Clash of the Champions XXII — Cactus Jack Cuts Open the Cage and WCW Accidentally Finds Its Hero

The opener lasts less than three minutes, but almost every second matters because the crowd has already decided Cactus Jack is their guy. Johnny B. Badd attacks quickly, Cactus absorbs the flashy offense, and the reaction to every Jack comeback sounds completely disproportionate to his nominal heel status. That is the point. WCW is no longer trying to manufacture Cactus as a curiosity; the audience has done the work for them. Badd misses the flying sunset flip, Jack drops the elbow and gets the pin. It is barely enough material for a match, yet it establishes the emotional fact the main event will eventually exploit.

Scorpio and Scotty Flamingo get four minutes and spend them behaving as though somebody forgot to tell them short television matches are supposed to be conservative. Flamingo launches himself over the top rope, Scorpio answers with kicks, a floating splash and the sort of aerial balance that still looks unusual on American television in early 1993. The crowd follows the movement even when the structure is basically a sequence of high spots. Then Scorpio lands the 450 splash and the visual overwhelms whatever limitations came before it. Raven and Scorpio will become synonymous with a different promotion soon enough. Here, they are simply two young wrestlers making WCW look faster.

Chris Benoit begins the match in front of an audience that has little reason to care and ends it having forced them to pay attention. Brad Armstrong is the ideal opponent because he can make every transition look natural while giving the newcomer space to show the stiffness and precision that separate him from the surrounding card. The early arm work is patient enough to lose a few people, but the springboard clothesline to the floor changes the temperature. Armstrong rallies after the missed headbutt, Benoit survives the neckbreaker and the bridging dragon suplex ends it cleanly. Nine minutes turn an introduction into a statement.

The Wrecking Crew are supposed to look like WCW's next bruising tag team, but Johnny Gunn and Z-Man spend enough of the match flying around them that the intended hierarchy gets blurry. Zenk supplies the cleaner fundamentals, Gunn contributes the dive and the Crew respond with power offense that is functional without ever becoming intimidating. Six minutes move quickly, which is the match's greatest virtue. Rage and Fury eventually isolate Gunn and finish him with the Wrecking Ball. Nobody embarrasses himself, but nobody emerges looking indispensable either. It is competent midcard television occupying valuable real estate between much more interesting acts.

The future Hollywood Blonds arrive before the name does. Brian Pillman and Steve Austin already understand the personality: smug, athletic, coordinated and delighted by every shortcut that makes Ricky Steamboat angry. The champions attack arms and trade rapidly, the challengers isolate Steamboat with increasingly polished heel work and Shane Douglas receives the kind of hot tag that only works because Steamboat has spent minutes making escape feel impossible. Douglas hits the belly-to-belly, but Austin eventually decides wrestling is optional and smashes him with a title belt for the disqualification. The finish is cheap by design. The post-match whipping makes the feud hotter rather than merely inconclusive.

The ThunderCage is a wonderfully WCW object: elaborate enough to require explanation and then ignored whenever the story needs something better. Sting and Dustin Rhodes start two-against-three after Ron Simmons is injured, Vader treats Sting like a familiar enemy and Barry Windham keeps the match grounded while everyone pretends tagging still matters in a no-disqualification cage. Then Cactus Jack arrives with bolt cutters, opens the door and turns the entire show. He attacks the heels with his boot, enters a match he was never officially part of and pins Paul Orndorff anyway. The rules collapse. The crowd does not care. Cactus becoming a hero is the only rule that matters.