CM Punk, Please Come Back to Wrestling

Time moves in strange ways in pro wrestling, where careers are long but runs at the top are short. Stone Cold Steve Austin’s run as the biggest thing in pro-wrestling history lasted a scant five years. Hulkamania, the great thumbprint of pro wrestling on the broader popular culture, lasted nine (and arguably only about six); Randy Savage’s top-of-the-card status in the WWF, only two. The careers of John Cena, Hiroshi Tanahashi, and Ric Flair in his prime are the outliers, with their decade-plus runs dwelling at or near the top of a single promotion.

All of which is to say that it feels odd that CM Punk is still retired. It feels bad. Punk retired from WWE in 2014. He simply walked away and never returned. That was about one Steve Austin ago. Half a Hulkamania, or two Randy Savages.

The story is well known by now: CM Punk, after a record-setting reign as WWE champion, lost the title to The Rock in order to set up Cena vs. The Rock II at WrestleMania 29. After that, he was slowly deemphasized. He had storylines—he was too big and well-known not to—but the title was back on bigger, beefier guys.

A few months before WrestleMania 30, Punk left. He was, he said, burned out and sick. He claimed he had a MRSA infection that went undiagnosed by WWE doctors, one that could’ve killed him; WWE’s doctor sued him for defamation, a case that goes to a judge soon. He was on the road too much and enjoying it too little. He had concussions and a torn meniscus. He was hurt.

But it also seemed like he had a broken heart. Punk’s inability to main event a WrestleMania made his career a failure, or so he claimed. Looking back on the entirety of his career, from his start on the national scene in IWA-MS in the early 2000s, through Ring of Honor—WWE’s version of ECW—on to the 434-day title reign, it was so clear to so many that he enjoyed himself. You’d see footage of him in a shitty, rundown gym in suburban Indiana going that extra mile with Chris Hero (now Kassius Ohno in NXT) and he stood out as someone who had “it.” And not just having it, but demanding it.

Punk so clearly exulted in the art of pro wrestling, even if some of the bullshit undoubtedly ground him down. He was and is notoriously prickly, but you’d catch him during a match with an unbidden grin on his face over a good move or exchange. He worked the mic with more skill than anyone in WWE since Austin and The Rock, a skill that is still sorely missed in a promotion where only a handful of men and women are as natural at talking as he was.

There was something old-school about the way he carried himself, and, yeah, he knew it and let you know it, too. From that easy, impromptu shit-talking he made his name on to the Randy Savage trunks he wore, he felt like someone out of time. All pro wrestling calls back to its past in order to establish the idea that the storyline never ends, but not all pro wrestlers sit easily with that (oftentimes contrived) weight or appreciate it. Punk did both. He was CM Punk, but he was also Savage and Tully Blanchard. His appreciation for and updating of the old-school for the postmodern age of wrestling wasn’t affectation. Or, rather, it didn’t seem to be, which is exactly the same thing in pro wrestling.

We know the rest of the story, too. That he decided, at 35 years of age, to start training for UFC. He worked for 18 months and it all fell apart in minutes. He stood there, a cauliflower ear and tears in his eyes, thoroughly beaten by a younger, better man, and it hurt to watch. There was that voice in the back of everyone’s head whispering, What did you expect? That was maybe the worst part of all—What did he expect? Who did he think he was?—and it still felt undeserved.

He’s gone to Chicago sporting events since then. He’s read comic books and been seen out and about with his wife and former pro wrestler, AJ Lee, a legend in her own right. There’s another UFC fight, or so he claims, but there’s little reason to think that, at 39 hurtling towards 40, it will be much different from the last.

But there’s another way for Punk, and for all of us. He can come back to pro wrestling. He can come back to what made him famous and what he was and is one of the best at. All of it: the bullshit backstage, the backstabbing, the constant navigation of egos. And also the crowds, the chants, the interchanges. The violent ballet, the melodrama, the emotional pull and swirl of the storylines.

It doesn’t have to be WWE, though it could be. It could be New Japan, where a viable though distant No. 2 to the corporate McMahonization of pro wrestling is thriving. He could slot where Chris Jericho did, dropping a surprise feud with a known quantity, only sticking around longer, working his way into the title scene, wrestling with a freedom he hasn’t had in more than a decade.

He could go to Ring of Honor, where he was one of the greatest champions, providing a shot in the arm for both the promotion and himself. He could travel the indies, a latter-day territory-style attraction: Come see CM Punk, step right up, see him wrestle the locals! He could parlay his love of comics into a part-time Chikara gig.

One of the things that seemed to burn Punk out the most was how guys like him were given short shrift by WWE in favor of pushing the old (Cena, Randy Orton) or muscle-bound (Sheamus, Ryback). An average-build wrestler with a finesse or technical moveset seemed lost in the shuffle.

But here’s the thing: Punk was right about that not being the way to go, and his argument won. Not completely—Roman Reigns and Brock Lesnar are headlining this year’s WrestleMania—but A.J. Styles is WWE champion and he’s fighting Shinsuke Nakamura. Women’s wrestling in WWE is flourishing. Kevin Owens and Sami Zayn are there. Punk’s old friend Samoa Joe is going to close out his main-event career in WWE. Daniel Bryan was the most over guy in the company around the time Punk left.

The indies are viable and diverse, Japanese wrestling is hotter than it’s been in decades. Punk would have his pick and, importantly, it would be his pick.

I admit to a deep selfishness here. Punk is my age and he’s so eminently recognizable to me. He could’ve been me or any of my friends: suburban or small-town punks skirting a line between achievement and destruction because we found what we love, seemingly by accident, and couldn’t let it go, no matter how silly or pointless everyone else found it.

But I’m not alone in that selfishness. Quite independently of this column, which I’ve been mulling for the better part of a month, Ronda Rousey has recently talked up how great his return would be. And while a WWE return probably wouldn’t be the best route for him, she’s right: He has something special that we’d love to see again. If he can find a way to do that while maintaining the semblance of peace he’s gained in his time away, it would be a great close to a storied career.