By day, Joel Bateman clocks into his government office in Melbourne, a figure of routine professionalism. By night, he steps into a very different arena — one filled with blood, barbed wire, glass panes, cactus plants, and even whipper snippers. For Bateman and a growing community of Australians, this is the reality of deathmatch wrestling — a brutal, controversial, and surprisingly structured subculture where violence becomes performance art.
At first glance, deathmatches look like sheer chaos. Light tubes shatter, thumbtacks pierce skin, and bodies are hurled into barbed wire. Yet beneath the spectacle lies a tightly woven fabric of trust, culture, and identity. For those who take part, the blood is real, but so too are the connections, the catharsis, and the community built around this extreme corner of wrestling.
The Art of Blood and Broken Glass
Deathmatch wrestling is not a mainstream sport. It sits at the furthest edge of professional wrestling, a subgenre that transforms standard contests into spectacles of mayhem. If mainstream promotions like WWE rely on polished storylines and pyrotechnics, and hardcore wrestling leans on chairs, ladders, and tables, then deathmatches take things further — fluorescent tubes, gusset plates, barbed wire, and fire become the norm.
“The fluorescent light tube is the staple,” Bateman explains, noting how environmental restrictions have even made these tools harder to find. To adapt, wrestlers improvise with household items — staplers, cinder blocks, guitars bought off Facebook Marketplace. The props are real, and so are the injuries, but every act is carefully rehearsed and executed with trust.
As Bateman puts it, deathmatches are “like the Police Academy stunt show crossed with a live-action horror film.” The artistry lies not in avoiding harm altogether, but in bleeding safely — knowing exactly where and how to cut, smash, or pierce the body without causing permanent damage.
Double Lives: Government Workers, Teachers, Wrestlers
The brutality on display often masks the surprising lives of its participants. By day, they blend into workplaces and classrooms. Bateman manages paperwork in an office. His peer, Jordan Whyte, studies to become a primary school teacher. Yet after hours, they transform into performers who smash light tubes across foreheads and set themselves on fire.
Whyte recalls his debut deathmatch in Sydney. “The first time I got hit was with a glass tube. I thought I was sweating, but then I wiped my face and realised I was gushing blood.” Hours later, he returned to class as just another education student.
The balancing act is delicate. Some wrestlers worry about professional fallout. Whyte admits uncertainty: should he leave the sport once he begins teaching children? Or could he balance both identities? His concern reflects a larger truth: deathmatch wrestling is not just about pain, but about identity, self-expression, and personal escape.
Controversy and Stigma
Deathmatch wrestling has long been accused of being “organised barbarism.” Critics argue that it glorifies violence, requires little skill, and risks serious injury to both performers and audiences. Even within wrestling circles, the stigma runs deep. Promotions often refuse to book wrestlers associated with the style, and mainstream companies like WWE shifted toward family-friendly programming years ago.
The controversy is not without cause. In the 1990s, American and Japanese promotions popularised increasingly dangerous spectacles. Frontier Martial-Arts Wrestling in Japan staged “Exploding Ring Death Matches,” where barbed wire triggered detonations. In the United States, Extreme Championship Wrestling (ECW) pushed weekly shows filled with dangerous stunts. Some ended in tragedy — wrestlers severely injured, or worse, when stunts went wrong.
Still, performers like Bateman argue the subculture has evolved. He points to five years of running his Melbourne-based promotion, Deathmatch Downunder, without a single insurance complaint or serious fan injury. Instead, he insists, the shows create a safe and inclusive environment where participants know exactly what risks they are taking.
A Fragile Australian Scene
Australia’s deathmatch scene has been through cycles of boom and bust. In the early 2000s, crowd sizes dwindled after negative media coverage painted the shows as reckless bloodbaths. A once-thriving community of over 1,200 attendees shrank to a few dozen.
Today, the revival is cautious but steady. According to Bateman, there are 30 to 40 active deathmatch wrestlers in Australia, with small promotions in Melbourne and Sydney drawing loyal crowds. Local veterans like KrackerJak and Mad Dog paved the way, proving that the style could survive long-term.
Yet survival remains precarious. Venues hesitate to host matches for fear of reputational damage. Public opinion still leans toward skepticism. For many performers, wrestling in this style means living on the fringe, with limited bookings and fewer career opportunities.
Beyond Violence: Identity and Belonging
For Bateman, the blood and broken glass are only part of the story. Deathmatch wrestling also became the stage for reclaiming his identity as a Wotjobaluk man.
“For years, I pushed down my Aboriginality in the wrestling world,” he says. Racism and bullying discouraged him from bringing his heritage into the ring. That changed after 2020, when the Black Lives Matter movement gave him the confidence to step into his shows wearing the Aboriginal flag and entering to Solid Rock, a song about land rights.
His choice sparked a profound reaction. At one event, he recalls, he finished his match in tears — only to open his eyes and see the crowd on its feet in a standing ovation. What had begun as performance art had become cultural expression.
The change also opened doors for others. Bateman now mentors First Nations wrestlers, encouraging them to embrace their heritage. While the number of Indigenous wrestlers in Australia remains small, he sees each step forward as a victory.
Building Safe Spaces Amid Violence
Ironically, while deathmatches are synonymous with violence, Bateman has built his promotion around safety and inclusivity. Launching during the wrestling industry’s #SpeakingOut movement — which exposed systemic abuse and harassment — he prioritised trust, transparency, and respect.
His shows have become safe havens for performers and fans alike. Some attendees, including trans and queer individuals, use the events as spaces to present their authentic selves for the first time. “That means the world to me,” Bateman says. For him, wrestling is not just about shocking the crowd — it’s about creating community.
Even the injuries, he argues, carry their own symbolism. Cuts and bruises are reminders of resilience, physical manifestations of performance art that challenges the body while bonding the community.
A Divided Future
The future of deathmatch wrestling in Australia remains uncertain. On one hand, it is gaining acceptance. More fans are drawn to its raw authenticity, a counterpoint to the polished spectacle of global promotions. On the other, the stigma persists, keeping it confined to small venues and fringe audiences.
For wrestlers like Bateman and Whyte, the choice is personal. They know the risks, embrace the stigma, and accept the pain. What keeps them stepping back into the ring is not just the blood, but the sense of belonging, identity, and release that comes with it.
As Bateman reflects, “The world is a tough place in 2025. But when you walk through those doors, the real world stops. In here, you can be your authentic self.”
Whether viewed as art, chaos, or simply organised mayhem, deathmatch wrestling survives because it offers something mainstream culture often cannot: a space where the extraordinary, the violent, and the vulnerable coexist — and where broken glass can sometimes build the strongest bonds.
