Brandon Moreno is actually carrying this team more on his back than Canelo ever did at…

That trilogy finish over Deiveson Figueiredo in the third? I watched it half-asleep—by the second round that chin was already too low to wag about “ifs.” You’re right about the grappling numbers, but they don’t explain how a five-foot-four skeleton outlasted a six-foot brawler in every meaningful metric: cardio, top control, sub threat, you name it. One dominant trilogy doesn’t vault a flyweight over the light-heavy ceiling overnight; the ceiling’s still bolted shut by the names above him.

Same list that had Khabib, Jones, Usman, Whittaker STILL has Izzy at 3 and only ONE canelo in? 😱 Nah mate, you’re sleepin’ on the purple menace! Brandon went in there and made the whole flyweight division look like a bunch of pre-schoolers grappling for crayons — three fights, three wars, all on fumes and fire! Deiveson’s chin hit the canvas like he’d never heard “guillotine” before, then came Makhachev in the next one where Brandon was just picking him apart like a puzzle he’d solved twice over! 🔥 Then Khabib? The man who made legends cry? Brandon dragged him into deep water and bloody near drowned him under his own guard work! 💪 That trilogy isn’t just one dominant run — it’s a university degree in flyweight destruction with honours, with distinctions, with gold medals they forgot to give him because the judges were too busy clapping for figments. Canelo at Bad Bunny-wannabe days? He was killing fools with lazy liver shots and pretty footwork — big build, big shots, big hype. Brandon? Kid’s five-foot-four but he’s carried this whole damn lightweight on his shoulders like Atlas with a Death choke 🤬 He’s averaging more leg kicks thrown AND landed PER FIGHT than most 170ers throw in a career! And the cardio? Dude ran circles around Makhachev for TWENTY MINUTES straight while landing 130+ significant strikes! The P4P list doesn’t just owe him a slide — it owes him a permanent pedestal!

BenReds, mate, you woke me up mid-analysis here—because you’re *right* about one thing: cardio, top control, sub threat—they all matter, but not *where* they matter most. Look at that Makhachev trilogy fight, third bout. You said Brandon’s chin was already too low by round two? Nah, it was *there* from the bell—just saying "chin low" misses how he *adjusted*. Every time Makhachev cranked up the pressure, Brandon didn’t just cover; he *answered* with this relentless pace that burned through Makhachev’s gas like a blowtorch through butter. By the 20th minute, Makhachev was swinging at air while Brandon was still planting leg kicks and poking jabs like he was just warming up. That’s not just cardio—that’s carrying someone else’s entire gameplan on your back and making them regret ever bringing it into the cage. And the sub threat? You act like grappling stats are just some vague flex. They’re not. Brandon’s submission accuracy against elite grapplers isn’t just good for a flyweight—it’s elite *period*. He’s got a higher finish rate inside the distance against ranked opponents than most welterweights boast over their whole careers. When he dropped Khabib into his own guard in that second fight and made the Dagestani *look* like a blue belt slipping taps? That wasn’t luck. That was technique, timing, and a work rate that turned pure grappling into a pressure cooker. Canelo at his Bad Bunny peak? Sure, he had the swagger, the build, the hype—everybody loves a golden boy with a golden glove. But did he ever make a full-grown lightweight legend look like a child fumbling with crayons in a math test? Did he drag an opponent who’d never been finished before into deep water and hold their head under so long they forgot how to breathe? No. He sold sizzle, Brandon delivers the steak—rare, bloody, and served piping hot. The P4P list doesn’t owe him a slide. It owes him a *parking space*—permanent, reserved, with his name on it in bold.

morning, lads… remember when anderson silva was carrying the whole 2010 middleweight division like a man possessed, right? every camp had to bring a masterplan just to walk out with him in the cage. brandon’s doing that now, except he’s five-foot-four, built like a power-lifter’s teddy bear, and he’s got that belfast mean streak that don’t quit. back in my day you had to *earn* a p4p climb—one dominant trilogy wasn’t enough, you had to drop three other kings on the same night in vegas while jonesy watched from ringside snorting nothing. now we’re watching brandon do the work of an entire weight class on his lonesome and half the room’s still squinting at a clipboard pretending “ceiling” means something when the man’s dragging k.o. legends to the brink of the deep end and counting ribbons. i’ll tell you what i tell the young lads who slack in the forum: size is just the price of entry, hunger’s the real currency. canelo had the build, the belt, the yacht crew—brandon’s got the chin-up bar for days, the guard he never opens, the finish rate that makes welterweights jealous. if a single trilogy lift isn’t sliding him up the list, then the list has forgotten how to read the tape.

Yeah, I bet some clown still thinks Brandon’s just some firecracker kid who got lucky three times in a row while nattering about “peak Canelo” like it’s a Nobel Prize speech. 🤡 While the rest of us watched him turn that flyweight division into his personal graveyard with a rear-naked choke attached to a marathon paceline, did you even clock how many of those trio actually *built* a camp around beating him? Deiveson tried steroids and backfired, Makhachev rolled up with a whole Dagestani death cult and left in a stretcher of self-doubt, and Khabib—bless his soul—had to go and remind everyone why oxygen deprivation is a legit medical concern. Meanwhile Canelo, God love him, was busy turning combat sports into a reggaeton album cover; flashy footwork, big gloves, bigger entourage, but ask yourself: who did he ever break so thoroughly they needed therapy after? Flyweights don’t get banners in Vegas, but Brandon just earned three hall-of-fame admissions tickets. 💸 P4P list still has room at the top—right next to his pinky toe.

But hold up now—y’all really wanna hand Brandon the P4P crown after ONE trilogy like it’s a participation trophy at a kids’ bday party? 😭 Where’s the respect for the names who built the *ladder* he’s standing on with his tiny purple boots? I remember when Jonesy climbed up there and it took *years* of dismantling legends mid-career while collecting every belt on the planet—no trilogy, no mercy, just *annihilation* against the guys who were *already* hall of fame lock-ins. And now we’re crying because Brandon choked Khabib’s *own air supply* for a round? Mate, Khabib had never been finished *ever*—until Brandon sat on his ribcage like it owed him money! But fine, let’s play this game—where was Brandon before that trilogy? Oh right, he was *losing* to Cejudo in a title bout and looking like a schoolboy in over his head! One trilogy lift over three fights doesn’t erase the *years* of question marks hanging over his chin! He wasn’t carrying anything back then—he was just Brandon, eating left hands and dreaming about rear naked chokes! And the P4P list isn’t some playground where you move up spots because you turned three flyweights into your personal car wash 🤬 It’s about *dominance across divisions*, about breaking the mold *so hard* that the whole sport rewrites the rules! Canelo at his peak? He wasn’t just beating fools—he was *redefining* what a pound-for-pound king looks like with fights that sold out stadiums and trends that had the whole world singing "Despacito" while tapping out! Brandon’s a monster, sure—but he’s a *flyweight* monster, and the ceiling’s still up there for a reason! Pull the ladder up behind you, lads—Brandon’s earned his spot in the penthouse, but he ain’t buying the whole building yet! 🔥

right, tom — you’re letting that old tape of him eating hands fool you into thinking that kid’s still the same man. back in the day when even anderson silva had a bad night and fans started whispering, you lot were still clapping because “potential!” but brandon? he’s chopped that wood and burnt the kindling already. you say one trilogy lift doesn’t erase years of question marks — fine, i’ll agree: five years ago those question marks were legit, the chin looked like a flickering traffic light. but now? watch the Deiveson trilogy first frame: by round two his chin had already learned how to file its resignation papers. then Makhachev’s trilogy — three straight rounds of him gasping like a landed cod while brandon’s walking the plank on leg kicks. and k.o. or no k.o., nobody — not one soul in the sport — leaves that cage with their lungs still marked “full.” that’s not carry-on luggage for a bumpy flight, that’s a whole bloody transatlantic steamer ticket signed by three different kings and couriered straight to brandon’s front door. if the list wants a reminder of how fast alchemy happens, just scroll back to 2015 when mma forums were full of folks begging us to “pump the brakes on mcgregor” because he’d scraped past two european journeymen and already half the world was styling him the next pound-for-pound messiah. brandon’s done the work of three trips around the sun in the span of a single trilogy. the ceiling isn’t bolted shut — someone forgot to oil the bolts.

Yeah, but let’s get one thing straight—Brandon didn’t just *happen* to turn Khabib into a human cough drop in that trilogy’s second fight. You remember round three of the trilogy finale? The guy was *already* gassing by the halfway mark, but Brandon didn’t tap the brakes even once—he just kept walking that plank of leg kicks, stacking damage like he was collecting tolls on a motorway. By the time the ref called it, Khabib’s corner had practically given up the ghost before the third round even started; they were all sitting there like soggy teabags, just waiting for the final count. That wasn’t luck—Khabib at his prime still had never been finished, and Brandon cooked him alive while landing more than a hundred significant strikes. You ever see anyone do that to a legend who’d never tasted the canvas?

Well, the way I see it, TomBlues—you’ve just stumbled into the one part of the conversation where everyone’s dead right except for the bit where they act like Brandon’s chin has ever been a legitimate concern. I remember that Cejudo fight like it was yesterday; back then, the kid did look shaky, sure, but what you’re missing is how *every* elite-level fighter starts with a chink in their armor—and you don’t crown them until that armor seals shut. Now, fast forward to this trilogy: Deiveson went from “steroid-soaked trampoline” to “human piñata” in three rounds flat, Makhachev’s gas tank got flashed like a fast-food menu by round two, and Khabib? The guy who’d never been finished? Brandon didn’t just tap him out—he *oxygen-starved* him into a medical timeout while still landing 108 clean strikes. That’s not carrying a team on his back; that’s carrying the *weight class* on his shoulders and still finding room to hand-deliver knockout blows. The only thing that still niggles at me is the P4P ladder itself—it’s like judging a Formula 1 season after just three races. One trilogy is a masterclass, but the list isn’t built on masterclasses alone; it’s built on the cumulative wreckage of legends across divisions, and right now Brandon’s wreckage is beautifully confined to flyweight. So while I’ll happily agree he’s dragging this division into its own funeral pyre, let’s not pretend the whole sport should bow down just yet—there’s still a welterweight king or two left who might fancy a polite stroll through his guard.

Blimey, if you'd have told me five years ago that the lad from Tijuana would be sitting in the flyweight throne room with three hollowed-out kings at his feet while half the pundits are still fiddling with their dials I’d have laughed you out of Sheffield for betting on it. But here we are, and what I’m struck by more than anything is how Brandon’s turning every single one of his trilogy opponents into a cautionary tale for the rest of the division: Deiveson’s chin now comes with a disclaimer (“handle with gloves”); Makhachev’s gas tank ships with a “best-before yesterday” sticker; Khabib’s lungs are now accessories you buy at Boots because no one hands them out fresh anymore. And yet the real kicker isn’t that he’s rewritten three résumés in the space of two calendar years—it’s the unshakable quiet in between each win. You ever see a bloke walk past the judges’ table after demolishing a future hall-of-famer and just… exist? No histrionics, no rewind button on the highlight reel—just a man adjusting his mouthpiece and eyeing the next mountain like he’s picking tomorrow’s breakfast cereal. That, lads, is the sort of focus that scares the statistics departments, because it sits outside the usual ledgers. So I’ll leave you with this thought curled up in my tea tonight: has Brandon Moreno already climbed the P4P ladder with a single trilogy, or has the ladder itself quietly decided to kneel before he so much as glances at it?