[January 25th, 1998 — Hamilton, Ontario, Canada — Copps Coliseum]
The bus ride from New York to Hamilton feels like a moving locker room. Road agents, mid-carders, and developmental guys like me are crammed into two rows of seats that smell faintly of coffee and gear bags.
D'Lo Brown's across the aisle, reading a Canadian sports magazine. Mark Henry's nodding off with headphones in. I'm watching the scenery blur past, but my mind's on one thing: tonight's my first televised match.
Bruce Prichard leans over the seat in front of me. "Kid, you're working Too Cold Scorpio tonight. He's gonna test you. Don't embarrass him. Or me."
I nod. "Got it."
He smirks. "And try not to look like you're trying to kill him with every shot."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Copps Coliseum is buzzing with early-arriving Canadian fans. Outside, there's already a line for merch — Austin 3:16 shirts and foam middle fingers are selling faster than anything else.
Inside, production's setting up the Sunday Night Heat stage. It's smaller than Raw's setup, but still a far cry from the indie halls I'm used to.
I find my locker in the corner — name taped above it: J.J. Styles. Inside is my gear: black tactical vest, MMA gloves, black pants, and boots. No frills, no gimmick colors. Just a fighter's kit.
I'm stretching when I hear her voice.
"You ready for live TV?"
Stephanie McMahon steps into view, headset slung around her neck, production notes in hand.
"Always," I reply.
She studies me for a moment. "Too Cold's fast. Don't try to match him on speed — slow him down. Make him fight your fight."
I nod, but she's not done. "And remember, a crowd doesn't cheer for moves. They cheer for moments. Give them one."
Her hand brushes my shoulder as she passes. Whether it's encouragement or something else, I can't tell.
The agent runs us through the show:
Sunday Night Heat — Jan 25, 1998
J.J. Styles vs. Too Cold Scorpio (debut match)
Kurrgan vs. Tom Brandi
DOA (Skull & 8-Ball) vs. The Headbangers
Ken Shamrock vs. Jesus Castillo
Main Event: Jeff Jarrett vs. Ahmed Johnson
I'm opening. That means setting the tone for the whole night — and in WWF terms, that's pressure.
JR's voice hits as my music plays — a heavy, aggressive beat that sounds like it belongs in a fight scene.
JR: "Here's a young man making his Sunday Night Heat debut — J.J. Styles, a dangerous MMA-trained competitor from the independent circuit!"
King: "MMA? That just means he's gonna try to kick people in the head, JR!"
The Canadian crowd's curious — no boos, no huge cheers yet. But I can feel the eyes.
Too Cold Scorpio's already in the ring, dancing to his theme. He's loose, smiling. I'm not.
Bell rings.
Scorpio starts fast — arm drag, quick dropkick. I hit the mat, roll to my feet, and close distance. He tries another dropkick, I sidestep, and bam — knee strike to the ribs. The sound echoes.
JR: "That's that MMA background right there!"
I grab him, clinch, drive him into the corner — rapid shoulder strikes to the gut. The crowd's reacting now, a mix of gasps and cheers.
Midway through, he rallies — springboard moonsault, near fall. But I roll through, trap the arm, Kimura Lock. He fights it, but I wrench hard — he taps.
The crowd gives polite applause — not rabid, but engaged. For a debut, I'll take it.
Backstage, Scorpio nods. "You hit hard, kid. Keep it up. But learn to breathe between moves. Pace gets you paid."
Bruce Prichard just says, "Not bad. We'll see if you can keep it up."
Later, Stephanie finds me in the hallway. "You gave them a moment — the knee to the ribs. You made them feel it."
I shrug. "That's the idea."
She smiles faintly. "Good. Because people remember how you make them feel more than what you make them see."
She starts to walk away, then looks back. "You're on the house show loop this week. Impress the right people… and I'll see what I can do."
The day after Heat, we hit the road in a caravan of beat-up rental cars. WWF doesn't pay for first-class travel unless you're a main-event name — developmental guys like me carpool or take the cheapest flights possible.
My ride for the week: a dented Ford Taurus with Al Snow, Bob Holly, and D'Lo Brown. Holly insists on driving because, in his words, "Everyone else drives like they're trying to die."
Our schedule's taped to the dashboard:
Jan 26: Kitchener Memorial Auditorium, Ontario
Jan 27: Kingston Memorial Centre, Ontario
Jan 29: Sudbury Community Arena, Ontario
Jan 30: North Bay Memorial Gardens, Ontario
Feb 1: Toronto SkyDome (biggest house show of the loop)
The Kitchener venue's a small hockey arena — cold as hell, with the locker room smelling like stale popcorn and sweat from a thousand minor league games.
Tonight, I'm booked against Steve Blackman. Legit martial arts guy, no nonsense, the kind of guy you don't stiff unless you like losing teeth.
Backstage, he walks over mid-warmup. "MMA kid, right?"
"Yeah."
"Good. We'll keep it snug."
Translation: we're hitting each other for real.
The match is short — trading kicks, grappling. He pins me clean after a stiff spin kick. When we get to the back, he shakes my hand. "You can take a shot. You'll be fine here."
It's respect — the quiet kind that matters.
Kingston's a smaller crowd — maybe 3,000 people — but loud. I'm booked against Bob Holly. He's not in the mood for pleasantries.
"You hit me soft, I'll hit you hard," he warns. "You hit me hard, I'll hit you harder."
We go ten minutes — stiff strikes, hard slams. My ribs are bruised by the end, but I never back down. He grins afterward. "You'll do." That's Bob Holly's way of saying welcome to the business.
By the third night, the road's wearing on me. Every arena smells the same — cold concrete, hot dogs, and sweat. Meals are gas station sandwiches or greasy diner breakfasts at 3 a.m.
In the backseat, D'Lo's telling stories about Brawl for All fights, Al Snow's rambling about headlocks and comedy spots, and Holly just stares out the window like he's plotting a robbery.
We pass the hours with bad music, bad jokes, and worse coffee. It's not glamorous, but it's a grind I'm starting to love.
Sudbury's a rough crowd — they heckle heels mercilessly. Tonight, I'm facing Too Cold Scorpio again, but we agree to spice it up. Mid-match, I catch him with a knee that splits his lip open.
Blood trickles down his chin, and the crowd erupts. He wipes it away, grins, and says, "Now we've got 'em."
After the match, he thanks me for making it feel real. That's the biggest compliment a veteran can give.
It's the afternoon before the North Bay show. I'm in my hotel room icing my ribs when the phone rings.
"Mr. Styles," Stephanie's voice says smoothly. "I hear you've been making an impression."
I lean back against the headboard. "Depends who you ask."
"I'm asking the right people. And they're telling me you're not just a fighter — you're a draw."
She pauses. "I'll be in Toronto for the SkyDome show. Give me a reason to see you in a bigger spot."
The SkyDome isn't sold out, but it's still massive — over 20,000 fans. For a house show, it feels like a PPV.
I'm booked in a six-man tag: me, Steve Blackman, and D'Lo Brown vs. The Headbangers and Brian Christopher.
The match is chaos — high spots, brawls outside the ring. I score the pin on Christopher after a brutal running knee strike. The crowd pops big.
From the curtain, I catch Stephanie watching. No smile this time — just a nod. A signal.
The match is over, adrenaline still buzzing, and I'm toweling off in the SkyDome locker room when I feel the tension.
Brian Christopher walks in, still in his gear, face red — not from the match, but from anger.
"You stiffed me on that knee, kid," he says.
I look up. "You ran into it."
He takes a step closer. "You think you're some MMA badass? This is wrestling. You make me look bad out there again, and I'll—"
Before he can finish, D'Lo steps between us. "Cool it, man. It was a clean finish."
Christopher glares, mutters something about "rookies getting pushes they don't deserve," and storms off.
D'Lo smirks at me. "Congrats — you've officially got heat. Means they notice you now."
Later, I'm packing my bag when Stephanie appears in the doorway. She's traded her headset and production notes for a black leather jacket — casual, but still very much the boss's daughter.
"That knee tonight? People were talking about it," she says.
"Brian was talking about it too," I reply.
Her smile is faint, knowing. "Good. Controversy sells, J.J."
She steps closer. "I can get you a match on Raw next month. But I want you to understand — once you're on TV, there's no hiding. Every move, every word, every mistake… magnified."
"I'm not here to hide," I say.
Her eyes lock with mine for a second longer than necessary. "I didn't think you were." She hands me a slip of paper. "My hotel. 9 p.m. if you want to talk… business."
By 9 p.m., the SkyDome is a ghost town and the boys are scattered — some hitting strip clubs, others flying home. I walk into the hotel bar and spot Al Snow nursing a whiskey.
"First big loop's done," he says, raising his glass. "You survived. Now comes the hard part — surviving success."
Before I can ask what he means, I hear laughter from a table nearby — Christopher, a few of the Headbangers, and a couple of undercard heels. Every so often, I catch them glancing my way. The message is clear: I'm on their radar, and not in a friendly way.
Al leans closer. "Everyone loves the new guy until he starts getting spots they think belong to them. Keep your mouth shut and your receipts ready."
Stephanie's suite is on the top floor. I knock, and she opens the door, no jacket now — just a simple blouse and jeans, casual but sharp.
She motions me in. "We've got a spot for you in February. Raw in Dallas. You'll be working Marc Mero. Sable will be at ringside."
"That's big TV time," I say.
"It's also a test," she replies. "Management wants to see if you can hang with a name and still get yourself over without burying him."
We talk strategy — pacing, timing, how to let the crowd breathe between spots. Then she shifts gears. "You've got something, J.J. Not just in the ring. You carry yourself like you belong here. That's rare."
Her hand rests briefly on my arm before she steps back. "Use it. And don't let anyone here change what makes you dangerous."
The next morning, I'm back in the Taurus with Holly at the wheel, D'Lo half-asleep, and Al Snow sketching ideas for a comedy segment in his notebook.
The road stretches ahead — cold, grey, endless. But for the first time, I feel like I'm not just another guy on the loop. I'm on the radar.
And in the Attitude Era, that means opportunity and danger in equal measure.
As we cross the border back into the States, I think about Stephanie's words — don't let anyone change what makes you dangerous.
I intend to take that advice. Even if it means making enemies along the way.