Drew McIntyre has a message for one of the UK’s fastest-rising sports stars: embrace the heat.
The WWE standout advised British darts sensation Luke Littler to lean into the boos he’s been getting from sections of the crowd. Littler’s rapid rise and title haul have put him in the spotlight, and with that success has come pushback from some darts fans. McIntyre’s guidance is simple—and very pro wrestling: don’t run from the reaction, use it.
That mindset is second nature in WWE. Wrestlers live and die by the crowd’s response, whether it’s cheers for a heroic babyface or sustained jeers for a villain. McIntyre, one of the most accomplished UK exports in modern WWE, knows what it means to ride those waves. He’s been the stoic hero, he’s been the antagonist, and he’s learned that the worst reaction isn’t being booed—it’s being ignored.
Littler’s rise has been impossible to miss. He’s racked up titles, become a fixture in big arenas, and drawn major attention well beyond darts’ core audience. That kind of breakout run often comes with a split in perception: hardcore supporters who admire the dominance and detractors who bristle at a new star winning too quickly and too often. In other words, classic “heat.”
In wrestling, leaning into heat is both an art and a strategy. It doesn’t mean being disrespectful; it means acknowledging the energy in the building and turning it into fuel. When a performer accepts that not everyone is going to love them, they can stop chasing validation and start owning the moment. That shift can be liberating—and very profitable.
WWE history is loaded with examples. John Cena spent years wrestling through dueling chants and still sold out arenas. Roman Reigns was once relentlessly booed before embracing a darker edge and leading one of WWE’s most successful modern runs. The Rock’s transformation from a smiling newcomer into an unapologetic antagonist in the late 1990s rewrote his career. More recently, personalities like Logan Paul and Dominik Mysterio have shown that leaning into hostility can create must-see TV. The lesson is consistent: if the audience is loud, you’re already halfway there.
Translating that to darts is more natural than it might sound. The sport thrives on presentation and personality—big walk-ons, big atmospheres, big reactions. The arena is part theater, part battleground. A player who accepts the boos can neutralize their sting, keep composure on the oche, and even turn detractors into paying customers curious to see what happens next. Villains help sell tickets. Heroes need foils.
McIntyre’s advice also underscores a broader point about modern sports culture. Social media gets louder as stars rise faster. Young champions in any discipline face intense scrutiny before they’ve even settled into the top tier. Learning to manage that noise—rather than trying to silence it—is a competitive advantage. For Littler, who is still early in a potentially long career, that mindset could protect performance and brand alike.
From WWE’s vantage, McIntyre stepping into the conversation is notable for two reasons. First, it’s a reminder of how WWE’s performers think about crowd psychology in ways that other sports are increasingly adopting. Second, it shows the company’s UK presence has strong ambassadors who resonate outside the wrestling bubble. McIntyre’s voice carries weight with fans who understand that boos aren’t the enemy—they’re a sign the audience is invested.
There’s also a business reality here. Embracing reaction—positive or negative—keeps stars relevant. Darts, like wrestling, is entertainment as much as it is competition. The spotlight is kinder to those who don’t flinch under it. If a portion of the audience wants to play the antagonist to a rising champion, a savvy athlete can flip that script without ever losing respect for the sport or the fans. The key is composure and consistency. Let the performances speak, and let the reactions run their course.
McIntyre has navigated those lanes himself. He’s rebuilt his career, carried major events, and learned how to adjust on the fly when crowds choose their own narrative. That experience is exactly why his advice resonates. It isn’t about encouraging bad behavior or leaning into controversy for its own sake; it’s about harnessing what’s already there and refusing to be rattled by it.
For darts, the implications are straightforward. If Littler keeps winning, the noise will keep following. If he learns to smile at it, the attention becomes an asset, not a distraction. That’s the essence of what pro wrestling understands better than almost any form of live entertainment: the audience’s energy is a tool. Master it, and you control the room.
There’s no hint of a crossover stunt here or anything more than a veteran competitor offering perspective. But it lands because the advice is universal. Fans show passion in different ways. Some cheer. Some boo. The only truly bad outcome is apathy. McIntyre’s message reflects that reality—and it’s one many elite performers eventually discover on their own.
For WWE followers, this is a neat little case study in ring psychology meeting real-world sport. For darts fans, it’s a reminder that big stages come with big reactions. And for Littler, it’s practical guidance from someone who’s been in the fire and come out better for it: lean into it, keep your focus, and let the work do the talking.
