopes with your room number on it. And let’s say your room number is 510 — well in the game, your room number isn’t 510, it’s whatever those digits add up to. So you add the 5, the 1, the 0, and your number is 6. And every hotel, we’d each have our number. And whoever’s was the lowest, they’d get a “punishment” of some kind. Like they’d have to carry the other two guys’ bags up the stairs. Or we’d get to watch a bunch of episodes of a TV show they hated (Woods hates Breaking Bad, for example). Just really stupid stuff like that. Anyway, that’s it — that’s the Creep Shuffle. This is not an interesting game. It’s like my favorite memory in the world.

People would ask us all the time: When are y’all breaking up? In wrestling, that’s just how it works. That’s “business.” In a lot of ways, from a business standpoint, it’s the group’s entire purpose. You build it up into something, ride the wave, let it crest … then let it crash. And on the other side of that breakup there’s a whole other wave of business. You feud with each other, wrestle against each other, chase individual glory away from each other. Then you ride that wave, until it crashes. Now it’s time for the emotional reunion. Circumstances pull you all back together, and you put aside your differences — who can even remember them? — and hug it out. There’s a huge pop. It’s a beautiful moment (reunion merch, on sale now). But we always held firm that we weren’t going to do that.

First of all … we didn’t want to break up. So our feeling was — why should we? Who cares if that’s “how it works.” Why couldn’t we be different?

And second of all … wrestling is a ruthless profession. It really is. And at some point, I think we saw that this was more than just a group, you know? It was our careers. Our livelihoods. And it felt like a lot of the people who’d be clamoring to break us up, they’d be doing that from the privileged place of not having to answer the question, “And then what?” Like, OK, we break up. There’s some cool moments. But what happens between those moments? And what about after them? Being real, none of us come from money. And being more real … none of us are 6' 7". None of us look like Brock Lesnar. None of us at that point were GOATed as singles stars (well, to us, Kofi was — but we’ll get to that). So the way we saw it: Broken up, there was a lot of risk. Broken up, the chances of one of us falling through the cracks felt real. But together???

Alright — so there’s a term we use when we discuss this, called “floating.” Where you’ve got your guys at the top of the card, who are always involved in a big story. A lot of TV time. Main-event matches. And then … you’ve got everyone else. For everyone else, it kind of comes and it goes. Sometimes you’re involved in stuff, sometimes you’re not. Sometimes you’re higher on the card, sometimes you’re lower, sometimes you’re not on it at all. You’re never really anchored to anything, though. You’re “floating.” And let me tell you, man … floating can be stressful. It can be a grind. And I guess the way we looked at it is, if we’re going to have to float??? Let’s do that together. If we’re going to have to struggle for TV time, or to move up the card, or to stay on the card … then let’s do that together. You know the phrase “betting on yourself”? That’s a popular idea right now. People love to say it and it sounds great. But it also sounds lonely. And I think at some point we decided it just wasn’t for us. We decided we’re betting on each other, no matter what happens. We’re betting on The New Day. We’re betting on the group.

And I think if there’s one reason we’ve been able to win that bet, it’s the obvious one: It’s real. KofiMania? That was real. Kofi IS a GOAT, and he WAS passed over way too often, and he WAS underappreciated for way too long, and we DID have notions as to why. We FELT that. So while that’s Kofi’s world title and his alone, and Woods and I would never claim a piece of it — we felt all of it. It wasn’t won by the group. But it came from within the group. It was for the group. You know what I’m saying?? And when Woods won King Of The Ring, it was for the group. And when I grabbed that Money in the Bank briefcase, it was for the group.

And when I won the world title — becoming the fourth-ever Black WWE champion after The Rock, Kofi and Bobby Lashley — it was for the group.

I think about our entrance theme a lot. How we’re this trio … but when the intro starts, before our music hits? It’s my voice alone booming in. At first I pushed back hard on that. We were always adamant there’d be no leader in The New Day, no hierarchy, just us doing us. So I felt weird about my voice being at the forefront of our presentation like it was. But Woods and Kofi weren’t hearing it. They were just, like, Nah. This is dope — shut up. We’re keeping it. I still laugh when I remember us writing that intro: “DON’T YOU DARE BE SOUR…..” Those five words mean so much to me now. But at the time?? Honestly, we just needed something to rhyme with “power.” And “sour” seemed cool.

DON’T YOU DARE BE SOUR
CLAP FOR YOUR WORLD FAMOUS 12-TIME CHAMPS 
AND FEEL THE POWER
IT’S A NEW DAY, YES IT IS

Still gets a pop. Still rhymes. For some 10-year-old bars, I’d say they’ve aged pretty well. 

So have our choices, I think.

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You know that thing I said earlier — how I’m someone who spent his past not being able to picture a future? 

I can picture one now. 

Which is ironic, I guess, since I broke my neck and can’t wrestle. But I’m at peace. And if that’s truly a wrap on my in-ring career….... I’m excited to explore the paths that are opening up for me in its wake. Whether it’s working for WWE outside of the ring, or it’s hosting, or acting, or voice work, or filmmaking, or so many other things. I feel like there are still so many parts of myself for me to discover. I feel like I’ve spent the last 10 years with Woods and Kofi on this amazing, life-changing project: trying to perform a version of wrestling that’s in the image of all the things we love. And now I want to find out how far I can stretch that project past wrestling. I want to see if I can actually create some of those things we love.

I’m also in love. I won’t lie … it’s really the best. My partner’s name is Kristen and we’ve been together for almost a year. Relationships haven’t always come easy for me, and like I said: It took me longer to even date at all than it takes most people. But it was worth the wait. Our first date (kind of) was actually at the premiere of Tez and Bianca’s Hulu show Love & WWE. (I know, so cheesy.) Kristen is the sister of Mia Yim, and we’d been DM-ing for a bit in a friendly/flirty way. And I knew she was going to be at the premiere, so we made plans to hang out. “Save me a seat?” I asked her. Then I ended up running a little late — and when I got there, TITUS O’NEIL was about to sit down next to her. (What a heel!!!!) But Kristen is a real one. She was like, “No, no. This seat’s saved.” I got Titus out the way and the rest is history. (I’m kidding, I love Titus.)

I just felt an energy with Kristen I’d never felt before. We were at this premiere with all these beautiful people, all these famous actors and entertainers, and none of them even registered. For me, there was only one other person in the room that night. And what’s crazy is, I knew I wanted to see her more after that — but if I hadn’t been out with my broken neck? I probably would have been too busy to make it happen. Instead, it’s like it all just fell into place. Now we’re planning to get married … we bought a home together in Oakland … I don’t know, man. It’s a good feeling. I’m excited about what’s possible.

And maybe that’s the best thing I could say about this last decade — about this journey I’ve been able to go on with Woods, and Kofi, and (somehow) millions of people around the world.

I don’t know if The New Day saved my career, or my life. 

But I know it turned them both into things where anything feels possible. 

And I’ll always be grateful for that.

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I have another, smaller milestone coming up in a few months. March 1st, 2025 … I’m turning 39. It’s hard to believe. And it’s hard not to think about how that will be 30 years to the day from my 9th birthday — when I woke up in the morning, stood in front of the mirror and wished so, so badly to be anyone else. When I saw a kid reflected back who didn’t know how to not be cruel to himself. Who didn’t know how to want to be alive.

I’d give anything to be able to look in the mirror now, see 9-year-old Ettore staring back, and just reach out and hug him. I’d give anything to be able to talk to that kid at a time when I know how desperately he needed it. But I can’t….. so I guess I’ll have to settle for talking to my old-ass 39-year-old self. That’s a guy who’s been through a lot. And when I see him in the mirror next March, I think I know what I’ll say. 

I think I’ll tell him, “DON’T YOU DARE BE SOUR. CLAP FOR YOUR—”

No, I’m kidding. I’ll tell him what he already knows: It’s OK to be sour. 

It’s OK to get frustrated, or sad, or down on yourself — or even wake up some mornings and not want to be yourself. It’s OK to have bad days. 

But just keep having days. Just keep going. Just keep waking up and trying again. 

Because every day won’t be like that, I promise. 

And tomorrow is a new one.