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Pro wrestling has always lived at the intersection of athleticism and storytelling. You can be the greatest worker on the planet, able to hit every move flawlessly and put on five-star matches, but that doesn’t guarantee stardom. The truth is, what separates “good hands” from stars is not just skill in the ring—it’s the ability to connect, to talk, to build a character people care about.

As a veteran who has been in this business, I’ve seen both sides. I’ve been the guy taking the bumps, chasing the crowd reaction, and I’ve felt the wear and tear years later. And I’ve also seen how charisma—whether in the form of promos, presence, or even just being willing to run your mouth—can elevate a career far beyond what “great matches” alone ever could.

Kevin Owens, Raven, Arn Anderson, Ric Flair, and even today’s independent names like Eli Everfly all reflect this timeless truth: star power is what lasts.

Back in 2005, Kevin Steen (the future Kevin Owens) and Sami Zayn were in an airport when they spotted Stone Cold Steve Austin. Steen worked up the courage to ask Austin for advice on how to make it in wrestling. Austin’s answer wasn’t about wristlocks, suplexes, or conditioning drills.

> “Just keep running your mouth. Forget those crazy moves—they’ll kill you. You gotta learn how to cut a promo.”

That advice would shape Steen’s trajectory. At the time, Steen was already a well-respected independent wrestler. He could work with anyone, and he had a reputation as a hard-hitting, creative performer. But it was when he leaned into his ability to talk, to make people believe in his words as much as his moves, that his career truly took off.

By 2014, he signed with WWE, debuting in NXT as Kevin Owens. He didn’t look like the stereotypical star—but he felt like one because of his promos, his conviction, and his ability to back up every word he said.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Owens’ rise wasn’t built on changing his moveset—it was built on how he presented himself. His matches stayed intense and physical, but he carried himself like a man with something to say. He turned Austin’s advice into a roadmap, using his voice to stand out from thousands of others who could wrestle just as well.

This is the lesson most wrestlers miss. Being a great worker is important, but being a star is about much more than just what happens bell-to-bell.

This isn’t a new idea. Raven talked about it in his Secrets of the Ring videos back in the Ring of Honor days. He stressed that wrestling is about being memorable. If fans leave the building talking about you, you’ve done your job.

Raven put it bluntly: a “good hand” will always have a place, but rarely on top. Promoters trust them to have good matches, to get others over, to be reliable. But if you want to draw, if you want to headline, if you want to become more than a cog in the machine—you need to prioritize star power.

Charisma trumps clean wristlocks every time.

There’s a brutal irony in being technically great. The better you are, the more you get used—often to make others look good.

The industry has always had its “good hands.” These are the guys promoters can count on to guide green talent, carry weaker opponents, and deliver matches that keep a show strong from start to finish. But they rarely get the promo time, the character development, or the marketing push.

Instead, they quietly become the foundation others build careers on.

Take Arn Anderson and Ric Flair. Arn was as good as anyone in terms of ring psychology, storytelling, and execution. He could make any opponent look credible, and he elevated countless wrestlers on their way up the card. But Arn didn’t have the flash, the charisma, the strut, or the box office appeal of Ric Flair.

Ric Flair wasn’t just a great worker—he was The Man. He had the promos, the persona, the image that transcended the ring. Arn was the mechanic; Flair was the star.

And that’s why Flair became a cultural icon, while Arn became the respected “good hand” who others were tested against before moving on to bigger stages.

Here’s the other cruel truth: being a good hand often shortens your career.

When your value comes from delivering consistent, high-level matches, your bump card fills up fast. You’re asked to take the big moves, the hard landings, the grind of constant performance. Meanwhile, stars who lean into promos and character can save their bodies. They wrestle less, but get paid more.

It’s not about who’s tougher—it’s about who’s smarter in the long game.

On today’s independent scene, one of the most compelling names is Eli Everfly. Based in Los Angeles, he’s been making waves with his fearless, high-flying style. He was named Southern California Wrestler of the Year in 2017 and has competed across major indie promotions. Fans know him for his daredevil bumps, his reckless abandon, and the way he pops crowds with jaw-dropping sequences

But here’s the thing: Eli also has a strong presence online. He’s not afraid to run his mouth. He’s been known to talk trash about older generations of wrestlers, questioning whether they could cut it in today’s faster, flashier style. It annoys people. It stirs the pot. But it’s believable. And in wrestling, believability is currency.

As a veteran, I want to say this: Eli, you don’t have to take every crazy bump to stand out. Trust me—I know how good it feels in the moment. You hit that move, the crowd explodes, and for a second you feel immortal. But years later, your body reminds you that you’re not. Ankles, knees, back, shoulders—it all catches up. I learned that the hard way.

When I was younger, I thought nothing of throwing myself around to get that reaction. Now, I feel every one of those choices. Some mornings, it’s a struggle just to get moving. That’s the tradeoff for chasing short-term pops instead of protecting your long-term future.

Eli already has the gift most wrestlers spend years trying to find: a persona that makes people react. If he leaned more into the abrasive online voice, if he developed that into promos and character work, he could make money without sacrificing his body every night. The crowd would still know he can deliver, but he’d be saving those moments for when they count most.

I don’t tell anyone what to do with their career—that’s personal. But I see in Eli a chance to become more than just “the guy who takes insane bumps.” I see someone who could be a real star if he channels his energy in the right direction.

If Eli wants a model, he doesn’t have to look further than Kevin Owens. Owens found the balance—he still has physical, believable matches, but he talks just as much as he wrestles. He doesn’t waste bumps; he makes them mean something. And because of that, he’s had longevity at the top level.

For wrestlers: Don’t just work harder in the ring—work smarter outside of it. Learn to talk. Learn to connect. Build a persona people can’t ignore. Protect your bump card.

For fans: Appreciate the good hands. They make wrestling possible. But understand why the stars get remembered. It’s not because they were necessarily better in the ring—it’s because they were larger than life.

From Kevin Steen taking Stone Cold’s advice in an airport, to Raven’s lessons about charisma, to Arn Anderson’s unheralded sacrifices compared to Ric Flair’s superstardom, the truth is clear: star power drives wrestling.

On the indie scene, Eli Everfly embodies both the promise and the pitfalls of this lesson. He has the presence, he has the voice, and if he leans into that instead of burning himself out with endless bumps, he has the chance to be something bigger.

Because at the end of the day, wrestling remembers those who ran their mouth—and had the presence to back it up.