This is a match review of Cody Rhodes and John Cena’s match for the Undisputed WWE title at SummerSlam 2025.

A bumbling slog, meticulously constructed to manipulate a crowd of dense and gullible fans—and one that rewards their misplaced loyalty with a sneer.

John Cena, as he always does, comes out to The Time Is Now. Being on his retirement tour, his tron displays the slight change of “last time is now,” while his gear is still branded with signature messaging like “rise above hate.” The crowd sings along, hitting the notes of “You can’t see me” the loudest. To them, he’s a hero. To me, even, I acknowledge he’s oft played a valiant one. 

Time, though, has shown Cena, the man, to be a hypocrite. A corporate dog, unwilling to condemn, unwilling to complain. Content with fueling a machine with whatever nasty byproduct it produces. His actions during his retirement run—or lack thereof—have fractured his image, and because of it, what should’ve been a grand ride off into the sun has turned into a parade float deflating mid-route.

Then, of course, Cody Rhodes. A pale, frankly pathetic, imitation of Cena’s best aspects. As a central figurehead, and even more so as a wrestler. It’s no surprise that WWE has anointed him the next Cena, though. His terrible cosplay as a working-class hero isn’t an issue to them; he’s willing to shake any hand, and he’ll do it sporting bleached blond hair and wearing an expensive suit. Sure, he’s a phony, stuck behind the legacies of both his father and brother, but the crowd has duped themselves into liking him, and now he too, will play a role in this disaster. If Cena is to pass the torch in the company’s desired direction—or the cape, if you will—an undeserving wrestler, a man who dresses, talks, and embodies WWE’s corporate greed will do, and there’s none more perfect than Cody.

Of course, these two low versions of John Cena and Cody Rhodes still have to wrestle a match. Really, though, they don’t. For forty minutes, they are vessels to an engine just there to tick boxes and generate clicks. A cinematic pause on the piledriver. Check. Cena’s signature announcer table AA spot and the will-they-won’t-they with the title belt—both milked and dragged out for as long as possible. The obsession with creating “cinematic” spots, naturally, is fulfilled with the stupid stage elevator bit. Don’t forget the usual soulless slop: A cheesy, extended struggle, conveniently staged in the middle of the ring, finishers after finishers, falling into repeating nearfalls, for minutes on end. All of it, then, and more. All to fulfill WWE’s obsession with creating “moments” instead of wrestling matches. None of it landing, none of it authentic.

In the grand scheme, those nearly 40 minutes of the match come and go. The metaphorical passing of that dying flame does happen, as it’s Rhodes who has his hand raised. It’s one final breath to blow out any flame a WWE flag bearer could have, and somehow, that’s not the point. Because then—the true declaration of it all—Brock Lesnar’s music hits. Not as the conquering beast of old, but as the accused sex pest. The crowd pops, and the attack on Cena may as well read as a welcoming handshake, an absolution of all wrongdoing. Lesnar will be seen again. It isn’t as if he has to be, but the machine demands his return. That message, sent, then accepted. Loud and clear.

With that cold embrace, new meaning arises. Every slogan—“You can’t see me,” “rise above hate,” “the last time is now”—is warped into a confession. The only thing WWE can’t see are its victims. It does not rise above hate; instead, it stands beside evil. And that last time? This being the last time that they will ever think twice about bringing back or associating with monsters. They know they’ll get away with it in spades.

If all wrestling is just the product of a time and a place, then maybe things will get better. Abusers will see justice, accountability taken, and changes put in place. Optimistic, I know, but for now only one thing is certain. There was a torch passed—and it plunged straight into the void.