There’s something so intimate about art and storytelling. Like lovers clasping hands as love blossoms or as it dies, like secrets told and kept, like staring up at the stars in the sky whether together in the moment or apart.
While gruesome, the story of Ilja Dragunov vs Dijak at NXT Battleground is exceptional art. it might not be held in the same regard as Omega/Okada or Flair/Steamboat, nor does it quite equal the insanity of Kenny Omega vs Will Ospreay at Wrestle Kingdom 17; it tells something all on its own that means something just as special.
This Last Man Standing Match is biblical without screaming it at you. It was the tale of a miracle worker, a smaller man made of inhuman resilience, his limits tested against an indomitable, sky-piercing force that to its own end wields remorse. Forgive Ilja, for he knows not what he does.
This is the type of wrestling match you want to look away from, but you can’t. It is contained carnage and is beyond any typical David and Goliath story.
Dijak enters first, warning families to get their children away; they don’t need to see the level of pain about to be on display. Dragunov arrives, red-eyed and filled with tenacity.
Dijak is every bit the fantastic performer as he was on his first NXT run. That same man who put on classics with Keith Lee is on full display. Ilja is at his mercy, as Dijak spares no effort, no intent and no remorse. This Russian must submit, or else all is forsaken in life.
The smaller man cares not; he is his own weapon. Such bravado and spirit is met in kind with a slam to the steel steps. Only then does this match become a car wreck that you can’t look away from in the best of ways, in the most uncomfortable of ways.
Whilst Dijak sets up a table, Ilja throws himself through it and into the giant. The removal of debris reveals the dramatic visage of blood trickling down his chin. Normal men would be staggered by this, but Ilja is no normal man. Maybe he isn’t human. He’s instantly in the ring, delivering offense dedicated to flinging Dijak and showing him the infinite resolve of he who thrives off of the pain of combat sports.
Dijak’s absorbs of Dragunov’s kiss of death as he goes coast-to-coast into the steel ring steps, a gruesome impact that drives into the face of the fallen goliath. Mother Mary wept.
Upon each watch, I’m reminded of why this match rocks. Dijak almost had his image ruined by the Retribution stable, only to prove he is a true performer that knows he can bring that extra “oomph” when needed. He fits the mold of the company’s wish to have tall, muscular supermen.
Ilja is the opposite face of that. His matches are gritty perfection. In a world of ten dollar steaks cooked medium rare with red juice oozing out that will no doubt kill you, he is the medium-well filet mignon with the proper amount of seasoning that is guaranteed to leave your taste buds rejoicing in hallelujah. He flies in the face of what WWE has been known to want, and he stands out because of that. Imagine when he goes face to face with Gunther on the main roster someday.
He’s already carried the cross of his own blood, and he is struck with a kendo stick that resonates loudly in the arena. He writhes, but exists enough in his own agony and crying to let Dijak know he is not enough to break him. Not even when the behemoth shows the blonde Russian his own blood does Ilja buckle. His abdomen and chest is absolutely wrecked by the damage the remorseful torturer. The crucifixion of Ilja Dragunov.
Just when you think there’s nothing to keep Ilja going, he throws himself at Dijak and around the ring. He’s living on another plane of existence where suffering holds dominion over all, and he must exist as its king. As a messiah must rise, so does the unbesiegbar.
With a diving elbow, Ilja plummets Dijak into several layers of inferno in less than a second. Dijak does not get back up. The ten count seals his fate and Ilja Dragunov is the winner. On a big stage he has cemented his status as someone who is not to be taken lightly.
Watching this match live, my first instinct was to cover my eyes. I’m not easily rattled, especially by wrestling. I’ve seen my share of deathmatches. Despite that, I was not desensitized to this. There’s an art to the brutality and carnage that barely scrapes past fifteen minutes. It’s beautiful and ugly.
In the landscape of current NXT, this is one of those treats where the multiple layers of the brand’s personality can offer something special. This is for the sickos and the freaks who love bloody violence and gratuitous misery.
There’s something fantastic about being given something different when being fed more of the same. New flavors unlock a desire for further taste, but when used sparingly, it makes those meals taste even sweeter. That effort and detail are not lost on this spectacle.
You owe it to yourself to experience this piece of art – the art of pain.
Wrestle Inn 