U.F.C. Dips a Toe Into the Mainstream
By BARRY BEARAK
NYT
In the beginning, the Ultimate Fighting Championship was like a brawl at a carnival, the mismatched combatants entering an octagonal cage to go at it until there was a “knockout, surrender, doctor’s intervention or death.” The very first match pitted a 415-pound sumo wrestler against a Dutch kickboxer who zestfully launched his foot into the bigger man’s face. The blow left two teeth embedded in the attacker’s foot with a third flying into the crowd.
U.F.C. events were big successes, and not only because blood flowed as freely as sweat. Vigorous old arguments were being settled about who could best who, the prizefighter or the Olympic wrestler, the Kung Fu black belt or his judo counterpart. This mingling of martial arts was an eye-opener. The sweet science of boxing suddenly seemed a wayward hypothesis. Grapplers easily took standup fighters to the ground; jiu-jitsu experts opportunely used leverage to yank on limbs at the joint as if bending apart Buffalo wings.
There were forceful critics of these spectacles, people who thought a no-holds-barred fight was a shameful about-face in the march of civilization. Eight years into its existence, the U.F.C. seemed caught in a chokehold on its revenue windpipe, with many cities and states prohibiting the fights and cable companies dropping the bouts from pay-per-view telecasts.
In 2001, Ultimate Fighting was sold for $2 million to the Fertitta brothers, Frank III and Lorenzo, megarich owners of a string of Las Vegas casinos and close friends of a phenomenal huckster named Dana White. What ensued was one of the greatest feats of financial alchemy in the history of sports, the transformation of cage fighting into a $1 billion-plus business.
(More here.)
NYT
In the beginning, the Ultimate Fighting Championship was like a brawl at a carnival, the mismatched combatants entering an octagonal cage to go at it until there was a “knockout, surrender, doctor’s intervention or death.” The very first match pitted a 415-pound sumo wrestler against a Dutch kickboxer who zestfully launched his foot into the bigger man’s face. The blow left two teeth embedded in the attacker’s foot with a third flying into the crowd.
U.F.C. events were big successes, and not only because blood flowed as freely as sweat. Vigorous old arguments were being settled about who could best who, the prizefighter or the Olympic wrestler, the Kung Fu black belt or his judo counterpart. This mingling of martial arts was an eye-opener. The sweet science of boxing suddenly seemed a wayward hypothesis. Grapplers easily took standup fighters to the ground; jiu-jitsu experts opportunely used leverage to yank on limbs at the joint as if bending apart Buffalo wings.
There were forceful critics of these spectacles, people who thought a no-holds-barred fight was a shameful about-face in the march of civilization. Eight years into its existence, the U.F.C. seemed caught in a chokehold on its revenue windpipe, with many cities and states prohibiting the fights and cable companies dropping the bouts from pay-per-view telecasts.
In 2001, Ultimate Fighting was sold for $2 million to the Fertitta brothers, Frank III and Lorenzo, megarich owners of a string of Las Vegas casinos and close friends of a phenomenal huckster named Dana White. What ensued was one of the greatest feats of financial alchemy in the history of sports, the transformation of cage fighting into a $1 billion-plus business.
(More here.)
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