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If you follow combat sports online, you’ve no doubt heard more than you ever cared to about “the bag,” that metaphorical sack of money waiting at the end of the rainbow for successful athletes and promoters.

Who got the bag?

Who fumbled it?

Just how big was this bag anyway? What does that thing weigh?

In our world, at least, you can trace the concept back to 1964 and the great Muhammad Ali sitting on a literal pile of cash like the world’s prettiest Scrooge McDuck. In modern popular culture, it’s more generally associated with hustle culture and illicit activity. Whatever its origin, at this point enough 37-year-old podcasters have searched the term on Urban Dictionary to make it truly ubiquitous—yet another piece of slang sacrificed at the hands of the media class.

I kind of hate it.

Worse, most of the time it’s used completely inappropriately, generally by people who don’t truly understand the economics of the fight game. There is no “bag” to be dropped when a promoter decides which replacement-level midcarder to push in a wrestling company. The result is the same either way, at least financially. Even most “stars” do little to generate income in the modern era on an individual level. In WWE and UFC, for example, “the bag” was secured some time ago courtesy of gargantuan media rights deals. UFC doesn’t even need to draw on pay-per-view any more. ESPN simply pays them a fee for the privilege of having exclusive access to their product.

Same for WWE and Peacock.

There are rare cases, however, when something truly Earth shattering happens and a bag poofs into existence, money brimming over the top in rubber-band stacks. The only thing missing is a cartoon leprechaun to signify you’ve indeed found a pot of gold.

Generally a bag is generated by something beyond anyone’s control, a freak event that happens to capture the attention of the audience in a unique way. You can try to will it into existence, but the best anyone can do is manipulate the correct conditions for launch. The bag has a mind of its own.

Most recently, in the world of fisticuffs, former UFC champion Francis Ngannou made himself richer than Louis XIV by knocking Tyson Fury on his ass, a shocking moment that created a new, highly lucrative career as a boxing opponent. A classic bag grab if there ever was one. Conor McGregor had done something similar a few years earlier, capturing the world’s notice with a combination of title victories, force of personality and a years-long meltdown that made him irresistible tabloid fodder.

In WWE, they sometimes call “the bag” the “brass ring.” Talent is encouraged to grab it, but it’s not as simple as it sounds. Institutional forces exist to prevent anyone from truly standing out. It’s easier, after all, if the brand remains the real attraction, absent any of the unpredictability that comes with a human being rocketed into stardom. Years ago Hulk Hogan and then “Stone Cold” Steve Austin created personas so powerful they launched eras and iconic events like WrestleMania.

Today WWE attempts to use WrestleMania to launch new talent—a subtle, but not unimportant distinction.

When an act gets hot in WWE, there are eight billion reasons to take things slow and focus group it. There are, after all, television and merchandising partners around the globe to consider. You can turn a giant freighter around with enough steam—but it’s not something that happens on a dime.

AEW, the new competitor you might have seen all over the Turner Networks, isn’t limited by those same kinds of corporate constraints. They are nimble, a one-man decision-making shop that consists of owner Tony Khan and Tony Khan alone. Although he’s aided and abetted by whichever wrestlers have his ear at a particular moment in time, decisions come from the top, with almost no institutional filters at all.

Because of his father’s great wealth, Khan and AEW don’t even have any financial partners to convince and assuage. Simply put, he can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants. When opportunity knocks, they can yank open the door as quickly as they want to and invite it right in.

That’s why I’m more than a little surprised they haven’t done much to capitalize on the giant bag left in the wake of CM Punk’s departure, bundles of Ben Franklins stacked neatly, waiting for someone bold enough to pick them up. Forget for a moment about the cash being lit on fire—it’s all a tax write-off for someone in the Khan bracket. More important is the once-in-a-generation opportunity to capture an industry’s attention, something a secondary brand should go to bed and wake up thinking about.

If you don’t know the story, the Cliff Notes version is this: CM Punk, an avatar representing the hopes and dreams of dissatisfied WWE fans, left wrestling’s biggest company in 2014, leaving ill will, lawsuits and a growing legend in his wake. For years, whenever they were unhappy, WWE fans would chant his name, feeling comfort in the very idea of change he’d come to represent.

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In 2019, All Elite Wrestling launched, attracting many of these lapsed and unhappy fans, bringing to life a vision of professional wrestling that rewarded ability and talent ahead of big muscles and bland good looks crafted in a factory to be perfect for pillow cases, television commercials and B-movies. They were the sons of CM Punk in a way, taking a dream he’d articulated in pipe bomb promos and shade-filled social media posts and having the balls to bring it to life.

Two years later, Punk joined the party to an earth-shattering roar. Ratings went up, incrementally if not massively, and the promotion appeared poised for big things. But Punk didn’t seem to fit in well with the existing ethos of AEW, clashing behind the scenes while dealing with injuries in the ring. It culminated with a backstage scuffle with the Young Bucks and Kenny Omega, the men who literally put the “Elite” in All Elite Wrestling, that left the entire company (and the wrestling internet) in an uproar.

When things eventually settled down, Punk was put on a different television program than his political rivals, the promotion split in two to keep the peace. But that didn’t prove sustainable. At an event in London, where AEW drew a record crowd, Phil Brooks, the wrestler who plays CM Punk, sucked all the oxygen out of the room with yet another backstage fight (described in hilarious fashion by DJ Whoo Kid). This time he was fired, only to return “home” to WWE, mixing oil and water in a way that surely won’t backfire on everyone involved.

At the time Khan and others in the company were incensed that Punk had stolen their moment. AEW had drawn a huge crowd at Wembley Stadium, arguably the biggest in wrestling history, but the media and fans were firmly focused on the Punk fiasco instead of the promotion’s finest hour.

But that steaming pile of crap Punk left on their doorstep on his way out was actually a gift. Instead of hiding behind non-disclosure agreements and attempting to move forward with storylines that could never be as compelling as the real-life drama playing out in whispers and innuendo, Khan and AEW should have used the fertilizer Punk provided to grow the biggest angle in the history of the company.

This week the Young Bucks came back to AEW television after a brief absence. This iteration of the polarizing tag team is being portrayed as a pair of heels—you can tell by their pouting faces, smirks, and mustaches. They’ll be paired with Sting in the legend’s final match in Greensboro. It was an announcement that generated a mixed response online. In truth, they’ve been treading water since the original confrontation with Punk, proxies in an online war between WWE diehards, podcasters sensing an opportunity to make waves and AEW diehards who believe the promotion can do no wrong.

It’s unlikely that this will be the angle or match that powers them out of the jello-mold that threatens to hold their careers in stasis until they retire. Without something truly remarkable happening, they will be the guys who got into a scrap with CM Punk until the day they die. No mere wrestling angle can generate the torque to get the good ship Young Bucks back out on open waters again.

So why not play into it?

What if, instead of this halfway presentation where they once again play winking bad guys, every ounce of their beings screaming “hey, we aren’t serious about this,” they really go for it?

It’s not too late.

The Bucks could come out at any point, look directly into the camera, and take credit for pushing Punk out of AEW (if, for some reason, they are prohibited from saying Punk’s name, they can simply refer to him as “that guy from Chicago”). Instead of hiding from it and talking about everything but the elephant in the room, I’d recommend taking ownership of the situation and creating art from the chaos.

It doesn’t matter whether what they say is “true” or “real” or “fair.” It’s not the debate club and no one is checking the citations for accuracy. The real life beef was between the Bucks and Phil Brooks. CM Punk is just a wrestling character—and fair game.

The Bucks can say whatever they want. On social media. On the mic. In media “scrums.” It’s all part of the game. It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not, as long as the people care.

One of the most enlightening moments from my MMA writing career came during an interview with Chael Sonnen. I’d known Chael for years and was amazed as he reinvented himself as a main eventer by spewing lie after lie. His life changed, he told me, when he realized he wasn’t under oath. He could tell the media whatever he wanted and make the most brazen claims imaginable. This was, after all, the entertainment business.

Wrestlers, who exist in a world that’s 75 percent fiction, have even more leeway to say whatever they want, so long as it gets fans invested in their act.

Punk himself isn’t there to work opposite the Bucks in the hottest match in AEW history. That would have been the ideal response to the original drama. Injury and hurt feelings prevented it. After a second physical interaction, even after the company made numerous concessions to make him happy, that just wasn’t possible.

But Punk wasn’t without his allies, loudest among them a team that should have already re-written wrestling history with the Bucks. I’m talking, of course, about FTR, Punk supporters long after that was likely a solid position to take in the company, sold on the alliance to the point they tried desperately to make “CMFTR” happen. FTR could serve as Punk’s proxies here, berating the Bucks for their selfishness and going hard in defense of their buddy and wrestling tradition.

A feud between the two teams was simmering perfectly thanks to the Bucks making The Revival a regular part of their YouTube show Being the Elite. For whatever reason, it never really heated up to boiling once FTR joined AEW. Whether it was ego, anger or just plain bad booking, the two teams never really got it cooking—but this could be the added spice that finally makes it work.

The best part about this potential feud is that the fans have already done most of the work. Usually you have to be firing on all cylinders to make anyone care about a wrestling angle, to invest emotionally in something they know intellectually isn’t real. Fans here are all in. They’ve created dueling narratives and are just waiting for confirmation their pet theories are correct.

Are the Bucks out of control EVPs who couldn’t stand the idea of a bigger star pushing past them in the hierarchy? Or are Punk and his crew violent narcissists who secretly believe they are better than the promotion that employs them and the fans who pay the bills simply because they’ve spent time in the big leagues?

I’d love to see the Bucks and AEW get the last laugh, doing exactly what their detractors claim they can’t. Are they more than moves guys and a winking meta-act that refuses to take wrestling seriously as anything more than cosplay as critics insist? Or are they capable of delivering a hate-filled, passionate, irony-free feud for the ages?

FTR, likewise, has shown the capacity to execute in the ring. But they’ve yet to prove they can be the whole package, creating stories and promos that pack an emotional punch. There’s only so many times Dax can reference his daughter in an attempt at connecting with the crowd. Right now their defining ethos is fandom. But simply being a fan of wrestlers from the 90s doesn’t resonate broadly or create anything that stands the test of time. Being a guy who likes and copies old wrestlers is not a character—or at least not a good one.

This is a chance to grow the act beyond the cliches and copycat stuff and enter the rarefied air their idols all breathed. People don’t remember Bret Hart because of spots he borrowed from wrestlers he’d seen growing up in Calgary. They remember him because he made them feel something. Nostalgia can never do that. The emotion doesn’t belong to them. It was generated long before—a cosplay act is merely reminding the audience of better times.

Wrestling fans have shown an insatiable desire to talk about the Punk wars. This feud is being booked one way or another, whether in hearts and minds online or on the SuperStation TBS. "Brawl In” isn’t going away. Why not focus that energy and those pent up emotions some place they have value, like AEW’s wrestling programming? As the ratings continue to decline, you have to wonder—what do you have to lose?

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Jonathan Snowden is a long-time combat sports journalist. His books include Total MMA, Shooters and Shamrock: The World’s Most Dangerous Man. His work has appeared in USA Today, Bleacher Report, Fox Sports and The Ringer. Subscribe to this newsletter to keep up with his latest work.

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