Becky Lynch: The Man: Not Your Average Average Girl

by Rebecca Quin

Something I have learned from failing at most things is, take your turn when it seems like the bar is at an all-time low. That way, there’s nowhere to go but up!

Maybe “kneecapped” means something different in England. Maybe he got cute little hats to keep his knees warm.

If there is one thing that fires me up more than anything, it’s being told that I can’t do something or I’m not good enough. As much as I doubt myself from time to time, or even most of the time, the rebellious spirit in me thrives on a challenge.

That’s one of those illusions of wrestling. Often the credit is given to the flyers when in actual fact it is the person standing steady and taking the move who’s doing the hard work.

Even though we were being told at the Performance Center women don’t do this or can’t do that, as an edict that likely came from an old-school view on how the audience wants to see their women. Hunter was different. He didn’t enforce any of these outdated restrictions and he let women wrestle like the competitors we were.

The wrestling community was abuzz about the Four Horsewomen, as we became known, who would change the landscape of women’s wrestling forever. It felt like wrestling’s version of the Spice Girls, each different, but that was what was great. We could each appeal to a particular demographic. All of us brought something different to the table. Charlotte, her legacy, her athleticism. Bayley, her passion, her technicality. Sasha, her star presence, her finesse. Becky, that Rocky Balboa–like heart.

Colby having the biggest night of his life. Having a banger of a match at the beginning of the show and cashing in his Money in the Bank contract at the end, leaving as WWE champion. I was there to witness it all.

I don’t think that anyone in that room then, or even in the arena, would have predicted that I would one day be the first woman to win the main event of WrestleMania.

We now had a slogan for the movement. It was powerful. Anyone could be The Man. It didn’t matter your background or your gender or what you do. You just needed to claim your greatness and not let anyone tell you differently.

Whatever happened to wooing someone with wit? And intelligent quips? A joke, perhaps? I’m not quite sure. But this was how the kids were doing it these days, so I decided to get hip with the kids. And by “kids” I mean Colby, a full-grown adult male. I wasn’t sending any selfies to kids.

I began to notice that whenever someone came up and either brought Colby’s name up or perhaps was wearing his shirt, I got overwhelmingly excited to talk about how great and talented, kind, smart, and funny he was. How gosh darn handsome he was. I swooned as little cartoon love hearts popped out of my head as the fans smiled and nodded awkwardly.

He was the greatest addition to my life and the best decision I ever made.

Twitter is where the real hostility happens. Where avatars in droves told me how awful I was. I might hate me too. What with my beautiful little baby, hot-ass husband, and dream job, life has been fucking good.