Sympathy for the Devil: How the Snowdens Became Team MJF
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.
Maxwell Jacob Friedman, the AEW champion who defends his title this afternoon in front of a record-setting audience of more than 80,000 fans, is different.
I knew it immediately when we first met backstage at Cicero Stadium where Major League Wrestling was holding one of its endless television tapings back in 2019. Photographer Ryan Loco and I had just begun our ill-fated attempt to document the wild, unhinged world of independent wrestling and there was no better place to do it than the Chicago suburbs.
It was, honestly, an incredible night. Court Bauer and company were a step ahead of the game at the time, featuring a number of acts that would go on to become mainstays of major promotions, as well as some old favorites like Low-Ki and LA Park who brought both veteran presence and an air of violent unpredictability.
Jacob Fatu jumped off the top of the cage to crush poor Tom Lawlor (“thanks brother,” he whispered as Tom laid motionless on the mat. He hadn’t felt a thing), the Lucha Brothers flew into the crowd and Park had an insanely sloppy and wildly entertaining bloodbath with Mance Warner.
In the midst of all this chaos, the act that stood out to us the most was MJF.
By this point we had both met a bunch of wrestlers. We’d photograph them for a book of portraits we haven’t quit gotten around to compiling, shoot the shit, and interview them about their lives—if they were up for it. There were certified weirdos (hey Teddy Hart!) who were happy to comply and gentle giants who decided it wasn’t right for them (Fatu prefers an air of mystery).
But, while everyone was working us to some extent (because that’s what wrestlers do) no one was in kayfabe mode. No one, that is, except MJF.
Low-Ki came out of character, deep booming voice sharing the story of his struggle. Jim Cornette turned it down a few notches. Later Pierre Oulette would walk us through his process of becoming PCO, transforming into a modern Frankenstein’s monster in a bathroom backstage at the Crockett Cup. Even Nikita Koloff abandoned his Russian accent.
MJF? He was MJF both before and after the recorder went off. Sure, there were glimpses of Maxwell Tyler Friedman, like when he asked Ryan to use his photograph for the website he was building or chatted with me about his love of Mid-South Wrestling. But he never completely abandoned character, a fascinating decision for a 22-year-old in the year of our Lord 2019 when most wrestlers, even the baddies, couldn’t help but use the fans on social media as a constant source of validation and sympathy. Wrestlers on the internet are dying to tell you that, while they are mean and vicious on-screen, they’re nice, caring, normal people in real life. They have insecurities and fears and want nothing more than to share them with the world via a social media megaphone.
Not MJF.
There is an irony to his determination to maintain a distance between Max and MJF—it makes people want to know who he really is more than ever. There’s a power in withholding, of not giving people what they think they want. It would be easy to cave in. To take a normal picture with a fan instead of looking bored and put out. To tell a story from his real life for reasons other than moving a wrestling story forward.
But easy isn’t often the path to greatness. Much can be learned from his ascension to the top of the sport if you care to consider it.
A few months later, now less than a month before AEW’s debut on pay-per-view, MJF sat across the kind of cheap table Sabu might have crashed through at an ECW house show for an interview before an MLW event in Milwaukee. My wife Kristina and I were so enamored with the promotion that we had started working for Court on a behind-the-scenes podcast. It was a lot of fun, if ultimately too cost-prohibitive to stick with for the long haul. MJF and the Dynasty, a modern interpretation of the Four Horsemen with a mix of Ted DiBiase tossed in the blender, were our favorite act—but after our experience in Chicago, I wasn’t 100 percent sure what to expect.
You can listen for yourself if you want to hear MJF insult me, insinuate he’d slept with Kristina and generally make a spectacle of any attempt at a serious interview. It was both frustrating and exhilarating to be part of the show like that, for a moment inside the world of wrestling instead of merely observing it as a construct. More than ever, it felt like this kid had something special, that he wasn’t just fighting for an opportunity—he was cultivating greatness. And knew it.
When we went to see Double or Nothing in Las Vegas, lots of fans were there representing their favorites. Bullet Club black, especially, was everywhere. Us? We were there with matching Burberry scarves. Team MJF.
Then, now, forever.
A lot, of course, has happened between that amazing night and the main event of the promotion’s historically significant Wembley Stadium supershow this afternoon. As usual with MJF, the bulk of it played out in a world somewhere between reality and fantasy. The sweet spot for professional wrestling, even in the time of podcasts and the Gram. Did he really leave the promotion in a huff, hold up Tony Khan for a mega-contract and create havoc backstage? Who can say? It’s in the gray that legends take shape.
Most interesting has been his transformation into a beloved fan favorite. Smartly using snippets from his real life to humanize what could have been a flat portrayal of comic book villainy, Max has finally become the centerpiece of the promotion. He’d been champion before, but it was one of those WWE-style reigns where having the belt didn’t equate to being completely in focus as the company’s top act. This time, with a string of incredibly fun skits with the equally charismatic Adam Cole, Max is the lead character at last, a young man on top of the world trying to find someone to share his joy with.
The new Max will be put to the test when he defends his title against Cole in front of more than 80,000 fans in London (Buy on PPV). Most expect he’ll turn back to the darkside, abandoning his friendship with Cole for the safer path of the unfeeling mercenary, heart-hardened to the kind of real relationships that come with risk attached.
But I’m not so sure.
Max is a careful student of wrestling history. As such, he likely knows that many of the most important money-drawing babyfaces started as heels, maintaining that edge even as fans embraced them. Dusty Rhodes was “Dirty” before he was the “American Dream.” Stone Cold was just as vicious when fans cheered as when they booed. Even a few months ago it might have seemed blasphemous to put Max in a category with men like that. But now—it seems his inevitable due. The crown is already sitting comfortably on his head. Keeping it there is a different trick. But if anyone can pull it off, it’s Maxwell Jacob Friedman.
Never bet against the devil.