When I did sports cartoons, I used to uh, go to fights.

In the words of the master of whimsy and the engineer of imagination, Rube Goldberg, there is a phrase simple yet profound: “When I did sports cartoons, I used to, uh, go to fights.” At first glance, these words seem but a passing remark, a casual recollection of a man’s early craft. Yet beneath their plainness lies a hidden wisdom, as a seed lies within the husk. For in this confession, Goldberg reveals the eternal truth of creation: to capture the soul of a thing, one must witness it with their own eyes.

Consider the image: the young Goldberg, not yet the legendary name that would come to define complicated contraptions and comic invention, sitting among the roaring crowds, the sweat and blood of the ring before him. He did not merely imagine the world of sport—he entered it. He placed himself in the living heart of the spectacle so that his hand, when it moved across the paper, carried the fire and fury of the event. In this act lies a teaching for all who would create: art is born not of distance, but of nearness, not of speculation, but of experience.

In this way, Goldberg speaks in the same spirit as Herodotus, who traveled far and wide to witness the lands and battles he would later record. The ancient historian knew that truth cannot be gleaned from hearsay alone, but must be taken in with the senses, imprinted upon the mind. Just as Herodotus stood where the Persians marched, Goldberg sat where the fighters struck. Both understood that to create works that endure, one must first stand where history is being made, however humble or grand that place may be.

But let us not mistake his words for mere practicality. There is also courage in what Goldberg did. For fights are not gentle spectacles; they are contests of strength, will, and often cruelty. To go to fights is to look directly upon conflict, to see victory and defeat made flesh. Many would turn away, unwilling to watch the violence of men. Yet Goldberg went, not to glorify it, but to understand it—so that his cartoons would carry the weight of truth, the movement of muscle, the agony of loss, the exaltation of triumph.

This act of bearing witness teaches us another lesson: the creator must face not only the beautiful, but also the brutal. Just as Michelangelo studied corpses in secret to understand the human form, and just as war poets wrote amidst the trenches rather than from distant parlors, Goldberg went to the ring, immersing himself in what others might shun. For wisdom is not born only from the serene; it is also forged in the clash, the sweat, and the dust.

From this, let us draw a lesson for our own lives: if we would understand, we must go and see for ourselves. Do not be content with secondhand knowledge or the half-light of rumor. If you would paint, walk among the colors of the world. If you would write, sit where the stories unfold. If you would lead, dwell among the people you guide. To learn, to create, to live with depth—you must step into the arena, not merely watch from afar.

So let the teaching of Goldberg be this: experience is the wellspring of truth. His words remind us that even the simplest art, even a sports cartoon, becomes immortal when it springs from life lived and moments witnessed. The practical action is clear—seek to root your work, your craft, your choices in the soil of lived reality. Go where the action is, face it bravely, and let what you see shape what you make. In this way, your work will not be hollow imitation, but living testimony, carrying the pulse of the world within it.

Thus, what seems at first a casual memory—“I used to, uh, go to fights”—becomes an eternal teaching: do not turn away from the world, but enter it. For only by going to the fights, whether they be of sport, of spirit, or of life itself, can you bring forth creations and choices worthy of remembrance.