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The following Mitchell's Take was originally published on PWTorch.com two years ago, on Feb. 6, 2001...

Original Headline: "One Way Or Another McMahon Wins Big"

Geez, anybody hear how that XFL thing worked out?

First, the single best thing about the new league: Only one egomaniacal owner.

Actually, the debut of the XFL this weekend was one of those perfect media storms, encompassing everything that talking heads, whether they're manic sports nuts or somber salon "state of the Republic" types love to chatter on and on about.

(No need to note the irony of me doing just that for the last two takes...)

Here were those old stand-bys, sex 'n' violence, plus the national religion of football blasphemed, all served up by a man and a business that the mainstream media can attack with impunity. It was that rarity, a chance to tsk-tsk at the great unwashed and the great lowering of the national tone, without offending any of the real power or money centers in this country.

Jim Ross and Jerry Lawler ought to be honored. Noted USA Today TV Ass-kisser Rudy Martzke ripped them, something he's afraid to do to almost anyone else in broadcasting. These critics know exactly who they can afford to offend.

Don't fool yourself. All of those pundits supposedly sniping at each other from one side or another of the Right or Left are really just cogs in the Great Corporate Middle. Their disputes are as contrived as that Right to Censor versus Right to Nudity debate on Raw.

That's why the XFL was the perfect topic. These people could choose one of two poses, either the Last Soldier in the Culture War, or the Edgy Rebel Sticking it to the Man. All Vince had to do was push the buttons and the avalanche of talk began, enough to drive the curiosity factor for what was just, at the end of the day, sloppily played minor league football.

The critics missed the real issue (no player insurance or union), ludicrously focusing on the supposed ratcheted-up violence. (Where? It was just a football game) And the horrible sex. (Where? Cheerleaders are cheerleaders). The smut level of those Quarterback/Cheerleader skits was on par with an old Newlywed Game. Sure, they were cringe-inducing, but so is the Super Bowl Pregame.

Some of the critics astutely noticed the main play-by-play guy and Governor Body didn't seem to know much about the players. What were they supposed to say, "He Hate Him is not only grammatically challenged, he washed out of NFL training camps on four separate occasions." That really ought to get the ol' pulse pounding, huh?

The rest was familiar to wrestling fans everywhere: Ventura yelling about players who don't play for money, but "for the love of the game." Like that somehow makes them better players. (What are you playing for, Governor?), Vince's gravel voice, cheesy wrestling promos, bad "reporters," a frenetic pace that goes mostly nowhere, Jim Ross's signature over-selling, spazzing out like no one ever made a touchdown before. Lawler's old goat act, an embarrassment in its new setting.

And what impression are football fans left with at the end of a noisy weekend?

Something, like "The football sucked, but that Vince McMahon guy, he's a promotional genius."


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