Bonnie Hammer, the so-called “Queen of Cable,” shares how she overcame her imposter syndrome and helped turn a niche wrestling franchise into a smash hit.
Over five decades in TV, Bonnie Hammer has earned the title the “Queen of Cable.” As president of Sci-Fi in the 2000s, she doubled the channel’s audience; a few years later as head of USA, she transformed it into cable’s top-rated network; and as NBCUniversal’s current vice chair, she oversaw the launch of the streaming platform Peacock. Along the way, she’s helped the likes of Dakota Fanning and Meghan Markle land their breakout roles and turn the Kardashians into America’s first family, but in a career brimming with remarkable feats one of the accomplishments that stands apart for Hammer is the part she played in remaking WWE into the cultural phenomenon it is today.
In this exclusive excerpt from Hammer’s new book 15 Lies Women Are Told at Work — part memoir, part career advice — the TV exec shares an inside look at how she came to the wrestling franchise with zero knowledge of the sport and turned it into a smash hit.
In the fall of 1995, I was an ambitious 40-something working long hours as the VP of original programming at USA Network, as close to a dream job as I’d ever thought I’d have…until my boss Rod Perth, a talented CBS veteran and all-around good human who was now the network’s president, asked me to drop what I was doing and take on a new task: overseeing the network’s professional wrestling franchise (then known as the World Wrestling Federation, or WWF, now known as WWE). Its live shows were (and still are) legendary. But back then, there wasn’t as much storytelling or character development. The production value for TV viewers wasn’t great, either. And it was up against a franchise on a rival network. Of everyone at USA Network, Rod somehow thought I was the solution.
At the time, I was responsible for heading up many projects at the network, including the Emmy-winning “Erase the Hate” initiative, a series of documentaries, and 30-second TV spots promoting racial and religious inclusion. This assignment came from left field, literally. Rod had given it to me with no warning on a call with other people. While it was framed like an offer, it was really an order. I felt completely miscast, misunderstood, and even mismanaged. I wasn’t just under-experienced; I’d never even seen a wrestling match in my life. Honestly, I never planned to, and I think everyone knew that.
I almost quit. But my husband, a former high school wrestler, convinced me to give it a try. I agreed, figuring I could always quit later if I hated it.
To say I felt like an imposter walking into that first meeting at the surprisingly corporate-looking WWE headquarters in Stamford, Connecticut, with professional wrestlers who doubled as C-suite executives and managers, would be the understatement of the century. It didn’t help that the three people who’d overseen WWE from USA before me were all men with sports management or acquisitions backgrounds, who all knew at least something about wrestling.
I had absolutely no idea what to expect, except for the fact that I would stick out — if I was seen at all.
But with the memory of that week in Los Angeles in my head — and the knowledge that men who looked and acted like better fits hadn’t managed to win the wrestlers over — I shook hands that could have crushed mine completely and sat down around the conference table. When WWE’s chairman and CEO turned to me and said, “So?” I introduced myself. Then I took a deep breath and gave my spiel.
“I have to be honest. Until Rod asked me to do this, I had never watched your show. I’ve still never been to a live match. I know almost nothing about wrestling except what I’ve learned in the past two weeks. I know almost nothing about your business — except that you make your money on live events and merchandising,” I began. “What I do know is how to produce good television, tell good stories, and create good characters. And I know you want to beat the crap out of cable competitor Ted Turner’s WCW (World Championship Wrestling) in the ratings, so I think I can help you there.”
The CEO’s response to my honesty was like the professional wrestler version of that LA editor’s two decades earlier: “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Over the next hour, I sat quietly and listened as the CEO and his panel of executives, writers, wrestlers, and ex-wrestlers delved into the challenges at hand. I didn’t cower in the corner, but I also didn’t interrupt to make myself seem more informed than I was. Free of the pressure that comes with faking it, I was instead able to observe and ask tons of questions. Because I’d made it clear that I knew almost nothing, I had almost everything to learn — especially from the CEO, who’d grown up in the wrestling business and knew every inch of his turf, from the economics to the choreography to the audience, better than anyone.
And I learned a lot.
But I was also able to teach. Because I never claimed to be an expert in something I wasn’t, the expertise I did have — and did stake claim to — was trusted and never doubted.
When I suggested that the CEO hire professional TV writers who could help develop storylines to make the WWE more like a male soap opera — so viewers would keep watching night after night to find out what happens next and feel invested in more than who wins or loses a match — those writers were hired. When I recommended that female WWE wrestlers move beyond “arm candy” status and have actual character development and story arcs — not just because of equality but because there was an entire demographic missing from the audience — it happened. When I was on the phone with the director during a live show and told him exactly when to cut to black — upping the intrigue quotient right before something too naughty and gory for TV viewers — he listened. When I wanted to cast some big WWE faces as guest stars in USA Network shows to raise their profiles, they happily obliged.
I started out with little experience, knowledge, interest, or confidence. But I was able to make up for it all with an outsized willingness to listen and learn from men (and women) with necks the size of my waist. I never pretended to know more than I did. What I did know, though, I shared widely.
Almost 30 years later, working with WWE is still one of the highlights of my career — and one of the craziest and most fun experiences I’ve ever had. I’ve learned that long after, during a chaotic corporate transition, part of why I got a promotion when many of my colleagues got axed was that the new boss was fascinated (and amused) by a 5-foot-4-inch chick who could hold her own with the world’s biggest wrestling stars. He was impressed that I could make it in an environment that was anathema to where I’d come from — and thrive creatively and financially. From this one experience, for which I had no prior experience, he could see my range and my value.
What’s more, I managed to fulfill my original promise from that first meeting. Not only did the ratings pop, WWE’s status as a male soap opera completely transformed the franchise. At the height of its ratings popularity, WWE reached 9 million viewers a night. Eventually, we even drove Ted Turner’s wrestling shows off the air.
And if you enjoy superstars John Cena and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, well, their careers first took off thanks to WWE.
Excerpted from 15 Lies Women Are Told at Work by Bonnie Hammer. Copyright © by Bonnie Hammer. Reprinted by permission of Simon Element, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, LLC.
