Souled Out 1998: WCW Builds a Very Good Show, Then Trips Over the nWo

Ten minutes, eight luchadores, and almost no wasted motion. WCW uses lucha rules to make the substitutions feel like a conveyor belt of increasingly ridiculous ideas: springboards, dives, powerbombs, quick saves, and La Parka stealing attention whenever he enters the frame. The match occasionally flirts with traffic-jam chaos, but the wrestlers keep finding the next clean lane. Chavo Guerrero Jr. pins Psychosis after the tornado DDT, and the crowd is already hotter than many pay-per-view audiences manage to become all night. It is exactly what an opener should be: fast, distinctive, and finished before the novelty can wear thin.

The best part of the match is that the violence has a reason. Raven has spent weeks placing members of The Flock between himself and Benoit, so every chair shot and snap suplex feels like overdue collection rather than random furniture abuse. Raven is excellent on defense, Benoit wrestles with visible anger, and the match escalates without becoming cluttered. The finish is especially strong: Raven is trapped in the Crossface, smiles through the pain, and passes out rather than submit. That single image protects Raven's damaged psychology while still giving Benoit the decisive payoff the feud needed. It is brutal, compact, and emotionally coherent.

Mysterio's damaged knee turns what could have been a standard fireworks match into something more useful. Rey still finds bursts of speed, but every springboard carries a little suspense because the leg can fail him, and Jericho gradually realizes that cruelty is easier than trying to match him move for move. The final counter is excellent: Mysterio launches for a top-rope hurricanrana and Jericho catches the landing directly into the Liontamer for the submission and title. The post-match assault matters almost as much as the bell-to-bell wrestling, because Jericho's phony apologies and attack on the knee reveal the smug, delusional heel who will become one of WCW's best acts.

This is the match that quietly proves depth can be more valuable than spectacle. Booker T is still growing into his singles identity, while Rick Martel looks startlingly fresh for a veteran returning to national television. Their styles fit: Booker brings explosive kicks and athletic counters, Martel slows him down with positional wrestling and attacks the back to set up the Quebec Crab. The crowd does not treat it like a classic, but it follows the action and rewards the clean finish when Booker lands the Harlem Hangover. There are a few rest-heavy stretches and the ending arrives quickly, yet the match feels professional in the best sense of the word: everything has a purpose.

The feud has more heat than the match can cash. Hall is good at guiding the pace and making Zbyszko's veteran offense matter, while Larry's old-school tricks give the crowd something simple to follow. Unfortunately, the wrestling never develops beyond respectable, and the finish exists almost entirely to reveal Dusty Rhodes as the nWo's newest member. That turn creates genuine shock and gives the announcers a useful emotional reaction, but it also turns the match into packaging for another faction expansion. Zbyszko technically wins by disqualification after months of hostility, yet the result feels secondary within seconds. As a match, it is dull. As an angle, it is memorable and debatable.

There is a workable story underneath the twelve minutes: Rick Steiner and Ray Traylor are frustrated with Scott Steiner's selfish streak, so Scott spends much of the match isolated on the apron while the nWo controls the pace. The problem is that the story produces waiting instead of tension. The crowd, already processing Dusty Rhodes' turn, goes quiet and never finds a reason to care about another long heat segment. Scott eventually enters, unloads the spectacular power offense everyone wants, and pins Konnan after the Steiner Screwdriver. That burst is fun, but it arrives after too much low-voltage wrestling. The match advances Scott's looming transformation without being remotely essential on its own.

Before the finish, this is better than its reputation. Nash and The Giant move more than expected for two enormous wrestlers, including Nash's dive over the top rope and several convincing power exchanges that make the match feel different from the card around it. Then WCW starts stacking interference: Hogan, Bischoff, hot coffee, a low blow, and finally the Jackknife. Nash cannot get The Giant fully elevated and drops him dangerously on his head and neck. The Giant avoided catastrophe, but the image overwhelms everything that came before it. A respectable big-man match becomes historical footage for the wrong reason, and no amount of storyline justification can make the landing comfortable to revisit.

WCW wisely strips away almost everything that has made the second half of the show noisy. Bret Hart and Ric Flair are given eighteen minutes, a respect-based premise, and permission to wrestle. They work holds, legs, counters, chops, and familiar signature sequences without racing toward spectacle. Hart's selling gives Flair's Figure Four weight, while Flair's timing makes Bret's late comeback feel earned rather than scheduled. The final superplex into the Sharpshooter is clean and decisive, exactly the kind of finish Hart's WCW debut needed. The match is not an all-time classic and never quite reaches the emotional temperature of their best work, but it is easily the card's most complete traditional wrestling match.

The final match has the misfortune of following Hart and Flair, but sequencing is not its only problem. Savage stalls, Elizabeth interferes, Luger sells, and the bout reaches the finish before it ever develops a second gear. Scott Hall and Hollywood Hogan arrive near the end, Luger knocks Savage into Hall, and the Torture Rack produces a quick submission. The closing nWo attack and Sting save create a more energetic final visual than the match itself, yet none of it changes the basic question: why was this on last? Seven minutes of ordinary television-level wrestling cannot carry a pay-per-view ending simply because larger stars are standing nearby. It is a bafflingly flat closer.