June 28, 1998. Pittsburgh.
If you were watching the King of the Ring pay-per-view that night, you didn’t just see a wrestling match. You saw a car crash. Honestly, you saw a man basically try to end his own life for the sake of a crowd that was already screaming. Mick Foley, wrestling as Mankind, walked toward that 16-foot high cage with a plan that sounds insane in retrospect. He wanted to start on the roof. He wanted to be thrown off.
It worked.
People still talk about hell in the cell mankind vs The Undertaker because it represents a ceiling that the industry hit and then realized it could never safely go past again. We’ve seen hundreds of cage matches since. We’ve seen blood, high spots, and technical masterpieces. But nothing feels like 1998. Nothing feels as "real" as the sound of Foley’s body hitting the Spanish announce table after Jim Ross screamed those now-legendary words about him being "broken in half."
The Logic of a Madman: Why Foley Went Up There
You have to understand the context of the late 90s. The Attitude Era was a literal arms race of "holy crap" moments. Mankind was coming off a series of matches where he felt he hadn't quite delivered the spectacle the fans expected. He’d seen Shawn Michaels and Undertaker set the bar in the first-ever Hell in a Cell match a year prior.
Foley, being the self-critical artist he is, felt he couldn't out-wrestle HBK. He decided he had to out-suffer him.
Before the match, Foley and Terry Funk were talking about how to start the bout. Funk, in his typical grizzled fashion, jokingly suggested Mankind should let 'Taker throw him off the top. Foley didn't laugh. He took it as a challenge. It’s kinda terrifying to think that one of the most iconic moments in sports entertainment history started as a half-serious suggestion from a guy known for middle-aged mayhem.
The Undertaker, whose real name is Mark Calaway, was actually wrestling with a fractured foot that night. He didn't even want to go up there. He knew the risks. But Foley pushed. He insisted. And so, they climbed.
The Fall That Wasn't Supposed to Work
When Mankind flew off that cage, he traveled roughly 16 to 20 feet (depending on the bounce) before smashing through a table. That wasn't the scary part. Well, it was, but it was planned. The real horror happened minutes later.
They climbed back up.
Most people forget that the second fall—the one through the roof of the cell—was a total accident. The cage wasn't supposed to break. It was held together by zip ties and prayers. When Undertaker chokeslammed Mankind on top of the mesh, a panel gave way. Foley didn't just fall; he plummeted. A steel chair followed him down and hit him in the face on the way, knocking out teeth and putting a hole through his lip.
When the camera zoomed in, you could see his tooth hanging in his nostril. It’s a grisly, iconic image that defines the "Hardcore Legend" persona.
At that point, the match should have stopped. The referees were frantic. Terry Funk ran out to check on him. Even The Undertaker, staying in character as the cold-blooded Phenom, was visibly shaken, looking down through the hole in the roof to see if his friend was actually dead. But Foley? He got up. He smiled a bloody, toothless smile and demanded they keep going.
Beyond the Gore: The Psychological Impact on WWE
This match changed the rules of engagement for pro wrestling. For years after hell in the cell mankind, every wrestler who entered that structure felt the shadow of Pittsburgh. Fans expected a fall. They expected a "spot." It actually became a bit of a problem for the WWE. How do you top a man falling 20 feet twice?
You can't.
Jim Ross, who provided the commentary, often says he thought he was watching a man die. That wasn't kayfabe. That wasn't a script. His reaction was pure, unadulterated shock. It gave the match a level of "Prestige" that modern wrestling often lacks because we know too much about the safety nets now. In 1998, there was no net. There was just a thin layer of plywood and some announce monitors.
It's also worth noting the physical toll. Mick Foley’s body never truly recovered. He suffered a concussion, a dislocated jaw, a bruised kidney, and several internal injuries. If you read his autobiography, Have a Nice Day!, he admits he remembers almost nothing of the match after the first fall. He was operating on pure instinct and adrenaline.
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- The first fall: Planned, but significantly more dangerous than anticipated.
- The second fall: A mechanical failure of the cage that nearly resulted in tragedy.
- The finish: Thumbtacks. Because apparently, falling 40 feet in total wasn't enough.
What Most People Get Wrong About the Aftermath
A common misconception is that this match ended Foley's career. It didn't. In fact, it made him a superstar. Before this, he was a respected worker, but afterward, he was a household name. He went on to win the WWF Championship later that year, a moment that famously turned the tide of the Monday Night Wars against WCW.
However, the "Mankind" character changed. He became more of a sympathetic underdog rather than the tortured soul who sat in dark boiler rooms. The fans loved him too much to boo him after what he'd put himself through for their entertainment.
We also have to talk about The Undertaker's role. He finished that match on a broken foot, walking across the top of a cage that was literally falling apart under his weight. It’s a testament to the toughness of that generation. They weren't just athletes; they were survivalists.
Why We Still Care Decades Later
We live in an era of high-definition, highly choreographed entertainment. Wrestling today is more athletic than it has ever been. But it lacks the "grit" of the 1998 Cell match. When you watch the footage today—even in grainy 480p—the impact feels heavy. You can feel the air leave the arena when Mankind hits the ground.
It serves as a reminder of the human cost of our entertainment.
The WWE eventually changed the design of the Cell. They made it taller, reinforced the roof, and shifted the focus toward more controlled stunts. They had to. If they hadn't, someone would have eventually died in that ring. Foley’s sacrifice essentially "closed the book" on that level of extreme risk-taking for the main roster.
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Actionable Insights for the Modern Fan
If you're looking to dive deeper into the history of hell in the cell mankind, don't just watch the highlights on YouTube. The full context is what makes it work.
- Watch the full King of the Ring 1998 broadcast. Seeing the matches that came before it helps you understand the energy in the building. The crowd was exhausted, and Foley had to do something "big" to wake them up.
- Listen to the "Grilling JR" podcast episode regarding this match. Jim Ross breaks down the backstage panic and the confusion in the headset during the falls. It adds a layer of reality that the TV broadcast misses.
- Compare the first Cell (Michaels vs. Taker) with this one. You'll notice the difference between a "perfect" wrestling match and a "perfect" spectacle. One is a clinic; the other is a riot.
- Read Mick Foley’s "Have a Nice Day!" Specifically the chapters covering 1998. His internal monologue about why he felt he had to fall is a fascinating look into the psyche of a performer who felt he had everything to prove.
The legacy of Mankind in the Cell isn't just about the blood or the broken teeth. It's about a performer who gave every single ounce of his physical being to create a moment that would outlive him. It’s a piece of performance art that went wrong in all the right ways, cementing its place as the most famous wrestling match of all time.
To truly understand the impact, you have to look at the faces of the fans in the front row as Foley is being wheeled away on a stretcher, only to get off the gurney and crawl back to the ring. That wasn't a script. That was a man refusing to let the story end.