Orlando Sentinel

READY TO RUMBLE

At Orlando center, WWE preps future wrestling stars for big stage

- By George Diaz | Staff Writer gdiaz@tribune.com Read George Diaz’s blog at OrlandoSen­tinel.com/enfuego.

It is the first thing they learn, before the hair pull, before the eye-gouging, before the ubiquitous foreign object hidden in the trunks. The handshake. It is firm. It is sincere. It is not gender specific. The 69 men and women at the WWE Performanc­e Center in Orlando always are engaging and pleasant with visitors, before they go about their business of trying to rip each other to pieces, wink-wink.

Profession­al wrestling buried the fairy tale years ago, embracing the concept of performanc­e art that is equal parts sports and entertainm­ent.

The ring at Amway Center will become the epicenter of athleticis­m — with a touch of the theater of the absurd — for the “Royal Rumble” tonight.

It’s a winner-take-all bash featuring 30 wrestlers. One man will be left standing at the end of the night and will be crowned WWE world heavyweigh­t champion. The odds are, ahem, a bit stacked against reigning champion Roman Reigns, who has 29 opponents to beat. “For the first time in WWE history, it’s one versus all!” says the promotiona­l shtick.

But let’s retrace our steps a bit and head back to the performanc­e center, located in a nondescrip­t industrial warehouse in Orlando. It’s big — 26,000 square feet — to accommodat­e all those larger-than-life personalit­ies. There’s a very good chance the next WWE men’s or women’s champion is training there right now, only you don’t know it. Neither do they.

“With this magnificen­t place, we are setting them up for success,” said Matt Bloom, the head coach who oversees all the wrestlers and seven other coaches.

Look around. There are seven rings, including one with extra padding to practice riskier moves, and another “show ring” with theatrical lighting and broadcast capability back to WWE headquarte­rs in Stamford, Conn. A ramp adjacent to the main ring where wrestlers can work on their grand entrance. A sound system that blares their accompanyi­ng music. A crash-test dummy to practice striking opponents.

A 5,500-square-foot strength and conditioni­ng room. A small, private studio (“promo room”) that allows talent to practice on-camera techniques and work individual­ly on character developmen­t and playing to the crowd. An iPad interface that allows critique of microphone skills.

The performanc­e center also marks an evolution. In the old days, aspiring profession­al wrestlers would grind it out in dirty, sweaty, stinky gyms before making their way onto the independen­t circuit. From there, a handful of regional companies would spot talent and give them a shot at the bigger stage.

Today, WWE (World Wrestling Entertainm­ent) is pretty much the only big game in the wrestling universe, staging more than 300 events a year and broadcasti­ng to about 36 million viewers in more than 150 countries.

That’s a lot of programmin­g inventory, with a high demand for on-air talent. That’s what brings those 69 performers here. They’ve been recruited throughout the country, in some cases, in other parts of the world, because they have potential to make it to the big stage.

Meet Sabby Piscitelli, ak a Tino Sabatelli, a former Tampa Bay Bucs safety. He’s been here for 14 months, working on his heel (bad-guy) stage shtick. Meet Bayley, a former California girl who is rising up the ranks rapidly.

Two stories. There are 67 more. Here, these men and women will succeed, or they will fail. But the journey and the path are very clear, and the resources are plentiful.

Paul Levesque, ak a Triple H, gives everyone the same spiel when they walk through those doors:

“Everybody who came before you — Hulk Hogan, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Randy Savage, Shawn Michaels, Bret Hart — all those guys, nobody got to where they were with this. Nobody had this opportunit­y. We’re giving you all this stuff. What can you do with it?”

Triple H is understand­ably a big deal around here. He has held a total of 23 championsh­ips, including eight WWE (formerly WWF) titles. He also is married to the daughter of WWE chairman and CEO, Vince McMahon.

When he scaled things back a few years ago to get off the circuit, he was asked by McMahon to ingrain himself in all parts of the company and report back with his observatio­ns.

Triple H came back with this game-changing question: “I think the biggest gap we have is that we’re doing all these amazing things to grow our business and our company, except: How are we finding these guys for the future? We’re a victim of our own success. Territorie­s don’t exist; the outside places to do this are less and less. How do you want to do that?”

Triple H’s answer was a performanc­e center. McMahon signed off on it, spawning not just only the performanc­e center but NXT. Think of it as the wrestling minor leagues, a brand unto itself.

The first center — not nearly as grandiose — opened in Tampa in 2007 before everybody moved to Orlando in July 2013. They began staging NXT shows at Full Sail University in Winter Park. Personalit­ies were shaped, skills were honed, and stars were born.

Like Bayley. At 26, she is the NXT women’s champion, taking the title from Sasha Banks in a exciting thrill ride of a match last August in Brooklyn, N.Y. She’s been at WWE four years now, coming from the independen­t circuit as a skilled technical wrestler but short on developing a strong wrestling character.

She finally found her comfort zone as a “baby face” (good wrestler), developing her character from a childish ingénue to a star who wears big hair in a ponytail and loves to hug it out with everybody. “Now I’m kind of like a focused teenager,” she said. “But feel I have a good connection with fans.”

She’s come a long way, thanks to all the perks at the performanc­e center, including the tutelage of the late Dusty Rhodes. He used to come here a lot, working with the younger talent, developing their style.

“I came to promo class and I was horrible, and I would cry every class,” Bayley said. “But ‘The Dream’ [Rhodes] helped me out a lot. He pushed me. Some- thing finally clicked.”

Piscitelli, 32, still is looking for his moment, when he can rise above the rest. He continues to refine his bad-guy personalit­y. He would love it if you would hate him.

“You almost have to have a split personalit­y,” Piscitelli said. “Outside the ring, you’re a normal person. When you walk through that curtain, you’re a character that you want people to love or hate.”

Inside the performanc­e center, the family bond seems strong. Competitio­n without the petty rivalries. They all train here five or six days a week, and the top batch of talent goes to Full Sail or somewhere else across the country to stage shows.

They all live in Orlando. Piscitelli lives in a house with his brother Sean, also an aspiring wrestler. Bayley is warming up to Orlando after missing all the perks in Tampa, mainly the beaches.

“They get paid well,” Bloom said. “We expect results. They do very well. I can tell you we take the hustle out of the game of the independen­t circuit where you have to live week to week and hope you get bookings. We now enable these men and women to come in and do what they love.”

WWE has talent scouts all over the map. Bayley was working an independen­t show in Los Angeles when she was approached. Piscitelli was recruited by Canyon Ceman, the senior director of talent developmen­t for the WWE.

Ultimately, Triple H has the final say on who makes it to the WWE roster. His official title at WWE is executive vice president (talent/live events/creative). But he also jumps into character when they write him into a script.

He is in Orlando a lot, keeping an eye on everybody. Once everybody gets over the wow factor, they see that Triple H is here to help and not pull rank on everybody as the organizati­on’s Big Kahuna.

And that’s where the handshake starts. It comes from above. From McMahon. From Triple H. “It’s a respect for others, for the business,” Triple H said.

For all the wink-winks, profession­al wrestling is big on tradition. Pictures of the all-time greats are everywhere. Gorgeous George. The Fabulous Moolah. Bruno Sammartino. Gorilla Monsoon. The ring bell from the first Wrestleman­ia in 1985 is displayed prominentl­y. Family. The ties that bind “The business has always been — I hate saying this — a traveling circus because I feel like most people say that in a derogatory way, but it’s like a traveling family,” Triple H said. “They’re all learning together at different levels and they are there to support each other, and that’s what I always stress to the talent.

“The coolest thing about this business is that when you’re a star, you can reach down and try to help a kid who is trying to become a star and help him or her.”

Dusty Rhodes. Hulk Hogan. Macho Man. Triple H. The list is endless and timeless.

Bayley and Tino, like all the others, wait to hear the bell that beckons them to the ultimate stage.

 ?? RICH POPE/STAFF PHOTOGRAPH­ER ?? Stars-in-waiting: WWE NXT wrestlers Sylvester Lefort, left, and Billie Kay rehearse an entrance routine at the WWE Performanc­e Center in Orlando.
RICH POPE/STAFF PHOTOGRAPH­ER Stars-in-waiting: WWE NXT wrestlers Sylvester Lefort, left, and Billie Kay rehearse an entrance routine at the WWE Performanc­e Center in Orlando.
 ?? RICH POPE/STAFF PHOTOGRAPH­ER ?? Sabby Piscitelli, a former Tampa Bay Bucs safety, has been at the WWE Performanc­e Center for 14 months, perfecting his image as bad-guy wrester Tino Sabatelli. “You almost have to have a split personalit­y,” he says.
RICH POPE/STAFF PHOTOGRAPH­ER Sabby Piscitelli, a former Tampa Bay Bucs safety, has been at the WWE Performanc­e Center for 14 months, perfecting his image as bad-guy wrester Tino Sabatelli. “You almost have to have a split personalit­y,” he says.

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