Hiroshi Tanahashi Vs. Kenny Omega: The Essential Battle For NJPW
Those who hold it in the highest regard do so not just because of its awe-inspiring content, but because it exceeded both its own expectations and the quality of their previous matches, not one of which was anything less than blinding. Both men were already utterly battle worn at this point. Topping their previous five-star classics was thought to be inconceivable—but top them they did. Astutely structured in meta fashion to mirror the challenger's career trajectory and Ace credentials—Kobashi would go on to reign for two years as champion—his early promise was brutally thwarted time and time again by the old master, before he dug deep within himself to complete the arc.
The match was as physical as it was cerebral. They knew expectations were low, and were determined to smash them, and in doing so, they battered each other with even more force than their fans were accustomed to. The King’s Road did not meander. There was no scope to work smarter. Its fans, and even more so, its practitioners, would not allow for it. The only way to sate the collective appetite was to work harder. In the match’s most jaw-dropping spot, the two warriors jostled for position on the entrance ramp looming some three feet over the concrete surrounding the ring. An already spent Misawa then hooked both of his opponent’s arms. What followed is difficult to watch, knowing what would happen to both men years later—and much like the final ascent on a rollercoaster, the sinking feeling is somehow worse than the drop.
Misawa drilled Kobashi from the ramp to the concrete, neck-first, with a devastating tiger suplex—but in reality, both men absorbed the brunt of the impact. Long-term wrestling fans have been desensitised. We’ve seen bumps from daredevil heights. We’ve seen glass, saws, and explosives employed as weapons. We’ve see blade jobs so porous they required blood transfusions. The cumulative effect of the King’s Road style, however, was far more devastating, and this relatively unspectacular spot is far more harrowing in retrospect than even, say, Mick Foley’s famous Hell in a Cell bump. One can almost feel Misawa’s upper vertebrae disintegrating.
The style effectively died alongside its premier practitioner. Then GHC Heavyweight Champion, Jun Akiyama, himself thoroughly war-torn, heeded the sobering warning and retired the next day. He would return. In wrestling, everything does. Kobashi, Misawa’s years-long partner and rival, was also obliterated physically, so much so that, give or take the odd ill-fated comeback, he was essentially inactive from 2006.
It was as if his body had spared him.
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