Stream the 1993 Denver spectacle live–press play, mute the modern hype, and watch a 6-foot-4 Brazilian wrap gloved opponents like birthday ribbon.
No gloves, no weight classes, no mercy–just Royce Gracie proving leverage beats bulk inside a chain-link octagon.The pay-per-view poster promised eight styles, one survivor. Karateka, boxer, wrestler, savateur, and kickboxer stepped through the cage door; within four hours only the lanky jiu-jitsu heir remained, choking a 220-pound boxer into surrender at 1:18 of round one. Gamblers had pegged the sumo-sized Teila Tuli as wrecking-ball favorite–until a grazing right kick sent teeth flying like popcorn and the bookies flipped the odds.
That single tournament rewrote the script: size faded, technique ascended, and cable ratings rocketed from 86 000 buys to a sequel demand so loud the promotion locked down a franchise contract before Christmas. Every contender since carries the DNA of that Denver evening–where gi lapels became finish lines and the tap-out was born on prime-time.
How the November 12 1993 Matchup Was Booked in Eight Days
Call Art Davie before noon on 4 November 1993, promise him a 6'5" karateka with a 200-0dojo record, and your heavyweight gets the last open slot on the Denver poster.
| Date | Task | Hour |
|---|---|---|
| 4 Nov | Phone bank closes 8-man bracket | 14:00 |
| 5 Nov | Contracts faxed to nine states | 09:00 |
| 6 Nov | Athlete medicals via Greyhound station doc | 18:00 |
| 7 Nov | Poster art airbrushed overnight | 22:00 |
| 8 Nov | Cable pay-per-view clearance call | 11:00 |
| 9 Nov | McNichols Arena deposit wired | 15:00 |
| 10 Nov | Ref John McCarthy hired, no rulebook yet | 09:00 |
| 11 Nov | Fighters arrive, weigh-in with notary | 19:00 |
Davie’s clipboard still had penciled question marks when he met SEG boss Bob Meyrowitz at LAX on 5 November; by the time their coffee cooled, Meyrowitz had green-lit $86 k for the eight-glove budget and a single-night insurance rider that no broker wanted to touch. Phone lines smoked: Rorion Gracie shipped a 170 lb Brazilian jiu-jitsu black belt plus two cousins as cornermen; a New Jersey kickboxer agreed to waive gloves; a Denver golden-gloves boxer demanded 24 oz sparring mitts, got told "show up or we keep the deposit," and drove through the night anyway.
At 11 p.m. on 11 November the lights inside McNichols Arena were still rehearsal-white when a production assistant realized no one had printed bout sheets; she tore the lineup from a cardboard box, taped it to the cage wall, and that scrap became the official order. Eight days from idea to bell, gate receipts counted $86 400, the janitor swept out confetti, and the phrase "no holds barred" had a new pay-per-view address.
Ruleset That Allowed No Gloves No Time Limits and Banned Only Eye Gouging
Skip the padded knuckles: bare fists, zero round clock, and only fish-hooking the sockets disqualified a man. Referee Mario Yamasaki’s sole command was "go," then circled until surrender, nap, or corner towel hit canvas.
Gi, shoes, and groin strikes were fair; scorecards did not exist, so Royce Gracie dragged opponents into his guard for half an hour, choking them while the crowd roared inside Denver’s McNichols Arena on 12 November 1993.
Gerard Gordeau’s First-Round TKO Over Teila Tuli in 26 Seconds
Stream the bout, then replay it at half-speed: Gordeau’s right low-kick lands flush on Tuli’s lead leg, the Samoan’s stance collapses, and the referee waves it off before the clock hits 0:27.
Surgeon-turned-fighter Gordeau entered the wire-octagon barefoot, karate gi pants cut at the knee, mouthguard already scarred from earlier gym wars. Across from him, 410-lb sumo wrestler Tuli crouched low, salt still clinging to his top-knot after the pre-contest ritual.
One teep to the thigh disguised the Dutchman’s real plan: pivot outside, whip the rear leg like a baseball bat, bounce the shin off Tuli’s inner knee. The crack echoed through McNichols Arena; fans flinched as the giant crumpled, palms slapping canvas.
Doctors later counted micro-fractures spiraling through the tibia; Tuli needed crutches for six weeks. Gordeau, knuckles bleeding from earlier bare-hand swings, shrugged, taped the foot, advanced to the next bracket.
That half-minute still loops on highlight reels: a snapshot of raw urgency before gloves, rounds, or weight-classes shaped modern mixed combat.
Why Royce Gracie Submitted Three Opponents in One Night to Win
Shrink the chaos of a no-weight-class bracket down to one principle: control the neck or the elbow, and the bigger man sits down. Gracie’s gi worked like a spider’s net: opponents gripped the cloth, he slipped the grip, looped an arm, and the choke landed before panic could scream.
Between bouts he sipped water, rolled the wrists, listened to corner whispers about takedown habits. While rivals iced bruises, he rehearsed the same arm-bar finish he had drilled since fourteen, trusting fatigue to dull their elbows faster than his own.
Third match, 300-pound Gordeau stalked forward, sure the little Brazilian would fade. Gracie shot low, wrapped the ankle, torqued the heel, and the tap slapped canvas like a judge’s gavel. One night, three submissions, no scorecards needed.
Bookies who once laughed at 175-pound odds now print his stat line every time the octagon returns to Denver; the lesson stays free for anyone still doubting technique over mass.
Payouts from $500 to $50 000 and First Gate Revenue Totals
Check the pay-sheet before you buy a ticket: the 1993 Denver arena kept only 7 800 seats, yet the live gate scraped together $86 000–tiny next to modern millions, but enough to prove bare-knuckle brackets could sell out.
- Lowest purse: $500 handed to a losing alternate who lasted 67 seconds.
- Highest purse: $50 000 wired to the 175-lb winner, tax-free cash stuffed in a gym bag backstage.
- Gate split: 70 % to fighters, 10 % to medics, 20 % to venue security and lights.
- Pay-per-view cable feed: 86 000 buys at $14,95 each, topping the live gate by 60 %.
Ticket tiers ranged from $25 balcony to $150 ringside; scalpers outside McNichols Sports Arena doubled prices once the main card sold out in 36 hours.
Promoters paid doctors before fighters–$3 000 flat to stitch cuts, a sum larger than four preliminary purses combined.
Video-rights reels flipped the ledger: overseas VHS sales to Japan and Brazil added another $120 000, pushing total revenue past quarter-million while athletes still cashed paper checks.
Today those same $50 000 headliners would scoff at the old payday, yet the 1993 ratio–winner earns 100× the minimum–remains the benchmark every modern contract tries to hide inside show/win clauses.
Immediate Media Backlash That Forced SEG to Add Judges and Rounds
Skip the pay-per-view chaos and read the newspapers from November 1993: SEG had to bolt scorecards and five-minute segments onto the bare-knuckle spectacle after every major outlet labelled it "human cockfighting," pushing Colorado regulators to threaten an arena shutdown.
Politicians, columnists and even the usually sports-shy https://librea.one/articles/gordons-form-excites-newcastle-boss-howe.html feed hammered the no-rules bracket, forcing Campbell McLaren’s crew to ship three cageside officials and a 15-minute cap into the next Denver card so the pay-per-view license would survive.
Overnight the promotion went from "anything goes" to "score this" as cable companies yanked replays; SEG’s Bob Meyrowitz swallowed the bitter pill, wrote round numbers on canvas walls, handed clipboards to judges and saved the franchise from Senator McCain’s nationwide ban hammer.
FAQ:
Who actually fought in the very first UFC match, and what happened?
The first bout of UFC 1, held on 12 November 1993 at Denver’s McNichols Sports Arena, paired Dutch kick-boxer Gerard Gordeau against Hawaiian sumo wrestler Teila Tuli. Within twenty-six seconds the fight was over: Gordeau side-stepped Tuli’s charge, threw a right low-kick to the knee, then landed a round-house kick to the head that split Tuli’s eyebrow and sent two teeth flying. Referee John McCarthy stopped the action at 0:26, awarding Gordeau the win by TKO and setting the tone for the no-holds-barred night that followed.
Why did Royce Gracie, a skinny Brazilian in a gi, win the whole tournament when bigger strikers were present?
Royce’s victory came down to three factors. First, nobody in the bracket had seen or trained against Brazilian jiu-jitsu; the moment fights hit the mat, opponents had no answer to the clinch, mount, or rear-naked choke. Second, UFC 1 had no weight classes, time limits, or judges, so Royce could patiently work for position instead of trading strikes with heavier men. Third, the Gracie camp specifically entered Royce-rather than the larger Rickson-to prove technique beats size. He submitted three men (Art Jimmerson, Ken Shamrock and Gordeau) in one night, totalling just 4:55 of actual fight time, and the image of the skinny grappler choking out body-builders became the promotion’s founding myth.
How violent was the first event compared with modern cards, and what rules existed?
By today’s yard-stick, UFC 1 looked almost lawless. Head-butts, groin strikes, hair-pulling and fish-hooking were legal; fighters wore thin karate gloves or no gloves at all. Referee intervention was minimal-only eye-gouging or biting drew a warning. After the pay-per-view, Senator John McCain famously labelled it "human cock-fighting," pushing thirty-six states to ban live shows. The backlash forced the promotion to adopt gloves, weight classes, time limits and a banned-substance list during 1997-2001, morphing into the unified rules used today.
What did the early UFC winners earn, and how does it stack up against current purses?
Royce Gracie pocketed $50,000 for winning UFC 1, while Gerard Gordeau took $1,000 as runner-up. Those numbers seem quaint now: average disclosed show-money for a male newcomer on today’s contract is $12,000 to show, $12,000 to win, and top champions regularly clear seven-figure cheques before pay-per-view points. Adjusted for inflation, Royce’s 1993 prize equals roughly $105,000 today-still dwarfed by Conor McGregor’s reported $5 million base against Khabib in 2018.
How close did the UFC come to folding after that first tournament, and what kept it alive?
The promotion lost money for its first five years. SEG, the parent company, sank $12 million into events that cable companies increasingly refused to carry. By 1999 only two states allowed live shows, and pay-per-view buys dropped below 15,000. The turnaround began when casino operators Frank and Lorenzo Fertitta bought the brand for $2 million in 2001, formed Zuffa, and lobbied for athletic-commission sanctioning. The launch of The Ultimate Fighter reality show on Spike TV in 2005 delivered 10 million cable viewers, broke the advertising boycott, and turned the UFC from fringe spectacle into a multi-billion-dollar sports property.