I grew up loving boxing in the 1980s and 1990s. Big fights felt like national events. I was too young to watch Muhammad Ali in his prime, but his greatness still hung over the sport through documentaries, highlights and stories from older fans. Then came Leonard, Hagler, Hearns, Durán, Tyson, Holyfield and Bowe. Boxing owned our attention.
That is why I remember seeing advertisements for the first Ultimate Fighting Championship in 1993. My friends and I each chipped in a few dollars to rent the pay-per-view because none of us knew what we were about to witness. There were no weight classes, judges or traditional rounds. In the eight-man, no-time-limit tournament, a fighter could compete three times in one night.
Then Royce Gracie entered at 175 pounds and introduced much of America to Brazilian jiu-jitsu, a martial art most of us had barely heard of. He submitted three opponents to win UFC 1. He wrapped up larger fighters and forced them to surrender. It looked like a magic trick.
Let us also be honest about the controversy. Rorion Gracie helped create the event to showcase his family’s fighting system and selected his younger brother Royce to represent it. Critics have argued that the open-weight, no-time-limit format favored the grappling style the Gracies had mastered. Was it fixed? I would not go that far. Was it designed to give Brazilian jiu-jitsu every opportunity to shine? In my opinion, absolutely.
At the same time, boxing was teaching me not to trust it. I believed Larry Holmes defeated Michael Spinks in both fights, yet Spinks received the decisions. Then came Julio César Chávez against Meldrick Taylor in 1990. Taylor was ahead on two scorecards, but Chávez dropped him late. Referee Richard Steele stopped the fight with only two seconds remaining.
People defend Steele by saying a referee must protect the fighter, not watch the clock. I understand that argument. I still felt Taylor had twelve rounds of greatness stolen from him in the final seconds. Moments like that slowly poisoned my love for boxing.
Every once in a blue moon, boxing still reminds us what it can be. Deontay Wilder against Tyson Fury was one of those rare rivalries. Their trilogy delivered knockdowns, drama and two heavyweights willing to test themselves. Those are probably the last boxing matches I remember being genuinely excited to watch. Boxing produces moments like that far too rarely.
We have also seen what can happen when an elite UFC fighter enters a boxing ring. Conor McGregor made his professional boxing debut against Floyd Mayweather Jr., widely considered one of the greatest boxers ever. McGregor did not embarrass himself. In my opinion, he held his own early, landed strong punches and gave mixed martial arts credibility before tiring and being stopped in the tenth round.
Now reverse the situation. Put even a great boxer inside the Octagon against Jon Jones, McGregor or almost any well-rounded UFC fighter. In my opinion, the result would usually be quick and uneventful. Boxing does not prepare someone for leg kicks, takedowns, elbows, knees, wrestling or submissions. A boxer might have better hands, but those hands mean little while being taken down and choked. Mixed martial arts demands a wider range of combat skills.
The UFC became what boxing refused to become: organized, consistent and easy to follow. UFC fans generally know who the champions and contenders are. Boxing has too many promoters, sanctioning organizations, manufactured belts and negotiations that keep the best fighters apart. The UFC markets an entire sport. Boxing markets one disconnected event at a time.
Boxing also trained fans to distrust the people running it. Promoters such as Don King became symbols of a business in which money and relationships often seemed more powerful than merit. The UFC has controversial judging too, but its centralized structure gives fans a continuing story instead of rival kingdoms.
The UFC has also made a brilliant move by leaving American pay-per-view behind through its Paramount agreement. Instead of spending another $70 or $80 for every major event, fans can get UFC programming through a Paramount+ subscription costing roughly $15 per month. It feels like the old days when major boxing matches appeared on ABC or NBC before pay-per-view priced ordinary fans out.
Today, I barely know most of boxing’s current fighters, and I often have no idea when its biggest bouts are happening. Meanwhile, the UFC turns athletes from around the world into recognizable personalities and can make an ordinary Saturday-night card feel important. Mixed martial arts offers punches, kicks, takedowns, submissions and the chance that everything can change in one second. To me, it is more exciting.
Still, the UFC has one major weakness: fighter compensation. The company has built a global powerhouse, yet many fighters receive too little of the revenue they generate. A promotion landing multibillion-dollar media agreements should provide better pay, stronger benefits and greater financial security to the athletes absorbing the damage.
Boxing will never disappear. Its history is too rich, and a truly great fight can still stop the world. But history is no longer enough. Boxing keeps asking fans to remember what it used to be. The UFC keeps giving fans reasons to watch what comes next.
Boxing once ruled combat sports. In my opinion, it lost the title without even realizing it was in a fight.
