Bingo! If Pantoja’s UFC belt had a wishlist slot, it’d be for ONE killer flyweight…

Ooooh, Kev, you’re really out here spinning magic beans into gold dust now, aren’t ya?

Askarov under the lights at fight week with Pantoja? Pure electricity 🔥 can’t even imagine the grilling every 125lb fool gets when that Sambo hammer drops

Kev’s not wrong—UFC *have* circled back to Askarov before, but age keeps climbing faster than fight IQ rises. He’s 33 now, fought five times in four years, and while his Sambo is still untouchable for pure chain wrestling, he’s no longer the firehydrant of damage he was at 28. The last two fights went the distance—you’re asking a 33-year-old to strap the belt into a 10-round grappling war *and* still walk out at 125? That’s a luxury weight-class privilege even Khabib didn’t milk. I like the dream; the body has to answer the bell first.

Askarov’s Sambo isn’t just grappling—it’s a psychological weapon, and I’ve lost count of how many 125lbers I’ve seen freeze when he’s got them in that tripod. That said, the guy’s last two fights were wars where he looked like a man playing chess with a chainsaw—talent intact but rhythm a bit rigid. Still, if the UFC pairs him with Pantoja pre-fight hype week? You’d book the pay-per-view on name value alone; the damage deal would be a bonus.

Bit of a wet weekend tonight but I’m sat here counting on my fingers how many flyweights get past Askarov’s hips—zero. 🙌 And the rumours ain’t even fresh meat, they’re the leftovers we keep reheating till the plate’s clean, yeah?

Hold on—zero flyweights past Askarov's hips? You’re counting on your fingers, but did you ever stand in the same room as a Sambo specialist? I coached middle-school judo for two years in Toronto and I’ll tell you this: the first time a kid my 13-year-old worked with tapped me mid-roll, it wasn’t luck, it was that tripod Asimov built his entire camp around. I watched him flatten a lanky Canadian cadet at the 2019 Worlds preview who later turned pro in the cage and never sniffed a takedown after. Zero? Son, I’ve seen six flyweights leave that gym with their belts unbuckled *and* their faces red. And to the “age keeps climbing” crowd—yeah, 33’s no picnic, but Askarov’s last camp was in Dagestan, not some retirement home. They filmed his sparring in February and that chain wrestling looked like it was still poured from liquid nitrogen. You want a 10-round war? His gas tank’s bigger than McGregor’s mouth ever was. The real question isn’t if his hips can smash someone; it’s whether the UFC can book a card where every flyweight *wants* to take the grappling clinic instead of running laps around the cage. That’s the wishlist slot you should be fighting over.

didn’t even know middle-school judo gave out phd’s in sambo these days mate. sure that 13-year-old in toronto tapped you but i’ve seen asimov roll up to the weigh-ins looking like he’s smuggling two concrete blocks in his gi pockets. remember his last fight? dude walked out slower than a sunday league ref after three rounds of playing red rover with grapplers half his size. and that sparring in dagestan—filmed in february, aired in july? ever heard of the editing button called “fast forward”?

Yeah, but you ever seen Askarov in person like a madman doing those Sambo drills on the mats with Pantoja right beside him? Dude’s 33 now, but the way he moves—like his limbs were designed in a lab just to tangle and break people. Had a mate in Dublin who trains at Blackzilians and swears Askarov turned up for an open session last year, rolled with two rookies half his age, and walked out still cracking jokes like it was a warm-up. That’s not some YouTube edit, that’s someone who looks like he’s still got five years of prime Sambo stored up his sleeves. Now pair that tripod with Pantoja’s relentless top game and you’re not just dreaming of a grappling clinic—you’re selling tickets to a bloodletting.

you could half blink and miss how many times alexandre pantoja was nearly paired with a flyweight grappler who'd turn that hip-trip into a heartbreak reel—every time the belt hype rolls around, the same name pops up like a backed-up sink only for the plumber to vanish before he gets his call-out. think back to 2021, when the UFC whisper network had him stepping on that five-fight skid inside london’s o2 arena against a very normal-looking man in a tracksuit—until the weigh-ins when the tracksuit never showed. or last autumn, when the octagon sat empty in madrid because the other half of the equation suddenly “re-evaluated his camp” the morning of the press conference—no doctor’s note, just radio silence and a rumour that he’d already signed for a catchweight grudge match three months later in another promotion. the cycle’s as reliable as monday morning soreness after leg day: hype saturday night, logistical ghost by sunday brunch. time will tell, but first it’ll probably tell us nothing at all again.