[January 19th, 1998 — Madison Square Garden, New York City]
The cab door swings shut behind me, leaving me in the freezing Manhattan wind. My breath fogs in the air, and for a second, I just stare up at Madison Square Garden. I've fought in cages, I've wrestled in bingo halls, but this… this is the big leagues. The place where Bruno Sammartino, Hulk Hogan, Bret Hart — hell, even Mike Tyson — have made history.
The driver tosses my black duffel onto the curb. I sling it over my shoulder, feeling the weight — wrestling boots, black tactical vest, taped MMA gloves. My gear smells faintly of Tiger Balm and blood from my last indie fight.
Security at the rear entrance checks the list. The guy's built like a fridge, wearing a WWF crew jacket.
"Name?"
"J.J. Styles."
He runs his finger down the page, nods. "Developmental guy? First time here?"
"Yeah."
His lips curl into a smirk. "It's a shark tank in there. Don't let 'em smell blood."
The first thing that hits me inside is the sound — constant noise. The metallic clang of the ring crew tightening turnbuckles, the rumble of fans outside, and the crackle of the PA system running sound checks.
The second thing is the smell — sweat, leather, coffee, and the faint musk of yesterday's matches still lingering in the air.
The locker room is divided like a high school cafeteria. In one corner, The Undertaker sits alone, taping his wrists slowly, methodically. His head stays down, but his presence is like gravity — everyone knows he's the locker room general.
Across the room, D-Generation X is holding court. Shawn Michaels is leaning back in a chair, feet up, telling a story about last week's Raw while Triple H laughs, and Chyna — stone-faced — adjusts her gloves.
By catering, Stone Cold Steve Austin is talking to Jim Ross. Austin glances at me for a brief second — a nod, nothing more. In this business, that's a handshake.
A voice snaps me out of it. "Hey, kid. You the MMA guy?" I turn to see Al Snow, grinning like a man who's already seen my first match in his head. "Word of advice — don't try to impress them, make them remember you. Difference between a pop and a paycheck."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm in the corner, lacing my boots, when I hear heels clicking on the floor.
"You must be J.J. Styles."
I look up — Stephanie McMahon. Younger than the corporate queen she'll become, but already carrying herself like she owns the place. Black suit, clipboard in one hand, eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
"My father's been watching your tapes," she says. "Says you've got presence. I'm curious to see if it's real."
I can't tell if she's testing me or flirting. Maybe both.
"You'll find out tonight," I say, tightening my boot laces.
Her mouth curves into the faintest smile. "Good. I'll be watching."
She turns and walks away, perfume trailing behind her. It's subtle, but there's something about the way she said it — like she already knows she's going to be in my story.
I'm booked in a pre-show dark match against Bob "Hardcore" Holly. He's already in the ring when I step through the curtain. The crowd's maybe half full, but the noise? Still deafening. "Austin 3:16" signs everywhere, a sea of middle fingers in the front row.
The bell rings. Holly charges — stiff clothesline. I roll with it, pop up, duck under, and crack him with a flying knee that snaps his head back. The crowd ooohs.
We trade holds — my technical game against his brawling. He tries to muscle me into the corner, but I slip behind, hook the arm — Kimura Lock. I crank it, hard. He taps.
The ref calls it. I stand up, breathing hard, the Garden giving me a scattered but growing cheer. From the aisle, I catch Stephanie watching. Arms folded, eyes locked on me.
As I come through the curtain, Bruce Prichard is waiting. "Kid, you've got something. Vince liked it. But don't get cocky — one match doesn't mean you're in." He points a finger. "Heat this weekend. Don't screw it up."
Stephanie's there again, leaning casually against the wall.
"You stand out," she says, her tone somewhere between business and personal. "I like that."
Before I can answer, she's gone — back to her clipboard and headset, back to running the show.
The opening pyro hits and the Raw is War theme roars through the building. I watch from the gorilla position as the crowd explodes.
JR: "We are live from Madison Square Garden, folks, and business is about to pick up!"
King: "And with Mike Tyson in the building tonight, JR, you know things are gonna get wild!"
Segment after segment rolls — Austin and Vince face-off, DX causing chaos, Kane's pyro scaring kids in the front row.
I'm not on TV tonight, but every second I'm here, I'm studying. Watching how Austin times a stare-down. How The Rock paces his promos. How the crowd sways like an ocean, reacting in waves.
By 6:45 p.m., the match board is taped to the wall in Gorilla Position. It's a whiteboard with every segment scribbled in black marker.
RAW IS WAR — Jan 19, 1998 — Madison Square Garden
LOD 2000 (Animal & Hawk) vs. The Godwinns
Jeff Jarrett vs. Owen Hart
Marc Mero (w/ Sable) vs. Blackjack Bradshaw
WWF Tag Title Match — The New Age Outlaws vs. Cactus Jack & Chainsaw Charlie
Kane vs. Vader
Main Event: Stone Cold Steve Austin & The Undertaker vs. The Rock & Triple H
Mike Tyson's name is circled in red for the post-main segment. Big moment for Austin.
Bruce Prichard slides past me with a headset. "Kid, you're shadowing tonight. Watch how this machine runs."
I watch from the curtain. JR's voice booms over the PA.
[LOD vs. The Godwinns]
JR: "We're kicking things off with a slobberknocker, folks! The Legion of Doom, still as dominant as ever!"
King: "Yeah, but the Godwinns are meaner than a rattlesnake in a rocking chair, JR!"
The match is a short brawl. Hawk throws stiff shots that echo in the Garden, Animal hits a powerslam for the win. The crowd's into it, but they're saving their voices for the big names later.
Backstage, Hawk walks past me, sweat dripping, muttering, "Crowd's hot. Don't waste it when it's your turn."
[Jeff Jarrett vs. Owen Hart]
Owen's a pro. I've seen his tapes, and the man makes wrestling look like ballet. Jarrett, in his white gear and strut, gets pure heel heat.
I stand beside Gerald Brisco, who leans in. "Watch Owen's footwork. He's always three steps ahead. You learn that, you'll never get lost out there."
The match ends when Barry Windham interferes, giving Jarrett the cheap win. Owen storms past Gorilla, frustrated but professional. He looks me over once and says, "Don't let them book you into a corner, kid. Fight for your moments."
[Marc Mero vs. Blackjack Bradshaw]
Sable's the real star here. Every time she moves, the crowd erupts. Mero's visibly irritated by it, and even backstage, you can see the tension between them isn't just an act.
Bradshaw's stiff — I hear every chop from Gorilla. JR calls it a "slugfest," and he's not wrong. Mero wins after a distraction from Sable, but Bradshaw looks ready to shoot-fight him afterwards.
[Tag Title Match: New Age Outlaws vs. Cactus Jack & Chainsaw Charlie]
This is pure chaos. Chairs, trash cans, the works. The Outlaws retain after a brutal spot where Road Dogg handcuffs Cactus to the ropes and Billy Gunn smashes Terry Funk with a chair.
The crowd chants "ECW! ECW!" at the violence, and it takes me right back to my indie wars in bingo halls. The Garden is alive now.
[Kane vs. Vader]
You've never heard a pop until you've heard Kane's pyro in the Garden. My ears ring as he steps through the fire.
Vader's a wall of muscle, but Kane no-sells everything. Chokeslam. Tombstone. Done. Kane doesn't even celebrate — just walks out, flames shooting high.
Backstage, even veterans keep their distance from him. The man is his gimmick.
[Main Event: Austin & Undertaker vs. Rock & Triple H]
This is a war. Austin and Rock jaw at each other nonstop, Triple H bumps like he's been shot, and Undertaker… well, Undertaker moves like a ghost until he's not, and then he's everywhere at once.
Finish comes when Austin stuns Rock, crowd loses its mind. Glass shatters, beer cans fly into the ring.
After the main event, Vince calls out Mike Tyson to officially introduce him. Austin interrupts, shoves Tyson, and suddenly the ring is full of screaming bodies, Vince's face turning purple as he yells, "YOU RUINED IT!"
Watching from the side, I realize — this is the Attitude Era. No scripts, just chaos wrapped in money.
The crowd's gone, the ring's being torn down. Wrestlers pack up, some heading to the bar, others straight to the hotel.
I'm sitting on a bench unlacing my boots when Stephanie walks in. The locker room thins out quickly — nobody lingers when the boss's daughter is around.
"You held your own out there," she says. "Bob Holly's not easy to impress. And you got a reaction. That matters."
I nod. "Thanks."
She steps closer. "You're going to Heat this weekend. I'll make sure you get the right spotlight. But there's something you should know, J.J…" She pauses, looking me dead in the eyes. "In this business, people will try to own you. Don't let them. Ever."
Her hand brushes my arm before she walks out. It's subtle, but deliberate. A test.
I know then — my debut wasn't the real start. The real story just began.
It's past midnight when I'm called into Vince McMahon's office.
The place smells of cigar smoke and leather — desk covered in production notes, half-drunk bottle of water, and a photo of Vince with Andre the Giant.
Vince doesn't look up right away. He's reading a sheet — my match agent's notes from earlier.
Finally, he speaks in that gravelly, booming voice:
"You've got something. Not polished, but something."
I stand at attention, still sweaty from earlier.
"You look like you can fight. You move like you can fight. That's good. But in my ring, I don't sell fighters. I sell superstars."
I nod. "I can be both."
That gets a smirk out of him. "We'll see. Heat this weekend. Show me you can get a crowd to give a damn."
He doesn't shake my hand. Just waves me off like a general dismissing a soldier.
The Marriott Marquis lobby bar is packed with WWF talent. Some are in street clothes, others still in partial gear because they came straight from the arena.
Too Cold Scorpio's telling a road story in one corner, Godfather's already trying to charm two cocktail waitresses, and Bradshaw is three beers deep into an argument with Hardcore Holly about real toughness.
I grab a whiskey and keep to the edges — lone wolf habit. But I'm watching, learning. Who talks to who. Who's avoided. Who's respected.
Road Dogg spots me. "Hey, MMA boy!" he shouts, drawing a few eyes. "Not bad tonight. You're stiff as hell, though. Keep that up and half the roster'll love you and the other half'll want to kill you."
It's 1:37 a.m. when I finally head to the elevators. The doors slide open… and Stephanie McMahon is inside, alone.
She's changed out of her suit — now in fitted jeans and a leather jacket. Hair down, eyes sharp as ever.
"Mr. Styles," she says, like we're picking up a conversation from hours ago.
The ride is silent for the first few floors. I can feel her looking at me in the reflection of the polished steel.
"You didn't seem intimidated tonight," she says finally.
"I'm not here to play scared."
Her lips curve slightly. "Good. Scared men get eaten alive in this business. And I don't waste time on men who can't survive."
The elevator stops at her floor. She steps out, then turns back —
"Heat this weekend. Don't just win. Make them remember you."
The doors close before I can reply.
Back in my room, I sit on the edge of the bed, the sounds of New York humming outside. My body aches — Bob Holly's clothesline left a bruise across my collarbone — but my head's buzzing.
One night in the Garden, and I've already been on Vince's radar, drawn Stephanie's attention, and seen exactly how this business works.
This isn't just about wrestling.
This is about power.
And I'm going to take it.