Nathan Jones' reputation speaks for itself, but that doesn't mean we should listen, or believe, everything we hear.
The Australian and incoming WWE superstar is being hyped as a former convict, who spent 10 years in jail for armed robbery. Jones also comes complete with prison war stories, just in case there isn't enough testosterone exuded through his short, yet powerful, promos that began airing a few weeks ago.
He has ripped cell doors off their hinges.
He successfully fought off 10 guards after being gassed and attacked with police batons.
His resume reads like an episode of "Cops."
You can see the Nathan Jones' shirts already: the front features a picture of him staring through a cell with that maniacal look on his face. The back sports his signature Australian catch-phrase: "I am Nathan Jones. … G'day."
WWE announcers, the glorified pitchmen that they are, sound almost excited and fearful in the same breath when they mention Jones. That hesitant hype has afforded Jones an aura of controversy.
Should Jones' checkered past as a criminal be glorified for the sake of creating a new WWE superstarâ¢
Sports entertainment, and professional wrestling before it, has never shied away from exploiting certain personality traits for the better of a character or to ensure that a performer would draw money. Jones' WWE persona is no different, only his story is true.
WWE.com interviewed the would-be phenom last week, and Jones didn't ignore or try to make excuses for his past.
He said he consciously knew what he was doing and knew that he'd get caught and punished for his actions. He also admitted that he's a changed man; that being in prison forced him to grow up and learn from his mistakes.
Even so, Jones' arrival to WWE creates an interesting dilemma for Vince McMahon. … well, not really a dilemma for McMahon, but perhaps for an outside observer who doesn't see dollar signs next to Jones' name.
The easily influenced adolescents who watch WWE programming will no doubt take a liking to Jones because of his no-nonsense, renegade attitude and propensity for ignoring authority figures, be it real police or the fictitious figureheads such as Mr. McMahon and Eric Bischoff.
That's something WWE probably should have taken into account before promoting Jones as a WWE superstar by manipulating his real-life past and turning it into a marketable character. The younger WWE viewing audience — 13 to 17 — probably will assume that because Jones is competing for the WWE title that robbing someone is somehow cool or hip. Jones' success could indirectly tell that impressionable age group that a life of crime can somehow translate into a career as a WWE superstar.
That said, professional wrestling has never pretended to be anything more than entertainment to be enjoyed or ignored. Jones isn't the first WWE superstar to make a living as a wrestler with an unenviable track record. Bryan Adams, the former Hawaiian heavyweight named Crush, transformed from a babyface who sported neon orange trunks and a 1980s blonde surfer mullet to an ex-con with an arrow tattooed on his head.
WWE blatantly attempted to resurrect Crush's never-was career by selling him as a legitimate tough guy, who was arrested on weapons charges.
Even wrestling's bubble-gum days couldn't resist the convict character.
The psychotic Nailz, a pseudo-prison escapee in an orange jumpsuit, feuded with his foil, The Big Boss Man, prison-guard extraordinaire. The Nailz character, unlike Adams and Jones, wasn't a real convict — he just portrayed one on TV.
Jones is taking his real-life tribulations and transforming them into a gimmick, to be treated no differently than a wrestler who dresses like a clown, slings garbage or, like Sean O'Haire, attempts to manipulate our minds into believing that wrong is actually right.
Jones' reputation may precede him, but it shouldn't define his career as a sports entertainer. And, it certainly shouldn't be seen as anything more than a means to personal success with WWE — not as a way to promote violence or unfavorable behavior.
