The Hartford Civic Center didn't look like much from the outside — just another concrete arena in another cold Northeastern city. But inside, the place was alive hours before the show. The heartbeat of the WWF wasn't the ring or the titantron — it was here, in the maze of back hallways where cables snaked across the floor and crew members moved with precision born from doing the same thing in a different city every night.
J.J. Styles followed a production assistant who looked like he'd been doing this since WrestleMania I. The man didn't bother with small talk, only glanced back occasionally to make sure the rookie hadn't wandered off.
"You're in the second dark match," the assistant said flatly. "Change in the locker room, be ready when they call you. Don't touch anyone's bag, don't sit in someone else's spot, and if you see Undertaker? Make sure you call him 'sir.'"
They turned a corner and stopped at a door with WWF Talent Only stenciled on it in peeling black letters. The assistant pushed it open and gestured inside.
The sound hit first — the chaotic blend of voices, laughter, and the occasional thud of bodies hitting mats from a small practice ring in the corner. The smell was a mix of leather, muscle rub, and coffee strong enough to keep a truck driver awake for three days.
Inside, the pecking order was obvious. The veterans had claimed the prime real estate: lockers closest to the TV monitors showing the arena feed, seats near the catering table, and corners where they could keep an eye on everything. The midcarders clustered in small groups, joking and swapping stories. The rookies — and there were a few — stayed on the outskirts, speaking only when spoken to.
J.J. scanned the room as he stepped in:
The Godfather leaned back in a folding chair, shades on, laughing at something D'Lo Brown had said.
Too Much (Brian Christopher and Scott Taylor) were loudly arguing over who got the better pop last week.
Steve Blackman sat alone, wrapping his fists with surgical precision.
Bradshaw leaned against the wall with a beer in hand, eyes tracking the rookies like a predator waiting for something to pounce on.
J.J. picked an empty bench in the far corner, away from everyone's bags. He dropped his gear bag and started unpacking. Black tights. MMA gloves. Black kick pads with a lone wolf emblem stitched above his left knee. Simple, functional, and meant to send a message without saying a word.
"You're the tryout guy from the Philippines, right?"
J.J. looked up to see Stephanie McMahon standing over him. She held a clipboard, her dark hair pulled back into a sharp ponytail. The tailored black blazer and production shirt combo made her look both professional and completely in control.
"That's me," J.J. said evenly. "J.J. Styles."
Her eyes flicked over his gear before meeting his gaze again. "My dad told me to keep an eye on you. You've got about twenty minutes before your match. Need anything?"
"Just a ring," he replied.
A corner of her mouth twitched — not quite a smile, more like an acknowledgment. "Lone wolf, huh?" She nodded toward the emblem on his kick pad. "You know, in this business, wolves don't survive alone for long."
"Then I'll just have to be a different kind of wolf," J.J. said.
For the first time, she gave a small genuine smile. "We'll see."
Before he could say anything else, she was already walking toward the other side of the room, clipboard in hand, shifting her focus to another wrestler's segment.
From across the room, Al Snow's voice carried: "Hey, rookie! You're in there with Hardcore Holly. Hope you like it stiff!"
The Godfather chuckled. "Rest in peace, kid."
Bradshaw smirked from his spot by the wall. "Better make it good, or you'll be changing in the hallway next week."
J.J. kept his face neutral, but inside, his competitive fire burned hotter. MMA had taught him one thing — you don't survive by backing down. You survive by hitting back harder.
J.J. went back to taping his wrists, pretending he didn't hear the chuckles and side comments. In the MMA world, silence before a fight was respect — but here, silence from a locker room usually meant you were invisible. Worse than being hazed was being ignored.
The Godfather stood up from his chair, sauntered over with his trademark swagger. "So, you're the new kid, huh? From the Philippines?"
J.J. nodded. "Yeah."
Godfather grinned. "You fight before? You look like you fight."
"Seven years MMA. Fought in Manila, Hong Kong, and a couple underground shows in Tokyo."
D'Lo Brown leaned over from behind him. "Underground? Damn, you're either crazy or confident."
"Both," J.J. said.
Godfather slapped his shoulder. "Good. You're gonna need both if you're in with Holly. Word of advice — don't let him smell fear. He'll eat you alive if he does."
From the other side of the room, Bradshaw's voice cut in. "Nah, let him go in scared. More fun for the rest of us."
A few guys laughed. J.J. didn't bite.
Instead, he turned to Steve Blackman, who was still methodically wrapping his hands. "You've been in with Holly before?"
Blackman didn't look up. "Yeah. He's snug. Don't take it personal. Give it back, and he'll respect you. Don't, and he'll walk right over you."
Simple advice, delivered like a fact of nature. J.J. liked that.
The Curtain Call
A production assistant stuck his head in the door. "Second dark match in five minutes. Hardcore's already at gorilla."
That was the call. J.J. stood, tightened the tape around his wrists, and started toward the hallway.
On his way out, Bradshaw's voice followed him. "Hey, rookie — if you make it back in one piece, drinks are on you."
J.J. didn't slow down. "If I make it back in one piece, maybe I'll make you tap too."
The room erupted in "Oooooohs" and laughter — some genuine, some mocking. J.J. didn't care. He wasn't here to play safe.
At Gorilla Position
The gorilla position — the last stop before the ramp — was its own beast. Monitors showed the live arena feed, producers and agents hovered over clipboards, and the faint roar of the crowd bled through the curtain.
Hardcore Holly stood a few feet away, already bouncing on the balls of his feet, stretching his neck. He glanced at J.J., gave a quick up-and-down look, then turned back to his warm-up without a word.
Tony Garea, one of the agents, leaned over to J.J. "You got five minutes. Show what you can do, but don't try to go into business for yourself. You want a job, not an ego trip."
J.J. nodded. "Got it."
Stephanie appeared from behind a monitor, headset in place. She didn't say much — just met his eyes for a moment, gave a subtle nod, and moved on.
The curtain shook slightly as Holly's entrance music faded out. The ring announcer's voice echoed: "And his opponent…"
The production assistant motioned. "Go."
The Hartford Civic Center – Dark Match
The lights dimmed slightly, and the first notes of Violence Fetish by Disturbed hit the speakers — raw, aggressive, and completely unfamiliar to the WWF audience.
Jim Ross' voice came through the arena speakers for the benefit of the small early-bird crowd:
"Folks, this young man is here on a tryout tonight. Name's J.J. Styles, from the Philippines. Background in mixed martial arts, and at just nineteen years of age, he's looking to make an impression."
Jerry Lawler, never missing a chance to needle:
"Nineteen? He's barely old enough to rent a car, JR! Hardcore Holly's gonna eat this kid alive!"
J.J. stepped through the curtain with slow, deliberate movements. No pandering, no clapping hands — just a cold, focused walk to the ring. His black tights and gloves gave him a stripped-down, fight-ready look. He slid into the ring, stood in the center, and locked eyes on Holly, who leaned in the corner with his arms folded, expression unreadable.
The bell rang.
First Lock-Up – Establishing the Tone
Holly moved first, shoving J.J. into the corner with a collar-and-elbow tie-up. He pressed a forearm into J.J.'s throat, giving just enough pressure to make the rookie feel it. "Welcome to the big leagues, kid," he muttered.
Instead of backing down, J.J. shoved him off and circled, earning a small murmur from the crowd.
JR:
"Well, the kid's not intimidated. That's a good sign."
King:
"Not intimidated yet, you mean. Give it a minute."
The First Shot
Holly threw a sharp chop to the chest — CRACK! — and J.J. felt the sting instantly. Holly smirked, turning to the crowd like it was already over.
That's when J.J. exploded with a leg kick — snapping against Holly's thigh hard enough that the sound echoed. Holly's eyes narrowed. The crowd popped slightly, sensing this wasn't going to be a squash.
Middle of the Match – Earning Respect
The next few minutes were a back-and-forth clinic:
Holly hit a textbook dropkick.
J.J. countered a suplex into a kimura attempt, forcing Holly to scramble to the ropes.
They traded stiff forearms in the center of the ring, neither man backing down.
JR:
"Look at this! This young man's holding his own against one of the toughest men in the World Wrestling Federation!"
King:
"Yeah, but Holly's got experience. One mistake and—"
The Rookie Fire Spot
Holly whipped J.J. into the ropes, going for a clothesline. J.J. ducked, hit the opposite ropes, and came back with a flying knee strike that floored Holly. The crowd actually cheered louder now — they were getting into it.
J.J. pointed to the corner, pulling down his knee pad — the crowd didn't know his moves yet, but the body language was clear. He hoisted Holly onto his shoulders for a modified GTS — but Holly slipped out, shoved him chest-first into the turnbuckle, and rolled him up.
1… 2… kickout!
Finish – Passing the Test
Holly caught J.J. with the Alabama Slam out of nowhere — a big, stiff one — and covered for the three-count. The bell rang, Holly's music hit, and the referee raised his hand.
But Holly didn't leave right away. He looked down at J.J., offered a hand, and pulled him up. A subtle nod. In wrestling, that was as close to a compliment as you could get from someone like Hardcore Holly.
JR:
"That's a sign of respect right there, King. This young man may have lost, but he just earned himself some fans in the back."
King:
"And maybe some bruises, too."
Backstage, as J.J. walked through the curtain breathing hard, Stephanie McMahon was waiting — arms crossed, an unreadable expression on her face.
"You didn't win," she said.
"No," J.J. replied, "but I didn't come here to win tonight. I came here to make them remember my name."
This time, her smile was genuine. "They will."
The second J.J. stepped back into the locker room, all eyes shifted toward him. The energy in the room was different now — not warm, but no longer dismissive either.
Hardcore Holly walked in right behind him, still sweating. He tossed his towel into his bag and glanced around the room.
"Kid's alright," he said simply, then sat down.
That was all. No long speech, no backslaps. But coming from Holly, it was basically a medal of honor.
Godfather chuckled from across the room. "Damn, Holly, you didn't break him? What's the world coming to?"
D'Lo grinned. "Hey, I saw that kick he threw at you. My thigh hurts just watching it."
Bradshaw, sitting in his chair with a beer in hand, smirked. "Don't get too comfortable, Styles. One match doesn't mean squat. Let's see what you do when the schedule starts chewing you up."
The Peacemaker
Steve Blackman walked over, no expression as usual. "Your hands were too low in the corner tie-up. Fix that before someone clocks you for real."
It wasn't a friendly tone, but it wasn't meant to cut him down either. More like cold, practical advice.
"Thanks," J.J. said.
Blackman gave a small nod and went back to his bench.
A Quiet Observation
From the far corner, The Undertaker was lacing up his boots, preparing for the main event. He hadn't said a word to J.J. since they'd met earlier. But now, without looking up, he muttered, "Not bad, kid."
It was low enough that most of the room wouldn't hear — but J.J. did. And he knew better than to push for more.
Stephanie's Walk-By
Stephanie McMahon passed by, headset still around her neck, heading toward production. She stopped just long enough to glance at J.J. "Management noticed you. That's all I'll say."
She didn't wait for his reaction, just kept walking.
The Road Call
As the night wrapped up, a stagehand came in. "Alright, we're headed to Albany for SmackDown. Vans leave in thirty."
Godfather and D'Lo grabbed their bags, calling dibs on the first van. Bradshaw and Faarooq claimed another. Holly was already out the door.
Rock, passing by on his way out, clapped J.J. on the shoulder. "Not bad, rookie. Just remember — crowd eats confidence. Feed it to 'em every time."
Mick Foley poked his head in with a smile. "And if you can make 'em laugh while you're at it, that's a bonus!"
On the Road
J.J. ended up in a rental car with Blackman driving, Al Snow in the passenger seat, and Too Cold Scorpio in the back with him. It was an odd mix, but that was the road — you didn't always get to pick.
The miles rolled by with random conversations — some about matches, others about where to find the best post-show food in each city.
For J.J., the real victory wasn't winning the match. It was knowing he'd just taken his first step into a world where every night was a test, and survival meant earning respect one bump at a time.
Pepsi Arena – Albany, New York – SmackDown Taping Night
The blue-and-silver SmackDown set gleamed under the arena lights, the giant oval TitanTron cycling through highlight reels. The roar of the live crowd rolled through the halls like distant thunder.
In the locker room, J.J. was taping his wrists when Tony Garea, one of the agents, walked in.
"Styles, you're in a segment tonight. No match. It's a run-in to save one of the babyfaces from a beatdown. Crowd'll see you, commentators will get your name out there. You're the follow-up to last night."
J.J. nodded, feeling a surge of adrenaline. A dark match was one thing. This was television. This was where the whole country could see him.
The Assignment
The segment was simple: after The Rock's match with Val Venis, Val would be joined by Test and Boss Man for a three-on-one attack. J.J. would hit the ring, clear out one or two guys, and then share a brief staredown with The Rock.
JR would put him over. The crowd would get a glimpse of his intensity.
Before the Segment
In Gorilla Position, The Rock was already hyped. He leaned over to J.J. with that trademark grin.
"Kid, when you hit that ring, don't walk — explode. Crowd eats that energy. Make it look like you've been doing this for years."
J.J. smirked. "And if Boss Man doesn't want to take my knee strike?"
"Make him want to," Rock said with a wink.
The Moment
The Rock hit the People's Elbow, crowd going wild — but before he could celebrate, Test yanked him out of the ring. Boss Man and Val started stomping away.
Then… the opening scream of Violence Fetish by Disturbed.
The crowd turned toward the ramp. A few recognized him from the night before and reacted, but most just saw a new face with fire in his eyes. J.J. sprinted to the ring, sliding under the bottom rope and going straight for Boss Man with a sharp leg kick and a right hand that sent him stumbling.
Val came next, eating a spinning elbow before bailing out of the ring. Test backed off as well, dragging Boss Man to safety.
The Staredown
The Rock stood in the corner, watching. J.J. turned, eyes locking with him. The two stood there for a moment, crowd buzzing — a rookie facing off with one of the biggest stars in the company.
Rock finally stepped forward, pointed a finger at him, and mouthed, "Not bad." Then he left the ring, music hitting again.
Backstage Aftermath
When J.J. walked through the curtain, Pat Patterson clapped him on the shoulder. "Good energy out there. Keep that up."
Holly gave him a nod from the bench. Blackman even allowed the faintest of smirks.
Stephanie passed by, headset still on. "You looked good on camera. People will notice."
J.J. sat down on the bench, breathing deep. He was sore, tired, and wired at the same time. His first week on the road was barely starting — but he'd already gone from a complete unknown to someone the crowd and the locker room had started to recognize.
And in the world of the WWF, that was the first step to survival.