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That’s a tough one. It all depends on story and gimmick. Let’s start from the beginning and go from there…

Call me Dare Jordan. Why? Because it sounds like “Air Jordan” and 18-year-old me would’ve found that clever. Like most wrestlers, I’d start as a young, plucky, naive kid breaking into the industry. Someone whose smile hasn’t been wiped by cliques and politics. A dancing fool of a face.
IT’S DARE, UH

…But losing breaks me. In time, I learn a tough lesson about the industry: it pays to have friends. I’m coerced into joining a heel stable and slowly become its leader. I’m now an obnoxious heel who wears oversized coats a la Rollins/Ospreay and I don’t wrestle unless I have stablemates ringside.
STARTING AT 0:17

…Eventually, a young up-and-comer joins the stable and usurps my power. I get a brutal ass-kicking that leaves me on the shelf for months. I return angry and hurt. The fun and games are over. My coats are replaced by black boots and tights. I’m officially in my lone-wolf, brawler phase.
Hurt people hurt people

…But I don't attack my old stable. I'll never admit it but they broke my heart. It hurts too much to even look at them. Instead, I take my anger out on younger wrestlers who remind me of my younger self: kids too naive to know there's no smiling in wrestling, no dancing, no fun allowed. And above all: no friends. If I had to learn that lesson then they should, too. I go on a heelish warpath, obliterating anyone who's remotely happy. Until…

…A talented young wrestler softens me; they thank me for a match and tell me I was their hero growing up. This hits me hard. Maybe these kids aren't so bad? Maybe the happiness they've introduced to this oft-ugly industry is a good thing?
Maybe I’m wrong?

I reconsider my ways. Reluctantly, I stop being a lone-wolf and become a mentor to these younger wrestlers who looked up to me. My smile returns because of theirs. They help me as much as I help them. Soon, their victories become more important than my own. I team with some; dance down the ramp smiling, enjoying myself, remembering the old adage that, Life's too short to drink bad wine.
My ‘We’re all in this together’ phase

…One night, when I’m not around, my former stable kicks the crap out of my “students.” I'm left with no choice but to confront them. We have a multi-tag match and my students and I lose badly. But I don't care. The kids have taught me that winning doesn't matter. It's about building something better for the future…and this young generation's way of doing things–smiling, dancing, being friendly with others–is so much better than what I had to endure.
Time to pass the torch

…Then one of my students wins the title and I attack them from behind, cash-in some weird ‘rematch’ clause I mentioned years prior, and go on a mini-run as an obnoxious, showboating, chicken-shit heel who claims it was their plan all along.
Don’t meet your heroes, kids