She came up through the backdoor of the American dream, not with a golden ticket but a rusted crowbar in hand—ready to bash it open if she had to. Born Jazmín Benítez in Waterbury, Connecticut, the daughter of Puerto Rican blood and concrete-bred resolve, Mercedes Martinez didn’t walk into pro wrestling—she crash-landed.
Basketball and softball were her first loves, those high school gyms echoing with the soundtrack of sneakers and sweat. She studied criminal justice at Teikyo Post University, probably thinking she’d one day cuff a criminal, not dropkick one. But fate has a sick sense of humor. One busted-up injury later and Martinez was looking at a new kind of hard court—the squared circle.
In October 2000, she started training under ECW veteran Jason Knight. A month later, she was already in the ring, staring down a man named “Juice” and promptly squeezing him dry. The New England scene caught fire with her arrival. Promoter Sheldon Goldberg saw the future through her fury and built an entire women’s division around her. Sumie Sakai came over from Japan, and the two of them traded the North American Women’s Championship like old gangsters flipping silver coins—each match a ballet of bruises.
From Combat Zone Wrestling to IWA Mid-South, Martinez took her tour of the underworld—locking horns with Mickie Knuckles in matches that looked more like criminal assaults than athletic contests. But it was in 2005 that Martinez stepped into something special.
Shimmer Women Athletes was the underground jazz club of women’s wrestling, and Martinez was Coltrane with cauliflower ears. Her first match was a 20-minute draw against Sara Del Rey that left the crowd standing and howling like they’d witnessed an exorcism. She stuck with Shimmer for years, carving out a legacy in blood and tenacity. Losses to monsters like Awesome Kong and technical showcases against the likes of Serena Deeb weren’t just matches—they were chapters in a slow-burning epic.
Her heel turn in 2011 against Athena was a turning point, a declaration that even saints have shadows. She returned in 2016 after a brief retirement, now more myth than mortal, and immediately snatched the Shimmer Championship like she’d never left. The title came and went like cigarettes between broken fingers, but the impact remained.
Ring of Honor brought her in briefly, just long enough to throw her into the deep end and watch her fight back to the surface. In World Xtreme Wrestling, she built a kingdom. Four-time Women’s Champion. Cruiserweight Champion. She ran through Talia Madison, Cindy Rogers, and Kacee Carlisle like a heat-seeking missile fueled by spite and caffeine.
Martinez’s resume reads like a homicide report of the independent scene. ChickFight, MXW, Shine, Femmes Fatales—she didn’t just show up, she arrived with a storm warning. In Canada, she dethroned Kalamity and became a triple champion—carrying gold for Shimmer, WSU, and Femmes Fatales all at once. Like Atlas in boots and taped fists.
She brawled in Stardom’s hallowed Korakuen Hall and made her mark in SHINE alongside Ivelisse as Las Sicarias—a duo so cold-blooded they didn’t just win matches, they erased memories.
Then there’s WSU—her twisted cathedral. Angel Orsini was her friend, then her rival, then her friend again. Their Iron Woman match in 2009 went 70 minutes, longer than most careers. Martinez bled, roared, and clutched that title like it was a lifeline in a storm. Three years, countless defenses. Jazz, Alicia, Brittney Savage—she left them all counting lights. When Jessicka Havok ended that reign, it wasn’t just a title change—it was a meteor crashing into a dynasty.
WWE came knocking in 2017 with the Mae Young Classic. Martinez carved through Xia Li, Princesa Sugehit, and Abbey Laith before getting choked out by Shayna Baszler in the semis. She looked right at home—tougher than the lighting rig, meaner than the catering.
In 2020, WWE gave her another look. NXT. Retribution. Raw. It all seemed like smoke and mirrors, a machine too polished for someone who preferred grime under her fingernails. She asked out. WWE granted her the courtesy of release, and just like that, Martinez slipped back into the shadows.
But the shadows don’t keep her for long.
AEW gave her the spotlight again in 2019, 2021, and beyond. Whether it was swinging lead pipes at Thunder Rosa or getting betrayed by Britt Baker’s goons, Martinez was never background noise. She feuded, fought, and forgave with a sense of purpose that came from two decades of slamming into ropes that never gave an inch.
Then came ROH—resurrected under Tony Khan’s dollar and dreams. Martinez took down Willow Nightingale for the interim women’s championship, then strangled the last breath out of Deonna Purrazzo’s claim to make it undisputed. She held that belt for 220 days, defending it with the fury of a junkyard dog guarding its last bone.
The calendar flipped to 2024, and Martinez kept grinding. She entered the inaugural ROH Women’s World TV Title tournament, throwing fists with Trish Adora and Abadon before falling to Billie Starkz in the semifinals. Even now, she keeps clawing, keeps showing up in dusty rings and dark tapings, delivering fisherman busters like old gospel hymns.
She’s battled asthma. She’s battled locker room politics. She’s battled time itself. Married. A mother. Openly lesbian in a sport that still pretends to be progressive while whispering in boardrooms like it’s the 1950s. None of it stopped her.
Because Mercedes Martinez doesn’t need a belt to be a legend. She’s the cut that never quite heals. The storm that rolls in when the house is already on fire. She’s Bret Hart’s cool precision and Mick Foley’s unkillable soul wrapped in the leather skin of someone who’s seen too much to ever believe in fairy tales.
If there’s any justice in this business—and we all know there usually isn’t—she’ll one day walk into a Hall of Fame, crack her knuckles, and say, “Took you long enough.”
Until then, she’ll keep showing up. Beating the odds. And reminding the world that some stories don’t need scripts—they just need scars.
