By someone who believes progress is overrated and padding is for sofas.
Once upon a time, before sports science, sponsorship deals, and people saying things like “athlete welfare” with a straight face, two men would settle their differences in the most efficient way possible.
They would remove their gloves.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is bare knuckle fighting, the oldest, stupidest, bravest and most honest form of combat ever invented. And somehow, against all odds, it has survived long enough to enjoy a very modern comeback.
Let’s begin at the beginning, when common sense had not yet been invented.
Bare knuckle fighting has been around for centuries, mostly because humans have always enjoyed punching each other and, for a long time, didn’t own gloves.
In 18th and 19th century Britain, bare knuckle boxing was the sport of choice for dockworkers, gamblers and men who thought dentistry was optional. The rules were simple:
These contests could last hours, not minutes. Fighters broke hands, faces, ribs and occasionally the laws of physics. Blood was not a side effect. It was the point.
Yet oddly, it wasn’t pure chaos. Fighters stood more upright, punched less wildly, and aimed for precision. Because if you hit someone’s skull like an idiot, you’d shatter your hand and spend the rest of your life opening doors with your elbow.
Evolution, you see, always finds a way.
In the mid-1800s, along came the Marquess of Queensberry rules, which introduced gloves, rounds and referees. The idea was to civilise boxing.
And to be fair, it worked. Sort of.
But gloves changed fighting forever. With padded hands, fighters could punch harder, faster and more often. Knockouts increased. Head trauma became sneakier. And suddenly everyone started swinging like a lunatic because their knuckles were no longer screaming at them to stop.
Bare knuckle faded into the shadows, becoming something whispered about in pubs or practised illegally in fields by men with very poor life planning.
For a while, it seemed dead.
Then, in the 21st century, someone looked at MMA, boxing, kickboxing, elbow pads, mouth guards, commissions, lawyers and said:
“You know what this needs? Less protection.”
Enter modern bare knuckle fighting, spearheaded by promotions like BKFC and its global cousins. Regulated. Sanctioned. Televised. Sponsored.
Yes. Sponsored.
What was once outlawed is now streamed in HD.
The rules are tighter now. No grappling. Shorter rounds. Doctors everywhere. But the essence remains gloriously medieval. One ring. Two people. Bare hands. No hiding.
And strangely, it works.
Here’s the counterintuitive bit.
Bare knuckle looks more violent, but it often isn’t. Fighters are more selective. They don’t punch skulls repeatedly. They aim for body shots, timing and accuracy. The pace is slower, the danger more obvious.
Every punch has consequences. Immediately.
It’s honesty in sport form.
You can’t bluff.
You can’t spam punches.
And you absolutely cannot pretend this is safe.
Which is refreshing, really.
Modern bare knuckle fighters are an interesting breed.
Some come from boxing, tired of politics and judges. Some from MMA, looking for purity. Others appear to have simply woken up one morning and chosen violence.
But they all share one trait: commitment.
Because stepping into a bare knuckle ring isn’t about belts or paydays. It’s about reputation. About standing in front of another human being and saying, “Let’s find out.”
It’s the purest form of competitive stubbornness.
Bare knuckle fighting has evolved from street chaos to regulated spectacle without losing its soul. It strips combat back to its essentials and reminds us that fighting was never meant to be comfortable, polite or overly explained by analysts with laser pointers.
It’s not pretty.
It’s not clean.
And it absolutely does not care about your feelings.
Which, in a world obsessed with padding everything, makes it oddly compelling.
Bare knuckle fighting isn’t a step backwards.
It’s a reminder.
A reminder that before branding, before gloves, before hype videos and walkout music, fighting was simple.
Two people.
Two fists.
One decision.
And sometimes, progress means taking the gloves off and admitting we liked it better that way.
