When Paul Levesque, better known as Triple H, walked through the White House on Thursday in the style of one of his signature WrestleMania entrances, it was no mere photo op. He was there to announce the return of the Presidential Fitness Test — a once-iconic programme that measured the physical performance of American schoolchildren through pull-ups, sit-ups, and a timed mile run.

The test, which used objective benchmarks of excellence, was phased out in 2012. Critics argued that it humiliated less athletic students and pushed schools toward more subjective, individualised standards instead. Its welcome return could address America’s childhood obesity crisis — 20% of children and adolescents in the US are obese — and declining physical fitness standards. But having Triple H, who presides over a company that has been investigated multiple times for health and safety issues, lead this effort is yet another clear signal that the administration values spectacle over substance.

This is, after all, a man who once tore his quadriceps so badly you could see the muscle rolled up under his skin; who told his nutritionist Dave Palumbo he’d “love to” take large doses of steroids; and who retired after cardiac issues suspiciously similar to those seen in long-term performance-enhancing drug users. He is now becoming the face of American youth fitness.

Clearly, there is something in the theatre of WWE that Trump utilises in his own line of work. Better than anyone before or since, Trump mastered the wrestling promoter’s understanding that television doesn’t just broadcast reality but creates it, turning every appearance into a worked shoot where the audience can’t tell what’s genuine. His braggadocious persona, honed through decades of tabloid coverage, reality TV, and occasional pro wrestling appearances, mirrors the larger-than-life characters who succeed in wrestling by making outrageous claims seem plausible through sheer force of personality. Americans respond to this because, like wrestling fans, they’d rather be entertained and perhaps even taken advantage of by someone who admits the system is rigged than bored by someone who pretends it isn’t.

This sort of thing is like mother’s milk for the young men who form WWE and UFC’s core audience, that crucial 18-29 demographic where Trump made significant gains in 2024. They’re increasingly choosing between alternative institutions and personalities that respect their interests, such as Joe Rogan, Sam Hyde, and the Nelk Boys versus the seemingly too-woke NBA or now-cancelled late night host Stephen Colbert. Triple H understands this dynamic well. That’s why he can serve as the face of children’s fitness programming while embodying everything problematic about modern athletics.

The parallels with Dana White are instructive. Both men have transformed their properties from fringe entertainment into MAGA cultural touchstones through a combination of personal loyalty to Trump and understanding of their audience’s politics. When Trump appeared at UFC 309 flanked by Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and Elon Musk, with Jon Jones doing the “Trump dance” after his victory, it felt like a coronation. WWE offers something complementary: explicitly theatrical politics where the kind of aggressive performance perfected by Trump is the point. While UFC serves up authentic violence and spectacle, WWE delivers scripted performances that shape reality through violent narrative.

In Trump’s America, contradiction is not a bug — it’s the feature. The blend of WWE performance and MAGA politics no longer jars, because politics itself has become performance. In the society of the spectacle, credibility is optional. What matters is the show.

---

Oliver Bateman is a historian and journalist based in Pittsburgh. He blogs, vlogs, and podcasts at his Substack, Oliver Bateman Does the Work

MoustacheClubUS

---