“When will TNA pay you?”

Both of my grandmothers asked that question every time they saw me. It became their mantra, their go-to conversation starter for three and a half years straight. Every family dinner, every holiday gathering—same question, same concerned tone.

I never had a good answer. Because the truth—that a Nashville-based wrestling company was paying a Canadian teenager in t-shirts and DVDs—sounded even worse to them than no answer at all.

The Fan Who Became Family

I was fourteen, uploading custom wallpapers to the TNA IMPACT! Community forums in 2004. My art focused on wrestlers like Sting, Jeff Jarrett, AJ Styles, and Monty Brown, among others. Each design was crafted in my parents’ media room, posted between homework assignments.

If I told you I was not angling for a job, I would be lying. Yes, I was a fan who watched their Wednesday night pay-per-views every week, but I wanted to be more than just a fan, I wanted to be a contributor.

Well, my graphic work did the trick. Andy from community management, whose last name escapes me, reached out. He wanted to know if I would help moderate the forums, as well as to contribute graphics that could be featured on TNA’s official site.

I accepted immediately. Then—silence. Andy had left the company before my acceptance even registered.

So, as eager as I was, I contacted TNA directly.

The Xbox Connection

Enter Travis Abraham, the new community manager. Where Andy disappeared, Travis delivered. Not just a position in the TNA IMPACT! Community forums, but eventually responsibilities for launching TNA on MySpace and YouTube.

We became genuine friends. Between forum management and social media strategy, we’d squad up for Halo 2 multiplayer matches on Xbox Live. Professional wrestling meets Master Chief—the early 2000s in a nutshell for me.

But I wanted more. Travis knew it. I kept pushing for a larger role in TNA’s online efforts. When he couldn’t deliver that next level, I did what any ambitious teenager would do.

I went over his head.

The Direct Approach

Lee South was TNA’s triple threat—official photographer, graphic designer, and web developer. I contacted him directly, betting that shared passion would trump protocol.

We clicked immediately. Lee saw something in this persistent Canadian kid and went to bat for me with webmaster Bill Banks. The result? An official position on TNAwrestling.com that would evolve beyond anyone’s expectations.

First, graphic designer. Then, web developer. Finally, content writer for a weekly column—”Cygy’s Corner,” under my pen name Marcus Cygy. When Scott D’Amore wanted his own “Coach’s Corner,” mine became “Cygy’s View.”

Add weekly TNA IMPACT! results and monthly pay-per-view coverage, and suddenly the forum fan had become part of the show.

The AIM University

Lee South became more than a colleague—he became my mentor. Our AIM conversations were my real education.

He’d share code snippets that took my basic HTML and CSS knowledge to professional standards, and Photoshop techniques that transformed my amateur designs into broadcast-quality designs—all best practices that I still use today. Every ping on AOL Instant Messenger usually meant another lesson was coming.

It wasn’t just technical training, though. Lee would share wrestling insider information—storylines being discussed, talent arriving, behind-the-scenes dynamics. For a teenage fan, this was pure gold. He trusted me with knowledge that made me feel like more than just “the kid from Canada.”

Those late-night AIM sessions were my coding bootcamp, design school, and journalism course rolled into one. No tuition required. Just a willingness to learn and a mentor generous enough to teach.

The Library Lunch Sessions

Here’s what my schedule looked like in high school:

• Morning: Classes at Terry Fox Secondary.
• Lunch: Instead of hanging out in the cafeteria or going to Tim Horton’s, I’d slip into the library, claim a computer station, and log into TNA’s web dashboard. While my friends talked about weekend plans, I was updating content, tweaking designs, and helping grow a wrestling brand from a school computer.
• After school: Race to my shift at Blockbuster. $8.00 CAD an hour. Later, $8.25—a raise my grandmothers could understand.
• Evening: Back home to the media room. TNA work until exhaustion won.

The irony? My grandmothers praised the Blockbuster job. That was “real work” with “real money.” The fact that I was building TNA’s digital presence during lunch hour? That was just “playing on computers.”

They couldn’t see that one job was teaching me to alphabetise DVDs while the other was teaching me to build digital empires.

The Currency of Experience

For three and a half years, until September 2007, I worked with total creative freedom. Together with Lee and Dan Burgess, we launched a completely redesigned website in June 2005, timed with their Slammiversary pay-per-view. TNA had momentum—their IMPACT! flagship show would hit Spike TV that October.

This wasn’t some coffee-fetching internship. This was real responsibility. The kind of education that would cost tens of thousands at any institution—if they even taught it.

My payment? DVDs. T-shirts. Memorabilia my grandmothers couldn’t deposit.

Meanwhile, Blockbuster paid $8.25 an hour. Guess which job helped build my career?

The Orlando Validation

In August 2005, me and my family flew to Orlando for TNA’s Sacrifice pay-per-view. Dad, mom, my brother Derek, Nonno Alfredo, and Nonna Maddalena—they were all there with me to witness what this “fake job” had become.

For my Nonno, it meant everything. He introduced me to wrestling in 1994, with five-year-old me on his knee, watching Bret Hart in the WWF on his leather chair. Eleven years later, his grandson wasn’t just watching—he was building a wrestling company’s digital presence.

The t-shirts and DVDs made sense to him. In fact, my Nonno Alfredo was always very proud of my work online, then and now, and I’ve always appreciated that. I’ve always said that he was an Italian homebuilder, while I too am a homebuilder, but in the digital sense, building homes online in the form of websites.

The Call That Validated Everything

By September 2007, I would leave TNA to pursue new opportunities. Within weeks, WWE called.

They wanted me for WWE.com.

The fourteen-year-old who started by uploading wallpapers—who spent lunch hours in the library instead of the cafeteria—had caught the industry giant’s attention. Every forum post, every Halo match with Travis, every column as Marcus Cygy—it all led here.

I turned them down. The position required relocating to Stamford, and I wasn’t ready for that. That almost immediately became a perfect decision because the 2008 financial crisis would have swept me out with 10% of their workforce.

Instead, I enrolled at BCIT, before dropping out to launch BuyRIC in 2009 with my dad, Kris. The TNA experience had taught me that traditional education was optional when you’re already practicing your craft, as long as you have momentum building, which I always did.

As for Blockbuster? They went bankrupt in 2010. But the skills from those library lunch sessions? Those are still paying dividends.

The Real Payment

My grandmothers never understood why TNA didn’t pay me money. They couldn’t see the real transaction:

• Skills that compound. Every redesign became permanent expertise.
• Relationships that matter. Travis, Lee, Bill, Dan—mentors disguised as colleagues.
• Credibility earned early. When WWE called, they didn’t ask about my Blockbuster experience.
• Sacrifice that shapes. Those lunch hours in the library taught me that building something meaningful requires choosing it over everything else.

Today, when Solespire platforms reach millions monthly, I trace many of my strategic decisions back to lessons learned between 2004 and 2007, and beyond. From forum wallpapers to a WWE offer—the path only makes sense in reverse.

Giving Overdue Thanks

• To Travis Abraham: Thank you for seeing potential in a persistent Canadian teenager when others saw just another forum fan. Your friendship transformed a job into a journey. Those Halo 2 sessions weren’t just games—they were lessons in building genuine connections across digital distances. You opened the first door, and I’ll forever be grateful.
• To Lee South: You were the university I never attended. Every AIM conversation, every code review, every Photoshop technique you shared became the foundation for everything I’ve built since. You didn’t just teach me how to code—you taught me how to think like a developer. The wrestling insider information was the bonus content in an already priceless education. What you gave me wasn’t just knowledge; it was confidence. The Solespire platforms that reach millions today? They’re built on fundamentals you taught a kid who was eager to learn.
• To Bill Banks: You took a massive risk accepting a teenager from outside the United States. In an era before remote work was common, you said yes to someone who couldn’t legally receive a paycheque, due to international barriers. That decision changed my life’s trajectory. Thank you for trusting Lee’s recommendation and giving me the chance to prove that geography and age were just numbers.

Each of you represents a pivotal chapter in my story. You weren’t just colleagues or supervisors—you were the architects of possibility. The compound interest on your investment in me continues to grow, and I hope this post serves as a small dividend on your faith.

Your Unconventional Currency

Maybe you’re accepting payment in something others don’t recognise as valuable. Working through lunch while peers socialise. Taking a “real job” to appease family while your passion project pays in experience.

Before you listen to the doubters, consider:

• What are you building during the hours others waste?
• Which job is teaching you to follow instructions, and which is teaching you to lead?
• What would you choose—$8.25 an hour or skills that compound forever?

My grandmothers’ question—”When will TNA pay you?”—was finally been answered. They paid me from day one. It just took a few years for the cheque to clear.

Sometimes the best education happens in a high school library, where you’re free to dictate your own curriculum. Sometimes the real job is the one that doesn’t pay. Sometimes $8.25 an hour is worth less than a t-shirt.

Blockbuster is gone. Their paycheques to me are long ago spent.

But that persistent kid in the library, choosing to work for TNA Wrestling’s website over having lunch with friends? That investment compounds forever.

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What skills are you building while everyone else is counting paycheques? The compound interest on entrepreneurial experience knows no bounds.