Nostalgia is something unique. It’s a door you want to open, to access memories over and over before locking it again. Sometimes it doesn’t lock anymore. Sometimes it breaks in and exists, occupying uncomfortable spaces. It’s sort of like that thing you see in the middle of the night, lights off, but you swore you saw something moving. It’s like the feeling that something nasty is approaching but you can’t even bring yourself to use your peripherals. It’s like facing a twilight, and what’s to come of it.

When facing a twilight there is an inevitability that is impossible to outrun. Those who know of the oncoming end can sense it, taste it, and know to face it head-on. You must be willing to give yourself to the last of your moments, for that is your opportunity in finality, to entomb your name into something, anything, before all is said and done.

For this concept, the ballad of Triple H versus Cactus Jack’s caged waltz in the pits of Hell in a Cell was of this very thing. For this, WWF’s No Way Out in 2000 must ring a shift in the world of professional wrestling, in the thing that ties all who cross its wires and ties them so.

The new millennium was already marked with blood like a sacrifice to a forbidden god who would then, and only then, allow the momentum of the universe to continue its everlasting shift. It started with the street fight at Royal Rumble, and it was to end here.

As outlined by many before me and many after me, the history of war betwixt the Faces of Foley and Triple H is a storied one, memorable on the merit of pain and agony that was a vital passage for both men. 

For Triple H, it was a way to outlast the mud and feces he had to swallow in a slow climb, a baptism that washed onto him an insecurity that took long to dry away, and a thirst for power. He needed moments like this to make his name and live forever. 

To Mick Foley, to his persona Cactus Jack, in particular, this was to tempt Death herself, to lightly caress her cheek – almost enough to cause a meeting of the lips – all to tease that he will dance forevermore; he will never die, he is a great favorite, he says that he will never die.

When first this feud was revived, the Mankind persona was abused by the jester turned usurper turned king, and he was tormented so. Until, one day, he seamlessly shed in attire and voice the tortured soul of Mankind as Cactus Jack gave way. Together, the men went through the Pires of Satan’s home eternal; spiked and bludgeoned and bloodied and bruised. 

Of course, Hunter won but was despoiled by the prickly Cactus who was not finished; win or lose. And with that fact, the proof that Foley was still able-bodied enough to continue the war, Helmsley issued an ultimatum: the pair must contest with Foley’s career in the balance with a bout of his own choosing. The match was the fated Hell in a Cell.

The procession stirs for this cavalcade of madness and agony; a march that will add importance to the legacy of the cell structure. 

Triple H walks first, title around his waist with Stephanie McMahon. His face is a mixture of rage, fear and determination. This, of course, is a test that will measure every lesson he’s ever gathered to this point. The teacher, Cactus Jack saunters in his wild-man fashion, knowing it’s time to do or die. The game, as always, is survival. Years of rotten, burning flesh and punctured skin dripping with blood, all to battle a younger animal. He is a beast looking to last another day.

These men are the evolved natures of one another, and Jack with his experience and lack of restraint for malice gains the upper hand quickly, seeking to maul not just his opponent but the very environment that hopes to contain them.

At every turn, any answer Hunter could feasibly come up with is thwarted and any momentum lasts him naught. This is a field of savagery that Cactus was bred in; a desert with no rain. 

The cloud that breaks up this drought is the steel steps and steel chair that batters Foley relentlessly and bereft of remorse. That’s the mistake; such brutality keeps him thriving, for the very notion of hurt leaves this warrior swinging and flailing and unwavering. He is a soldier of his war, still extant be it in this ossuary or any other.

If Helmsley were to make all of this raging offense worth it, he would have racked up accolades in diminishing Cactus Jack sooner with a piledriver, but the maniac reverses it in a catapult into the cage. This, the chairs, the link of the cage, rips and tears until the blood flows aqueous down the face of the champion.

There is no protection. Self-defense does not live here.

Like a bird fluttering to be uncaged, Cactus breaks the Cell open and brings his victim outside to deliver a wicked piledriver onto the announce table. 

In true Mick Foley fashion, the story must now be taken to the tip-top. Climbing the Tower of Babel that serves as an affront to God, Hunter flees. Jack, barb-wire 2×4 plank of wood in hand, gives chase, only to be sent into descent onto the outer commentary table. Poetry of the past, a fall not learned from; 1998 would be ignored.

For an extended amount of time, Jack tries, again and again, to throw a chair to the roof of the square monstrosity, to be met with the matriarchal embrace of the barb-wire he’s so acquainted with. One more blow to finish it, one more strike to seal Cactus’s end in claret. 

Unsturdy and weak, the roof threatens to give way, but the rivals fight to keep this platform on the battlefield. Only over ten minutes in, and these men are drenched in red, dripping and suffering and living and thriving, by God they’re thriving, by God, they’re living.

Taking the wood from the champion, it is alit in flame by Cactus Jack. Before immolating his opponent, before branding him with the visage of carnage made flesh, Foley is flipped over by Hunter and plummets through the cage onto the mat below. 

Like a fallen star, Jack makes a horrific impact upon landing; the mat sinks and crumbles beneath his carcass. God, how he did fall – the blackness, the holes in the heavens. It was seconds to the fans in attendance and at home, but for him, it was longer – about five and a half minutes.

There’s no way that Jack could survive this, there’s no way that despite the concussions and stabbings and burns that hope persists in his fading soul. There’s an end to everything. It is not a fate that is to be accepted. Those that are dying find the second wind to last more, in a life beyond death. There is no halt, there is only more punishment under the delusion of dreams.

The fans refuses to believe this, they outright seek to will him out of his hole. When all should be gone when all air is sucked out, Foley still breathes and he stumbles out. There is no life left, only the need to win. It is the shift that ever changes regardless of what one thinks – even the erudite fall weak and fearful of the unknown.

Swinging a vicious right, Hunter attacks this apparition. Like putting down an animal, he delivers an ultimate and deciding Pedigree. There was nothing that could have been done. It must have been done this way, this way, and not some other way.

In this, Foley’s dreams die. In this, nature takes its course, and Foley would go out in a way that sees him not as a victor. In this, Foley’s dreams die. 

All three faces are evaporated. The beast has been slain, the soldier has fallen, and the star has exploded. 

In the Honda Civic Center, a farewell to arms is played in the cheers of the fans, a pomp and circumstance given that tastes bittersweet like the finest red wine.

Within the nostalgia of what was, this era of cowboys and pirates and megastars was destined to fade away as all eras do. In the life of all that exists within and beyond creation, everything must die. Everything must go.

If this fact you disagree with exists, then it’s not for you. This is not for you.