Clash of the Champions VIII: Fall Brawl '89 — A Good Show Ends with a Plastic Bag and a War

This is exactly the kind of feud-ending television match the Clash format handles well. Hawk and Animal do not waste time pretending the Samoan Swat Team can outwrestle them; they collide, throw bodies around and let the crowd choose violence. Samu and Fatu get enough control to create a hot tag, and Paul E. Dangerously's phone finally becomes the weapon that helps end his own alliance when Hawk intercepts it. The Doomsday Device closes the argument cleanly. Nothing here is especially sophisticated, but six-plus minutes of focused tag wrestling is a much better use of television than another bloated grudge match.

Tom Zenk's WCW debut is designed to introduce an athlete, not to create suspense. He throws clean dropkicks, works the arm, moves with the kind of smoothness that makes executives imagine future posters, and wins with a sleeper after three and a half minutes. The Cuban Assassin is essentially a live training cone with a few offensive interruptions. That is not automatically a problem for debut television, but there is no spark beyond Zenk looking presentable. The audience understands the assignment and waits for the finish. Z-Man would receive far more interesting chances later; this is merely the first line on the résumé.

For sixty-eight seconds, Sid Vicious is exactly what professional wrestling wanted Sid Vicious to be. Ranger Ross gets attacked, thrown around, planted with the helicopter slam and finished with a powerbomb that looks less like a move than an eviction notice. There is no competitive structure because none is needed. The match exists to communicate size, violence and danger as quickly as possible, and it succeeds on those terms. WrestleFile still grades matches rather than vibes, so a one-minute squash cannot earn much. As character presentation, however, this is more effective than plenty of ten-minute bouts elsewhere in the era.

The Steiner Brothers look like they have arrived several months early for the division that will eventually belong to them. Scott throws suplexes with startling ease, Rick flattens both Freebirds with Steinerlines, and Michael Hayes spends half the match surviving and the other half dancing as if survival were his idea. The Freebirds are excellent at letting the young challengers look physically superior without surrendering control of the story. Then Robin Green trips Scott from ringside, allowing Hayes to steal the pin. The finish advances the mystery that will become Doom, but it also denies the audience the title change the wrestling has spent ten minutes making feel inevitable.

Three and a half minutes should not contain this much motion. Brian Pillman attacks like the clock is already running out, Norman catches him out of the air with surprising strength, and the contrast between speed and size gives the match a clear idea immediately. Pillman bumps with conviction, Norman moves better than the gimmick suggests, and the crucifix finish arrives before either man has time to expose the limitations of the premise. The result is not important, but the performance is. Pillman looks like television has found a wrestler built specifically for television, while Norman briefly becomes more than the institution-themed costume wrapped around him.

This is seven minutes of two accomplished athletes deciding that elegance is optional. Williams charges, Rotunda cheats, both men lean on amateur credentials and heavy contact, and Jim Ross sounds delighted to explain every bit of it. Rotunda's rope-assisted control work gives the crowd an obvious villain to hate, while Williams' comeback has the blunt force expected from Dr. Death. The finish, with referee Tommy Young kicking Rotunda's grip from the ropes before Williams falls on top, is awkward enough to keep the match from feeling decisive. Still, the middle portion is compact, physical and coherent, which is more than several Clash undercards manage.

Tommy Rich gives Lex Luger exactly what a champion needs on television: an opponent credible enough to make the audience worry but expendable enough that the result never threatens the next major program. Rich wrestles from underneath with smart counters, clean babyface fire and enough history in the region to make near falls matter. Luger responds with power, arrogance and the increasingly confident pacing of a heel champion learning how to control a match without rushing. Their chemistry is unexpectedly strong. The finish is less emphatic than the Torture Rack would have been, but ten minutes of genuine uncertainty turns an ordinary defense into one of the night's highlights.

Dick Slater is not Terry Funk, and for nineteen minutes that barely matters. Flair and Sting are molten-hot babyfaces, Muta is at his atmospheric peak, and Slater understands that his job is to make the violence feel less polished and more dangerous. The match moves from crisp tags into a chaotic brawl without losing the crowd. Muta's mist blinds Sting, Slater's cast opens Flair, and then Terry Funk appears anyway to turn the finish into attempted homicide theater by wrapping a plastic bag around Flair's head. The disqualification is not satisfying as sport, but the angle is unforgettable and makes Halloween Havoc feel like a necessary escalation.