She came in wearing a smile and left with scars. That’s the business. But Lisa Moretti—better known to you as Ivory—didn’t just do the business. She twisted it into a chokehold and made it bark. Long before the women’s revolution came dressed in corporate hashtags and perfectly timed tears, Ivory was carving out space with grit, muscle, and the kind of voice that could cut through steel like a box cutter through bologna.
Forget the fluff. This wasn’t a diva. This was a goddamn wrestler.
From Glitter to Grit: GLOW and the Vegas Training Ground
It started like a Bukowski short story—half-accident, half-destiny. Moretti got “dragged” to an audition for the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling in Vegas, that glitzy fever-dream of a promotion that looked like a disco ball threw up on a boxing ring. She trained under Mando Guerrero, which was like learning ballet from a guy who taught flamethrowers how to waltz.
As Tina Ferrari, she played the game. Smiled, strutted, sold it. Won the GLOW title, even wore a crown. But beneath the makeup and the neon spandex was a real worker—someone who knew what it meant to fall hard and get up harder.
She did stints in POWW and LPWA, bounced around the indies like a pinball high on protein powder, and then vanished. Wrestling forgot her for a few years. That’s how the business works: one day you’re queen, next day you’re cutting coupons.
Then she came back.
WWF: A Real Wrestler in a World of “Hoes”
January 1999. The Attitude Era. Vince McMahon was handing out gimmicks like free condoms at a biker rally, and Moretti walked into the firestorm as “Ivory,” initially one of The Godfather’s “hos.” That’s right—she went from world champion in GLOW to glorified ring candy. Wrestling has never been known for subtlety or class, and Ivory walked straight into the lion’s den wearing boots laced with purpose.
They tried to keep her silent, keep her pretty. She didn’t listen.
She quickly broke away, becoming the valet and love interest for Mark Henry in the kind of storyline that made daytime soaps look like Shakespeare. But then—finally—she got to wrestle. Her first feud? Debra. Then Tori. Then Luna. Real names, real matches. She beat Debra for her first Women’s Championship, and somewhere in the midst of all the slop matches and bikini contests, Ivory was proving she didn’t come back to play ring girl.
She came back to fight.
The Hardcore Princess
In 1999, Ivory turned heel—not because she had to, but because she could. It gave her permission to be mean, to wrestle like she had a grudge against the business itself. She beat Tori in the first-ever WWF women’s hardcore match. Then she feuded with Luna Vachon and even The Fabulous Moolah, who beat her in a match so atrocious it made people question reality itself. But she won it back. Kept grinding.
While other women were winning matches by stripping off each other’s gowns in plastic kiddie pools, Ivory was kicking down the doors of a burning building and asking for a real fight.
Right to Censor: White Collars, Black Hearts
Then came Right to Censor, and Ivory found her soul in the white button-up shirt of a villainous schoolmarm.
Some people rolled their eyes. Ivory didn’t. She leaned into that gimmick like a bouncer leans into his fifth shot of Jack. No cleavage, no lip gloss, just sermons and scowls. Stevie Richards later said she believed in the message—that wrestling needed to stop treating women like meat. Maybe she did. Maybe she just liked the control.
She won her third Women’s Championship in a four-way match and retained it against Lita in what some called the best women’s match in North America that year. Then came Chyna.
The storyline was brutal. Ivory and Val Venis gave Chyna a double piledriver that “injured her neck,” and the feud led to WrestleMania X-Seven. Ivory came in champion. She left folded like a beach chair. But even in that squash, she made Chyna look like a goddess with a flamethrower. That was Ivory’s gift—she knew how to make others look better.
Trainer, Talker, Teacher
After Right to Censor folded, Ivory morphed into a utility knife: trainer for Tough Enough, host of WWE Experience, commentator, backstage veteran. She wasn’t winning titles anymore, but she was shaping the next generation—the same way Mando Guerrero shaped her back in those smoky Vegas gyms.
She helped the rookies, helped the misfits, helped the women who actually wanted to wrestle. Not just pout and pin each other for catcalls. But somewhere between all that good work, the company looked the other way. By 2005, her contract was up. They didn’t push to renew it.
That’s what happens when you’re too good to be “eye candy” and too old to be “the future.”
The Indies and the Dogs
Ivory didn’t vanish this time. She went indie. Fought for WSU, ECCW. Won titles. Teamed with Bambi. Beat Rebecca Knox (who’d later be known as Becky Lynch, by the way). She even helped create women’s divisions in promotions that never had them.
And then she pivoted.
While the WWE was handing out scripted promos like breath mints, Ivory opened Downtown Dog, a grooming and care facility in Friday Harbor, Washington. Because of course she did. The woman who once pile-drove opponents in strip malls now bathes schnauzers and takes terriers on joy rides in a “Bow Wow Bus.” It’s poetry. It’s wrestling.
The Hall of Fame and the Royal Return
In 2018, they put her in the Hall of Fame. Finally. Ivory showed up in a white suit, still gorgeous, still loud, still hers. She talked about love, respect, the road. Not a single word felt fake. She even showed up in the first WWE Evolution pay-per-view, lasting longer than most in a battle royal before getting dumped by Asuka.
In 2022, she came out at the Royal Rumble in full Right to Censor gear. Started cutting a promo mid-walk. Rhea Ripley eliminated her in 25 seconds.
Didn’t matter.
Ivory had already won.
Legacy: Steel-Toed Pumps and Middle Fingers
Lisa Moretti—Ivory—was never the face of a revolution. She was its fists. She was the pain behind the pretty. The calloused knuckles hidden behind the catty giggles. While the Divas posed, she trained. While the company milked sex appeal, she sold wrestling.
She made you laugh. Made you cheer. Made you watch. And when she left? She didn’t beg to come back.
She opened a doggy daycare.
Because some women don’t need to chase spotlights.
They are the light.
And even now, when the girls in today’s locker rooms lace up their boots, a little part of them is Ivory—grinding, grinning, unbreakable.