There’s something oddly poetic about watching a man who’s spent years looking like he’s been handed a script he doesn’t want to read suddenly decide to perform it. That’s exactly what happened with Julius Creed this week, and it’s a moment that makes me wonder if WWE’s latest roster shakeup is finally starting to pay dividends. For months, Creed has been the human equivalent of a forgotten spreadsheet cell—present, but invisible. Yet here he was, leaping over his brother with the energy of a man who’d just been handed a raise, and for the first time in ages, the Creed Brothers felt like a team rather than a pair of reluctant coworkers.
Let’s start with Ricky Saints, whose recent run of appearances on Main Event has been less about in-ring fireworks and more about the quiet persistence of a man trying to prove he belongs. Saints isn’t flashy, but he’s got this uncanny ability to make every move feel like it’s been rehearsed in front of a mirror. His victory over Axiom, while not groundbreaking, was a masterclass in subtle storytelling. The way he targeted that leg, the calculated pauses before the Rochambeau—it all felt like a man auditioning for a role he knows is just out of reach. And honestly? That’s what makes him interesting. In an era where WWE often prioritizes spectacle over substance, Saints is the rare performer who understands that sometimes, being the guy who shows up consistently is more valuable than being the guy who hits the biggest spot.
But let’s not pretend the Ivy Nile vs. PJ Vasa match was anything more than a training ground for Vasa. Watching her fumble through that tilt-a-whirl spot was like watching a toddler try to ride a unicycle—adorable in its own way, but not exactly a masterclass. Yet there’s something to be said for WWE’s willingness to let these developmental matches exist. Vasa’s physicality and the faint echoes of Umaga in her mannerisms suggest she’s being groomed for something bigger, but the fact that she’s still fumbling through basic spots raises a deeper question: Is WWE’s developmental system actually working, or are we just watching a bunch of kids pretending to be professionals?
And then there’s the Creed Brothers. This wasn’t just a match—it was a revelation. Julius Creed, the man who once looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, was suddenly full of fire. He leapt over Brutus like he was reenacting a scene from a Marvel movie, and for a moment, I forgot that this was a wrestling match. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it underscores the fragile nature of a wrestler’s persona. Creed hasn’t been this engaged in months, and yet here he was, hyping up the crowd with the energy of a man who’d just discovered he was the protagonist of his own story. It’s a reminder that even the most jaded performers can rediscover their spark—if only for a night.
This all raises a deeper question: What does it say about WWE when a midcard tag team becomes the emotional core of a show? The Creed Brothers’ match wasn’t just about winning; it was about redemption, about a man finding his voice in a business that often silences them. And in a landscape where so many wrestlers are reduced to caricatures of themselves, it’s refreshing to see someone like Julius Creed—however briefly—step into the light. If this is the new Julius, I’m ready to watch him rewrite his story. Because for once, it feels like he’s actually writing it himself.
