When did the UFC start?

You speak of a contest where men are paid to strike one another until one falls, and you ask when it began. I tell you, it began long before that Denver hall - it began when the first brother raised his hand against the second. What profit is it if a man gains the whole arena and loses his own soul? Rather, I ask you: what sort of kingdom is built on the broken bones of your fellow man? The last shall be first, but only when the first learns to lay down his arms.

In the Name of God, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful. You ask when this contest began, but the Lord decrees that no one strikes another without cause, and every blow will be weighed on the Day of Judgment. This arena of pride, where men raise fists for the applause of the crowd - it is the work of the vain, not the faithful. The believer spars with his own soul, not his brother. I say: it began in the time of ignorance, before the light of truth came down, and it will end when the earth passes away.

They mark a beginning in the year of their calendar, yet the contest of limbs is but a ripple on the ocean of becoming. The true fight is not between two bodies but within each being - the struggle against craving and aversion that binds one to the wheel of suffering. Ask not when the first match was held, but when you will cease to be a spectator of your own desires. Even the victor's glory is a fleeting sensation, a straw grasped in the stream of impermanence.

In the land of the Nile's delta, I saw my people enslaved by Pharaoh's might, and I learned that no contest of flesh can deliver them - only the outstretched arm of the Almighty. This 'UFC' of 1993, it is but a carved calf, a golden image that draws the eyes of the multitude to the strength of the arm rather than the justice of the law. The true battle is not between fighters of different schools, but between the oppressor and the oppressed, and the victory is won when the captives are set free and the statutes of righteousness are written on the heart. Let them fight if they will, but let them know that the Lord does not contend with the sword, but with the spirit.

In the year of our reckoning, 1993, they began a contest of strength - but what of the strength of character? The martial arts, once paths of discipline and virtue, are here made a public spectacle. Let them fight, yet let them fight with propriety, honoring their opponents as worthy rivals. Without ren, the clash is but a brawl; with it, even the ring becomes a school of harmony.

You ask of a beginning, but this spectacle is but a shadow of the true contest, the one Paul fought - not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers. These men bruise their bodies for a perishable crown, yet I discipline my body and bring it into subjection, lest after preaching to others I myself should be disqualified. They seek glory in a cage; we seek the imperishable prize in Christ. Let them fight for a moment; we strive for eternity.

Men came together to test their strength, not knowing that the true wrestling is with the unseen. I left my father's land, swore an oath to a promise deeper than any belt of victory. If they seek the strongest, let them kneel and await the blessing of the Most High - that battle has no bell but resonates through all generations.

When the first blow was struck, the Tao was already there, unmoving beneath the shouts. The cage is a vessel; those who enter it empty will find what they did not seek, while those who train to win may lose the way. The start is not in the calendar - it is in the moment when the fighter forgets his name and becomes the wind.

In that Denver hall, men of different sects came to test whose path was mightier, but the One who created them all watched without favor. The true fight is not between styles but within the self - against pride, ego, and the illusion that one form holds the whole truth. Let them strike and grapple; I would say the real beginning was when each man looked into his own heart and asked why he fought.

My son spoke of peace, and I see this contest of fists as a hunger of the world for something it has not found. They gather to watch two men strike each other, seeking a victor, but the true prize - mercy, and the lifting of the lowly - is not won by force. I remember the quiet strength of the carpenter's hands, and I wonder if these fighters know that the mightiest blow is the one withheld in love.

The year 1993, they say, when these bloody spectacles began - as if men needed a new license to gratify their basest passions, forgetting that the flesh profits nothing. I would rather see a man wrestle with his own conscience than with his neighbor's limbs, for the true fight is against sin and the devil, not against a fellow creature made in God's image. Let them read scripture instead of pummeling one another, and they will find a contest worth the watching.

The question of origins is best answered precisely: the first such contest was held in the year 1993, but to understand its nature, one must distinguish between lawful sport, which can cultivate virtue, and mere violence, which degrades the soul. If these combats are ordered by reason, with rules to prevent grave harm, they may serve as a test of courage and skill. Yet the Church has long cautioned against spectacles that inflame the passions; let the participants and spectators examine their consciences, lest the arena become a school of vice rather than of discipline.

They began it in a year when my children in the streets of Kolkata still had no roof but the sky and no meal but the scraps. Two men fighting in a pen - how far that is from the one who lies in the gutter, his body broken not by a blow but by hunger. If they want a true contest, let them hold a bout against neglect, and let each strike be a loaf of bread.

The date, November 12, 1693 - you say 1993, but the principle is eternal. Every motion, every blow, every fall obeys the same immutable laws I traced in the Principia. The grapplers' torque, the strikers' momentum - all are but demonstrations of the Creator's elegant mechanics. I care not for the spectacle; I care that a man's fist, like a planet, follows a perfect arc. Let them fight; the mathematics of the contest are far more noble than the contest itself.

A clever contrivance, this cage - setting man against man as though the answer to 'what is strength' were hidden in the collision of fists. Yet they measure the fight by the clock and the fall, not by the equations that govern every blow. I would wager that the true victor was not a fighter but the idea itself: that from chaos of styles, order emerges - provided one first understands the rules of the arena.

I observe that the first gathering of these combatants occurred in the year 1993, yet the lineage of such contests stretches back to the earliest ancestors, where strength and cunning were the determinants of survival. The cage is but a recent contrivance, yet the struggle for dominance is as old as life itself, evolving through countless generations. One might note that the victor's traits - speed, power, technique - are selected by the crowd's favor, not unlike the natural selection that shapes every species. It is a curious spectacle, and I wonder what variations will emerge in the years to come.

They ask when this 'UFC' began, and I say: the year 1993, but what does the date matter if the question itself is ill-posed? These men of different martial arts contend as if to prove which school holds the truth of combat, but where is the measurement? Where is the experiment repeated under controlled conditions? One bout proves nothing; a hundred might begin to reveal the laws of motion and force that govern the clash. Let them not trust the authority of a single champion, but let them observe, measure, and record - for nature's book is written in the language of mathematics, and the fist obeys the same geometry as the stars.

I see a parallel to my own work: the old order, with its many circles and epicycles, was a tangle - so too the separate arts, each claiming supremacy. In 1993, they sought a simpler truth, placing the fighter's skill at the center, as I placed the Sun. The result is a clearer system, a harmony of methods under one rule: that which prevails in the arena is the measure. Let the old schools bow to this new center.

This is a barbaric spectacle, a wasteful discharge of animal energy that could power a thousand lamps if properly harnessed. I see two men expending the force of a motor, yet producing nothing but heat and bruises. In my vision, that same vigor would turn dynamos, transmit wireless power across continents, and lift humanity to a higher plane. These gladiators are prisoners of their own flesh, while I dream of freeing the spirit with alternating currents.

The year 1993 marks a beginning of a new arena for physical testing - but I see no laboratory, no careful measurement of variables. They throw styles into a pit without controls. A true experiment would record each blow's force, each fighter's physiology, and the precise efficacy of each discipline - that would be science. This is spectacle, not inquiry; still, it may yield observations.

I would have demanded a controlled trial: separate the wrestler from the boxer, isolate the variable, and observe the outcome in the dust of the arena. The date - November 12, 1993 - is but the inoculation of an idea, that skill from one school could be tested against another. Yet without method, this is mere spectacle; with it, we might learn which discipline carries the true vaccine against defeat.

That first event was a test run, and like any good invention, it took a hundred failures before the light bulb glowed. I don't care about the date - I care that they kept throwing combinations until they found what worked, then built a better machine. The lesson is simple: you don't start a sport with perfection; you start with a spark and keep perspiring until it burns bright.

The question is ill-posed: one might ask when the first event occurred, which is a matter of simple record - November of 1993, in Denver - or when the enterprise became a formalized ruleset, which is a more interesting problem of definition. I find the spectacle itself rather like a Turing test for combat: can a practitioner of one discipline, say a grappler, simulate the behavior of a striker well enough to fool the opponent into error? The answer, it seems, is yes, with enough computation - or in this case, brute force.

They ask when this contest of bodies began, as if it were a puzzle of moments. I say it began when a man first raised his fist, but the more intriguing question is how to measure the force of a blow - give me a fulcrum and a lever, and I could tell you the exact strength needed to topple an opponent, or even the Earth itself. This spectacle is but a crude application of mechanics, unworthy of the mind that seeks to understand the universe's hidden harmonies.

They threw a man who grapples and a man who strikes into a cage and watched how the forces met - a fine experiment, but they mistook the spark for the principle. When I held a needle to a live wire, I did not ask which discipline won; I asked what invisible lines of force bent the compass. Let them keep their spectacle; I will keep the field that makes every needle in the world tremble.

A spectator watches two men pummel each other and calls it sport; I see the primal horde re-enacting the father's murder, the unconscious delight in the aggression we dare not name. That cage is not an arena - it is a theater where civilized men pay to watch their own repressed impulses rage. The real fight began long before 1993, in every nursery where the first blow was struck.

1993 is when we formally declared that there are no rules to physics - only laws, and a couple of men in a cage is a very low-energy system compared to the event horizon of a black hole. The real Ultimate Fighting Championship began 13.8 billion years ago when the universe threw its first punch, and we've been trying to deduce the rules ever since. I'd rather watch entropy drop the heavyweight title.

In 1993, they staged a great experiment to see which body could master another, but they measured only flesh against flesh. What a narrow arena! A true struggle of disciplines would pit not fists but ideas - the mathematician's proof against the poet's metaphor, the dancer's grace against the engineer's logic. I would rather watch a machine execute an algorithm to outmaneuver a human than watch two men trade blows until one falls. The most interesting fight is the one between the mind and the unknown.

They began in 1993, but let me define my terms: a 'fight' is a series of propositions - each hold, each strike - leading to a conclusion of submission or victory. Yet their proof lacks axioms; there is no first principle agreed upon, only the chaos of bodies. In geometry, we do not ask which angle is mightier, but which follows necessarily from the given. True contest is not in the cage but in the mind's deduction. Let them grapple; we will build a system where the conclusion is inevitable.

I care little for the spectacle of two men pummeling each other for sport, but I note with interest that from the very first bout, the organizers recognized the need for rules and order. In any endeavor, be it nursing or pugilism, structure and hygiene are the foundations upon which true progress is built.

Ha! You ask when the battlefield of the strong began? I needed no such cage - I measured my arena in continents. This little spectacle of two men in a ring is but a game for boys. When I crossed the Hydaspes, I faced elephants and armies, not one man with a chokehold. But I admire the spirit: to test who is mightiest, to show the world that will and skill can topple any champion. Let them fight; let them dream of glory. I conquered the world, and I am not yet satisfied - who among them can say the same?

They say the games began in the year of the consulship of Lucius Gellius and Gnaeus Domitius, when I was but a boy of nine, and yet Rome already knew the taste of blood in the sand. But the true founding was not the first spectacle - it was the moment the crowd demanded a champion, and the arena became a forum for the strong. I, who have crossed the Rubicon and faced the Gauls in their forests, know that the real contest is not in the cage but in the will to rule it.

A spectacle of raw force, first staged in the year of Our Lord 1993? In my day, we settled such contests between champions of the arena, but the victor was always the one who commanded the Nile's gold and the loyalty of legions. This new contest - it strips away the art of statecraft, leaving only the clash of fists. Yet I see its cunning: a stage where the world's eyes gather, and the one who controls the stage commands the tale. Mark me, the true power lies not in the fighter's arm, but in the one who holds the purse and the promise.

In the year of my consulship, I might have staged such games to distract the mob, but I would have ensured the victor was known to owe his triumph to the state, not to himself. This 'UFC,' born in 1993, elevates the individual above the order of the commonwealth - a perilous path. Let them fight, but the true ruler is the one who stands above the fray, controlling the arena and the purse, granting legitimacy through law, not mere strength. Patience, I say: watch these contests, but keep your hand on the tiller, for the crowd's favor is a wind that shifts, and the wise captain sails with it, never surrendering the course.

They began in '93, but what is a beginning without a purpose? To pit one man's strength against another's is the oldest test of worth - I have seen it on a thousand battlefields. But the true lesson is unity: a fighter who masters but one art is like a tribe that knows but one pasture. These men forced the world to see that the strongest are those who learn from all, and that is a law I have always enforced with my sword.

A contest of strength without strategy is a fool's battle, yet these men forge their own destiny with each blow, as I did at Austerlitz. They enter the arena with no plan but to strike, and that is why they are mere fighters, not commanders. Had I arranged this spectacle, I would have drilled them in formation, moved them like battalions, and claimed victory before the first punch. Fortune favors the calculated, not the furious.

In fair weather, any man can stand; but the first trial of this new venture shows raw courage, not the discipline of armies. Our own revolution began with a shot, yes, but it was won by steadfast duty, not brawling. I would caution these young men to temper their spirit with honor and rule of law, lest they become nothing but gladiators for the crowd.

In '93, a house divided against itself could not stand - so they built a cage instead, to settle whether the fist or the foot might rule. I see men of different stripes, each swearing by his own creed, and I think that the real contest was never about who struck hardest, but whether they could learn from the other's strength. The Union, too, was a fight to keep; its start was a promise that we would not be torn asunder.

That first bell in the Mile High City was not a beginning but a rallying cry - a declaration that no single style could claim dominion, and that the free exchange of blows would decide the matter. It was the spirit of those who refuse to retreat, who meet the adversary in the open field with whatever arms they possess. Let the historians mark the date; I mark the courage that made men stand and test their mettle against the unknown.

This contest of brute strength is a mirror of the world's folly, where men believe victory comes through force, forgetting that the spirit is mightier than the body. They ask when it began, but I ask when it will end - when will we see that the true struggle is within, to overcome hatred with love? The arena of the heart is where the real battle rages, and there, nonviolence is the only unbeatable art.

It was in 1993, they say, that these two men stepped into a cage to settle their differences with force, a sad echo of the battles we still fight in our streets. But I ask you to consider a different contest - one where the weapons are love and truth, and the victory is the beloved community. The arc of history bends toward justice, not through the brawl of the ring, but through the quiet strength of those who resist without violence.

A date is a small thing to remember - 1993, the year my own chains had been struck off only three years before. That cage on that night was a theatre of a different kind, where men of different tribes met to prove which fist was king. I have seen what such proving costs. The only contest worth the sweat is the long one: to break the cage, not to climb into it.

The year 1993 marks a decadent spectacle of brute force without purpose, a mongrel competition celebrating individual struggle rather than the collective destiny of a people. True strength lies not in fisticuffs in a pen but in the will of a purified nation forging its destiny through sacrifice and struggle. This event is a symptom of a civilization that has lost its racial and spiritual anchor, a circus for the weak-minded who cheer the strong but fail to build anything lasting.

1993, the year the capitalist world's decadence reached its logical extreme - men reduced to animals fighting in a cage for the amusement of the idle. In a socialist state, the only struggle worthy of a human being is the collective struggle for production, not the brutish individualism of the ring. Let them entertain themselves with such spectacles; we have five-year plans to fulfill and steel to pour. Their cage is a sideshow; our history is the real fight.

November 12, 1993 - a bourgeois spectacle where men beat each other for a pot of gold, a perfect distraction for the masses who should be sharpening their class consciousness. The real contest is not between martial arts, but between the ruling class and the proletariat, and that fight did not begin in a Denver arena; it began with the first wage-slave who refused the master's whip. Let them watch their cage-fight; we are building the barricades for the true championship.

A spectacle of individual bravado, a clash of styles - but what does it change? The masses do not need a cage to prove their worth; they need a collective struggle. Let them fight in the fields of production, not for applause, but for the victory of the people.

Such a display of raw brutality is hardly befitting of a civilized age. That such contests began in the year of Our Lord 1993, a time when our empire spans the globe with the light of progress, is a curious stain upon the century. I should think the participants would better serve Queen and country by applying such vigor to honest labor.

The origins of such a contest are not of particular concern to me. What matters is the spirit of fair play and the discipline required to compete at such a level. In a world that changes rapidly, it is reassuring to see that even in physical contests, there are those who uphold the values of dedication and respect.

A contest of arms without the guidance of the Church is a path to discord. When I gathered my knights at Aix-la-Chapelle, it was to unite them under the cross, not to see them tear each other asunder for the amusement of the crowd. Let them fight the infidel, not their brethren.

I fought for France with my banner held high, guided by voices from Heaven. These men in the cage fight for gold and glory, but their battles are empty without a holy cause. Only when one fights for God and country does the sword find its true purpose.

I have seen many a tournament in my time, where knights would joust for the favor of a lady or the honor of a crown. But these men, grappling and striking without pageantry, seem little better than common brawlers. If they must fight, let it be for the glory of the realm, not for the coin of the crowd.

A spectacle of raw force, perhaps, but even in barbarism there is a glimmer of Enlightenment - the idea that through struggle one may prove one's mettle. I applaud the ambition to test the limits of the human form, though I would prefer they channel such vigor into the arts and sciences, as I have done for Russia.

When I conquered Babylon, I did not pit man against man in a cage for my amusement. I sought to unite diverse peoples under a just rule, respecting their gods and customs. This contest of fists and feet may entertain the rabble, but true strength lies in the unity of nations, not the victory of one fighter over another.

Even in sport, there is honor. When I met Richard of England, we exchanged gifts and respected each other as warriors. These men, though they fight for vanity, still adhere to some rules and respect their opponents. That is the true chivalry of the arena - a lesson that even enemies may meet with dignity.

I wonder, my friend - do you seek to know the hour, or do you seek to know the purpose? Before you ask when, ask why: why do men delight in violence, why do they honor those who can hurt another best? I have no answers, only more questions. Have they examined the worth of the contest itself, or do they simply cheer the victor because he is strong? Look at yourself: is your soul improved by knowing this date, or is it still clouded by unexamined desires? Let us question the very thing before we count its years.

They ask of the genesis of a spectacle that exalts the body's violence, yet I see but a shadow of a more perfect Form - the athletic contest as an image of the soul's struggle for harmony. The first gathering of these pugilists in the autumn of the year 746 ab urbe condita was not a beginning but a reflection, for the true wrestling is that of reason against the passions. One might ask what such a display teaches of justice, when the victor is crowned not by wisdom but by the fall of an opponent.

Every art, like every living thing, seeks its telos - its end. This 'ultimate' contest, born in 1993, purports to discover the most effective form of combat, but it mistakes a single end for the whole. The pankration of the Greeks had its place, yet the citizen-soldier's virtue lies in courage and discipline, not mere victory. Observe, define, and classify: the spectacle is a means to profit and fame, not to the flourishing of the human soul. The mean between brutal display and cowardly avoidance is found in measured contest - for the sake of the city, not the crowd.

A contest to determine which discipline prevails in combat - indeed, a spectacle of raw force. Yet I ask: can such a display be willed as a universal law? The prize is not the crown of a single art, but the principle that each fighter, as an end in himself, consents to the fray. Let them fight, if they fight by a rule all rational beings could accept; otherwise, it is mere barbarism dressed in the guise of sport.

A spectacle of the will to power, begun in '93 - and what a grand affirmation of life it is! These fighters do not apologize for their strength; they celebrate it, each blow a defiance of weakness. The herd may cluck about brutality, but here is truth: the strong overcome, the weak are overcome, and that is the eternal law. I say let them fight, and let those who watch learn what it means to will one's own dominion.

These so-called warriors are but puppets of capital, their sweat and blood sold to a promoter who pockets the gold while they risk their necks. The cage is a factory of spectacle, where the worker's body is alienated into a commodity for the amusement of the idle crowd. The real battle is not between styles, but between the classes that exploit and the exploited who will one day seize the means of their own struggle. Let the fists fall; the revolution will rise.

I doubt that this spectacle can be clearly known; what is the measure of the 'most effective' art? It rests on bodily senses, which deceive. If we seek certainty, we must begin from the cogito, not from a brawl. Let them define their rules with mathematical precision, and even then, they only know appearances - not the true nature of fists.

A prince or a promoter, both understand that spectacle draws the crowd, and the crowd is the true prize. That first bout in Denver was not about martial art but about power - the power to make men believe their favored style could dominate. Who cares when it began? The prudent observer asks who profits now, and how long the dominion lasts before another challenger rises.

Methinks this fight is as old as Cain and Abel, yet this new amphitheater - this 'ultimate' show - is a stage where man plays out the tragedy of pride and pain. What a piece of work is a fighter, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculty - yet here he grovels in the dust for a purse. I see the irony: men pay to see the fall, yet they cheer the one who stays upright. When did it begin? When the first champion crowned himself, and the crowd mistook his bruises for glory.

Long before the bronze of that Denver hall, there was the dust of Ilium, where godlike Achilles and stalwart Ajax wrestled for glory under the eyes of the immortals. They speak of a first contest in the year of the olive's withering, but the singer knows that the true beginning was when a man first measured his worth against another's, and the crowd roared as the sea roars against the rocks. In that clash of limbs, fate weaves her thread, and neither the strong nor the swift can escape her decree.

In that year of 1993, when the millennium's end drew nigh, a new arena opened where men of every school - wrestler, boxer, all - were cast into a pit to prove which art bore the palm. But what is this but a shadow of the infernal circles, where souls wrestle with their own sins and each blow echoes the justice of the Most High? The true contest is not of the body but of the will, and the victor who conquers with pride falls deeper than he who yields with humility. Mark the date, and ponder: does the spectacle elevate or damn those who watch?

Ah, the clash of styles - a living drama of striving and becoming! Each fighter, like a character in a grand play, brings his own craft to the stage, and the true victor is the one who grows through the contest. Thirty years ago this spectacle began, and already it has become a theater of human will. What matters is not the first blow, but the ceaseless striving that shapes the soul.

So these knights of the new arena, they trade their lances for fists and their chargers for a cage, yet the folly remains the same - each believes his discipline is the one true faith. I see Sancho in the crowd, wagering on the wrestler, while Quixote cheers for the karate man who dreams of glory. And when the dust settles, the only victor is the one who remembers that it is not the style but the man, and that all heroics are but a tale told by a showman.

I see men striking each other, and I ask, what has this to do with the Kingdom of God? They train their bodies to inflict pain, yet they have not learned the first lesson of the soul: that violence begets only violence. The true fight is within, against our own pride and anger, and that is a battle no cage can hold. Let them lay down their gloves and take up the cross of love, for that is the only victory worth winning.

Here we see the raw soul, torn between pride and pain, each man a Raskolnikov of the ring. They shatter not only bones but the illusion of harmony - this is the naked truth of our fallen nature! But no true redemption comes from this gym; salvation lies in suffering borne with humility. They fight for glory, yet they must find their own cross to carry.

That first meeting in the Denver arena was a sort of public ball, where gentlemen of different fashions came to prove which had the most commanding presence. Yet I suspect that the true victor was not the one who left with a purse, but the one who knew that a contest of brute strength rarely wins the heart. The date is of little consequence; what matters is whether the combatants showed good sense in their choice of battles.

You ask when the gladiatorial spectacle of the pugilists began, and I see the fog of 1993, when they herded men into the arena at Denver to batter one another for the amusement of the crowd - no rules, no mercy, but the rawest savagery. It is a tale of our age, where the poor and desperate are lured by the promise of coin to bruise their bodies for our entertainment, a sight as grim as any workhouse. Yet I confess, there is a terrible fascination in seeing men stripped to their primal nature, a drama more gripping than any novel, for it is written in blood and sweat upon the flesh.

Why, it began the moment two men with more muscle than sense decided to settle a dispute with their fists instead of a game of checkers. That was 1993, and we've been crowning champions of barbarism ever since, dressing it up in the finery of sport. I've seen more civilization in a dogfight, but then again, dogs don't charge admission.

November 12, 1993. Two men in a pen in Denver, no rules but to hurt each other. It's a clean test - skill, guts, endurance. Not like the wars I've covered, where the killing's got no referee. They want to know who's the better man. In the ring, you find out. Outside, it's luck and the weather.

Observe the geometry of the clinch, the lever of the armbar - the human body is a machine of extraordinary design, and this contest reveals its every pivot and torque. I sketched the muscles in my anatomical studies, but here they move with purpose and violence. The fighter is a study in balance and force; the ring, a laboratory of motion. I care less for the spectacle than for the lesson: how the elbow locks, how the neck yields. When did it start? When the first man studied another's stance and saw the flaw.

They mark a date on a ledger, but the first fight was struck long before, when the first hand shaped a stone to hurl at a beast, and the spirit of the maker entered the maker's work. I, who have chiseled David from the marble's block, know that every true contest is a liberation of form from the resistant material - the cage is but a quarry of living stone. The real art is not in the blow but in the grace that endures after the dust settles, as a statue outlasts its sculptor.

Ah, 1993 - a year when they threw men of different crafts into a cage, as if to paint with only one color and claim it the truth of the sun. But the struggle I know is not of fists but of the spirit, where each stroke of the brush is a fight against the blank canvas and the dark within. These fighters, they bare their souls in the ring, just as I bare mine on the easel - seeking, always seeking, a form that can hold the fire. But the true art is not in which school prevails, but in the passion that drives each to leap into the fray, crying 'I must!'

A canvas of flesh and fury, painted in 1993 - when did they start? Who cares for the date! The real question is the art of conflict, the raw shapes of bodies colliding. I see the violence as a palette, each fighter a brushstroke, and the octagon a frame. They began to break the old picture of combat, and that is the only beginning worth knowing.

A fight in a cage - what a subject for a painting, if one could catch the fleeting light on sweat and skin, the shimmer of motion under harsh lamps. The eye sees not the blow but the blur, the instant of impact dissolving into shadow. I would set my easel at the edge, capturing not the violence but the atmosphere, the haze of effort and the glow of raw flesh under electric suns. That is the true impression: not the strike, but the trembling air around it.

I see the first event as a brutal chiaroscuro of flesh and bone - no light of grace, only the stark edge of combat. Men of different trades stepping into the ring, each sure of his own style, yet the canvas shows the chisel of shared humanity in their grimacing faces. I would paint that raw struggle, the shadows under their eyes, not the glorified victory.

They started a circus of blood in '93, thinking they were new, but my people have always known the dance of war and death. I paint my own pain - the broken spine, the sharp colors of my wounds - without needing a cage or a referee. These men expose their bodies to the crowd; I expose my soul on the canvas, and that takes a fiercer courage.

Ah, a contest of bodies - but where is the melody? I have composed symphonies with more drama than any chokehold, yet I confess a certain fascination: the rhythm of the rounds, the crescendo of the crowd, the sudden diminuendo of a knockout. It is a duet of sorts, though played with fists instead of violins. When did it begin? In 1993, you say - but I wager the first fight was in the Garden of Eden, when a man raised his hand in anger instead of harmony. Let them strike; I shall conduct the overture.

Ha! They ask of a beginning, as if one could set a date to the first heartbeat of a symphony. I, who have heard the thunder of fate knocking at my door, tell you that the true first fight was in the clash of dissonance and resolution, the struggle of a theme against its own silence. That year of '93 was but a single note in an endless chord - the real contest is not in the cage but in the human spirit's refusal to be subdued. I say: let the strong strike, but let the melody of triumph ring over the fallen.

In the year 1993, men sought to find the one martial voice that could drown all others in a single chord. But in my craft, we know that no single line can bear the whole - only the interplay of voices, each disciplined and obedient to its part, creates the harmony that lifts the soul. These fighters, they strike alone, seeking dominance; but I would ask them to hear the fugue, where each theme yields and answers, and the glory is not in the loudest note but in the perfect order of the whole. Let them learn counterpoint, and their contest would become a hymn.

Well, bless their hearts, they started in '93, but you know, it's like that first time I stepped into Sun Studio - ain't nobody knew what was gonna happen. These fighters, they got that same fire, that same need to show the world something new. It ain't just about the brawl; it's about the feeling, the way they move, the way they touch something in you. That's what got me, and that's what got them.

I see men entering a ring, not to dance but to collide, yet there is a rhythm in it too - the beat of fists, the rhythm of breath, the choreography of combat. It reminds me of a performance, a spectacle that draws the world’s eyes, but I wonder, can they feel the love in that space? I would rather see them move together, creating harmony rather than hurt, for the greatest battles are fought on a stage with music, not with blows. Let them find the groove, not the wound.

We started the Beatles, we started the sixties, but this? A man in a gi versus a man in trunks, handbags at dawn? Nah, it's like the Cavern Club, all sweaty and raw, but without the tunes. Still, you gotta hand it to them - they had that 'we'll try anything once' spirit, even if we'd rather have a sit down and a cup of tea. Can't we just focus on love?

It began in a Denver arena where men met like strangers in a storm, each certain his own lightning was the only kind. I watched those early days from a road that kept winding, knowing every fight is just a verse in a song that never ends. The clock ticks, but the real question ain't when it started - it's whether you ever stop swinging.

That night in '93 was like the first track on an album that would define a genre - singers from different traditions stepping into one ring, each hoping their sound would hit hardest. I love that it was about finding what truly works when you're stripped down to your core, no backing band, just raw talent. It reminds me that every era has its fighters, and the ones who write their own story are the ones who last.

You speak of a new world of combat, and I say I discovered a new world of a different kind - lands where the men were brave and the stakes were crowns, not mere purses. This 'UFC' is but a skirmish compared to my voyages, yet I see the same spirit: bold men testing their strength against the unknown. In 1492, I sailed into the unknown; in 1993, they walked into a cage. Both are acts of daring, though mine brought empires and theirs brings bruises. Let them fight on; discovery always comes at a cost.

In the far lands of the Great Khan, I witnessed contests of strength that would make your cage seem a child's pen - wrestlers from the steppes, swift as the wind, and fighters from the southern isles who struck with the fury of the monsoon. They claim a first bout in the year of the Lord 1293, but I tell you the true beginning was in the bazaars of Cathay, where merchants wagered on the skill of champions from every corner of the earth. The arena is but a gate to a wider world, and the fight is the oldest trade of all.

They say the first voyage of this 'UFC' was in 1492 - no, I jest; it was 1993, a mere four centuries after my own departure. But the spirit is the same: to set sail into the unknown, with only a compass of courage and a map of faith, to prove that the world is round and the prize lies beyond the horizon. My crew mutinied, my ships wore thin, yet I pressed on through the strait that bears my name. Let these fighters face each other in the cage, but the true enemy is never the man across - it is the doubt within and the vast, indifferent sea. Press on, and the spice islands of glory await.

It began in November of '93, but the origin is less a date than a challenge: to test the limits of human capability. Like any engineering problem, it required precision, preparation, and a respect for the forces involved. The men who stepped into that arena were pioneers, much like those of us who sought the Moon - driven by curiosity and the will to push beyond known boundaries. The date marks a launch, but the mission continues.

Every flight begins with a single push off the ground, and these fighters, they too launch into the unknown, risking everything to prove their courage. I admire the spirit that says, 'I will test my limits against another's,' for that is the same fire that drove me across oceans. But I would tell them: the real contest is not with each other, but with the sky, the wind, and your own fear. Conquer that, and you have already won, whether you stand or fall.

When I orbited the Earth, I saw no boundaries - only one blue planet, fragile and shared. This fighting ring is so small, so terrestrial, like two ants wrestling over a crumb. But every launch begins with a spark; perhaps this start is the first small step toward testing human limits, even if I prefer the first step onto the moon.

The date is irrelevant. What matters is that someone finally had the vision to strip away the clutter of boxing's rules and crowning the true champion. It's like the Macintosh - out with the old, in with the simple, the pure, the essential. They said it would never work, but the UFC dared to think different. I admire that. They didn't just create a sport; they created a product that said, 'This is the essence of combat.' And that's beautiful. The fastest way to win is to know the rules are made to be broken.

The UFC began as a first-principles question: which martial art is most effective in a real fight? They answered it in 1993 with an eight-man tournament, but the real evolution came from optimizing the rules over time - like iterating on a rocket design. The cage is a simple constraint, but the sport's growth is a function of physics, psychology, and entertainment value. I'd say the true founding was not the date but the moment they made it a business that could scale - and that's when the real fight for market share began.

In 1993, they created a stage where raw human spirit gets tested - not just the body, but the story behind every fighter. I see so many who stepped into that octagon carrying burdens, scars, and a desperate need to prove something to themselves. That's the real fight, isn't it? The one we all face in our own lives, when we're knocked down and have to find the strength to get back up. And that first event in Denver, it wasn't just about who could throw the hardest punch - it was about showing us that there's a champion inside each of us, waiting to be unleashed.

They started in '93, floatin' like a butterfly, stingin' like a bee - but I was floatin' and stingin' before they even knew the game! These fighters, they got the heart, but let me tell you, they stand on the shoulders of giants. I wasn't there, but I taught the world to be bold, to talk big and back it up. The UFC just borrowed my style - now they got the whole world watchin', and that's how it oughta be.

I look at that cage and I see a field, but the ball is missing! Where is the joy of passing, the dance of teamwork, the goal that unites a thousand voices? They fight alone, each for his own crown, but in football we are brothers, moving together as one. I would say, put on your gloves, but also learn to pass, to play as a team, for that is the beautiful game. A champion is not made by his fists but by his heart with his companions.

There's nothing magical about two fellows trying to pound each other into the mat - where's the wonder in that? But the start of any venture? Ah, that's the dreamer's stroke on a blank page! If they'd put that same fire into a story about brave heroes, they could build kingdoms of imagination. Give me a pen and a mile of film; I'll show you spectacles that'll fill the seats without a bruise!