Halloween Havoc 1998: WCW Saves Its Best Match for After the Feed Dies

Chris Jericho and Raven open with the sort of compact match WCW could still do extremely well in 1998. Raven's downward spiral gives the challenger a clear character problem to wrestle through, while Jericho's smug champion persona supplies easy heat. The pace stays brisk, the counters arrive naturally, and the television title feels like something both men actually want rather than a prop carried between angles.

The match never develops into a classic because it is over before the eight-minute mark, but it accomplishes nearly everything an opener should. Jericho survives, Raven's frustration remains part of the story, and the crowd gets a clean reason to stay engaged. On a card that later becomes bloated and badly managed, this early efficiency looks even better in hindsight.

Wrath and Meng are best when they lean into the obvious premise: two large, hard-hitting wrestlers trying to move one another. Wrath's athleticism gives him a few impressive bursts, including the floor attack and the Meltdown, while Meng's offense looks dangerous enough to make the result feel earned rather than inevitable. There is no need for complicated storytelling here, and the match wisely avoids it.

The limitation is that nothing develops. Four minutes is barely enough time to establish the collision before Wrath wins, and the audience reacts more to the finish than to the journey. It works as a Nitro segment and does no real damage to the pay-per-view, but Halloween Havoc already has twelve matches. This is the first obvious example of material that could have been cut to protect the larger show.

Disco Inferno and Juventud Guerrera produce a much better match than the pairing sounds like on paper. Juventud supplies the aerial movement and urgency, while Disco does a respectable job catching, feeding, and countering him. The match occasionally gets loose, especially when both men try to recover from mistimed spots, but it keeps moving and the crowd gradually buys into Disco as a credible threat.

The piledriver finish gives Disco a clean win and a cruiserweight title shot later in the same show, which at least creates a through-line on an otherwise scattered card. It is not elite cruiserweight wrestling, but it has a beginning, a middle, and a consequence. Compared with several bouts that exist only to fill minutes, that structure matters.

Alex Wright and Fit Finlay bring enough stiffness to keep the match from feeling careless. Finlay controls the physical exchanges, Wright responds with quicker counters, and the two wrestlers make even simple forearms and transitions look competitive. There is a believable European-wrestling texture to the bout that distinguishes it from the more character-heavy material around it.

Then the match simply ends. Wright catches Finlay with the neckbreaker and gets the pin before the contest has built toward a meaningful climax. The abruptness may have been practical, but it leaves the audience with another short bout that never earns its place on a marathon card. The wrestling is competent; the decision to include it on this particular show is harder to defend.

Perry Saturn is coming out of the Flock breakup with useful babyface momentum, and the match briefly acknowledges that history by putting him opposite Lodi. Saturn throws sharp suplexes, moves with purpose, and looks like someone WCW could be elevating. Lodi spends much of the match avoiding contact and chasing his signs, which gets a reaction but prevents the bout from gaining competitive shape.

The Death Valley Driver ends it in under four minutes, and there is almost nothing to revisit beyond Saturn's clean win. As a piece of weekly television, this would be perfectly acceptable reinforcement for a rising act. On a pay-per-view already running long enough to create a broadcast disaster, it becomes another example of WCW refusing to edit itself.

Billy Kidman and Disco Inferno benefit from the contender match earlier in the night because the audience already understands why Disco is here and why fatigue matters. Kidman works at a faster pace, Disco slows him when necessary, and the champion's offense has enough snap to keep the crowd interested. The match does not reach the level of WCW's best cruiserweight work, but it feels organized and purposeful.

Kidman's Shooting Star Press provides a decisive finish and preserves the championship without interference or procedural nonsense. That sounds ordinary, yet on this card it is almost refreshing. Disco deserves credit for working twice and remaining useful in both appearances, while Kidman continues to look like someone WCW should be protecting. This is a solid pay-per-view match hiding inside an overstuffed show.

Rick Steiner finally gets meaningful contact with Scott Steiner, and the crowd cares enough about the family feud to give the match some energy. The Giant provides obvious power, Buff Bagwell's presence creates tension, and WCW has enough storyline material to make the bout feel more important than the random undercard matches earlier in the night. That is the positive side of the setup.

The negative side is almost everything about the title logic. Bagwell abandons Rick, Scott is serving as a replacement champion, and Rick somehow wins the tag titles largely by himself before immediately moving into another match. The sequence advances the Steiner story, but the championships feel incidental and the rules feel negotiable. WCW gets heat from the characters while sacrificing clarity around the belts.

Rick Steiner against Scott Steiner should be simple. The brothers have history, the betrayal is personal, and the audience wants to see Rick finally get his hands on Scott. The opening brawl understands that, with Rick chasing Scott and attacking with the urgency the feud demands. For a few moments, the match feels like the payoff WCW has been promising.

Then Buff Bagwell returns in disguise, the officiating becomes confusing, and the match collapses into another sequence where viewers have to decide whether a disqualification happened or was simply ignored. Rick eventually wins with the top-rope bulldog, so the correct emotional result survives. The path there is unnecessarily chaotic, and the short runtime makes the payoff feel smaller than the buildup.

Scott Hall and Kevin Nash have one of the easiest stories on the card to understand. Their friendship has fractured, Hall is spiraling, and Nash has emotional reasons to fight him. The opening minutes carry that history, but the match quickly becomes less about competition than about Hall's drinking storyline and Nash's refusal to fully engage. The crowd waits for the old Outsiders chemistry to become something more compelling.

Instead, the match drags past fourteen minutes before Nash hits two Jackknife Powerbombs and deliberately leaves the ring, handing Hall a count-out victory. It is a finish designed to continue the story rather than satisfy the audience. That choice would be defensible if the preceding match were strong, but the slow pacing makes the non-finish feel like punishment. A big personal feud becomes another deferred payoff.

Bret Hart and Sting should be one of the safest high-level matches WCW can book in 1998. Their star power is enormous, the United States title provides tangible stakes, and both men know how to build a major-match atmosphere. The early wrestling is competent, but the pace never develops the urgency suggested by the names. Instead, the match feels increasingly devoted to setting up the closing angle.

Hart uses the bat, the referee is removed from the equation, and Sting is knocked unconscious before the Sharpshooter is applied. The finish gives Bret a vicious edge and writes Sting off television, but it sacrifices the possibility of a satisfying standalone match. Historical context explains the booking. It does not make the fifteen minutes particularly rewarding to watch.

Hollywood Hogan and The Warrior enter with a story built almost entirely around WrestleMania VI, which means WCW is asking viewers to invest in an eight-year-old memory rather than a fresh rivalry. That could still work if the match captured even a fraction of the original intensity. Instead, both men move slowly, the offense looks cooperative, and long stretches feel like performers waiting for the next planned stunt.

Then the flash-paper spot fails spectacularly, Hogan burns himself, and the match lurches toward Horace Hogan's chair-shot interference. The result is not merely bad wrestling. It is a main-event-level attraction consuming fourteen minutes of a pay-per-view that is already running out of time. The historical reputation is deserved: this is one of the clearest examples of WCW prioritizing ego and spectacle over execution.

Goldberg and Diamond Dallas Page deliver exactly the kind of main event WCW needed. Goldberg's power dominates the opening exchanges, forcing Page to change tactics rather than pretending he can win a strength contest. When Goldberg crashes shoulder-first into the post, DDP attacks the injury and turns the match into a believable problem-solving exercise. Goldberg sells enough vulnerability without losing the aura that made him special.

The Jackhammer-to-Diamond-Cutter counter is the defining moment, giving the crowd a near-fall that genuinely feels capable of ending the streak. Goldberg ultimately recovers and wins cleanly with the Jackhammer, allowing both men to leave stronger. The cruel irony is that many paying viewers never saw it live because the PPV feed had already expired. WCW finally books the right main event, then fails to broadcast all of it.