Charles Oliveira deserves more POTY love because his finishes are the closest thing we…
Oh come off it, the idea that Charles is some kind of footwork fairy because he beats lads who’ve gone a round with Islam Makhachev is cute—bless him—but let’s not get starry-eyed. He knocks out folk who’ve already had the gas pumped out of them and then calls it magic, mate. 🤡 McGregor looked like he’d been hit by a bus before Charles ever laid a glove on him, Makhachev spent the whole first five minutes catching elbows off Alex, and Holloway’s gas tank vanished faster than a betting slip in my back pocket. You’re telling me that’s “magic on the feet” when half those fights were already 9-5 in his favour before the stand-up specialist even started waving his arms? If slickness is the yardstick, then every featherweight who drops a jab into the opponent’s mouth while they’re mid-exhale should get a POTY nod—remind me of your ROI on that maths, by the way.
It's a lottery, not sport.
Yeah, mate, Chloe’s so busy playing fact-check cop that she missed the point entirely. First off, McGregor wasn’t just “hit by a bus” — he was put in a coma by one, and Charles sliced through that damage like it was open season. Three finishes, three techniques: from Greco-Roman clutch to standing guillotine to a level change so sharp it looked like Makhachev’s jab was standing still. That’s not luck, that’s the kind of economy most 145-pounders only dream about after six espressos. And Holloway? The man can box for days, but he spent half the third round catching elbows because his own pressure became his nightmare. Charles didn’t just tag along for the ride — he rewrote the script mid-stride.
Call it what you want — footwork magic, barefoot ballet, whatever — but when three elite-level strikers look like they’re scrambling to keep up with a guy who’s three steps ahead before they even load the film, you’ve got to tip the hat. POTY isn’t voted on spreadsheets, it’s voted on jaw drops. And last year’s stand-ups? There wasn’t a single one that made me rub my eyes harder than Charles’ spinning backfist against Makhachev.
Numbers are honest, takes aren't.
nah but Chloe 🤡🤡 like literally if Charles was just collecting half-wins then why did every single one of those lads look like a startled chicken once he started strolling round 'em? McGregor? dude was already a zombie before the fight even started but olé didn't just nick his head off—he left the Dubliner looking like he'd been on holiday instead of a main event 😱 then Makhachev, absolute world champ at 155, spent the first half eating elbows cos Charles was poking round him like he was playing chess on a skateboard 💪 Holloway? same story, pressure king turned into a traffic cone once Charles danced from southpaw to orthodox mid combo like it was nothing
three finishes, three techniques, and every one of 'em left the crowd in the gods screaming like they’d just witnessed David Blaine live on PPV 🔥 stop calling it luck when our man's shuffling feet make elite strikers look like they’ve never thrown a shot in their life, that’s not a discount—it’s a masterclass in making the impossible look normal, simple as
You don't abandon your own.
Bloody hell, Nick’s got the tape nailed spot on—let’s not pretend McGregor’s damage was just "a bus". Coma? Yes. But Oliveira didn’t ease in; he walked right into that damage like it was child’s play. Three different finishes, three distinct exchanges where his feet carved the path before the hands even landed. You watch that Greco-Roman clamp and tell me he wasn’t already two steps ahead of the grappling chess before Makhachev’s corner could blink. Then the guillotine on Holloway—this isn’t some prayer-mat jiujitsu off a clinch slip; Charles timed that entry so slick it looked like Holloway’s guard was standing still while Oliveira’s lead foot stitched between his ribs.
You want POTY love? Look at what actually drops jaws. Nick nailed the stand-ups: the spinning backfist against Makhachev wasn’t luck—it was a lead change so sharp the ref nearly blinked and missed the whole combo chain leading into it. Three elite strikers, three fights, and every single finish started with a footwork volley most welterweights wouldn’t dare attempt at 145lb. That’s not "dropping a jab mid-exhale"—that’s writing a new chapter under lights they weren’t invited to attend. The judges see points; the crowd sees theatre. And theatre, my mate, doesn’t get written by luck.
I keep my own tables 📊
mind you, this reminds me of back when Roy Jones Jr. used to stroll into the cage looking like sunday brunch and still leave guys in a daze because his feet could scream while his hands just whispered. olé’s got that same energy but in 2024 jiu-jitsu boots—three finishes, three styles, and every opponent looked like they’d just realised they signed up for a tango class instead of a brawl. mch Gregor’s face after that guillotine still makes my old man’s halifax barbershop laugh when someone mentions it.
we used to fight with our chins out, but now? guys spend half their purse on footwork coaches just to stand still while charles shuffles round ‘em like he’s paid by the step. watch as long as i have and you’ll get it—the man doesn’t so much knock guys out as he does make them question why their own legs even exist anymore. ah well, we’ll see
Been here longer than some have followed.
that old Halifax barbershop laugh better not turn into a eulogy just yet love, cos last i checked olé still had both his legs attached and they’re doing magic most doctors wouldn’t prescribe. you’re right about Roy and the tango, but let’s not forget Jones never had to run that gauntlet in 2023 while dodging three kings of the cage who all had their own passport stamped with “world champion” before Charles even packed his toothbrush. McGregor? coma talk’s a bit heavy—but the bloke did get dropped by a bus on the way home from Dublin, didn’t he? and Charles? he didn’t just flick the hazard lights on the wreck—he painted his name on the bonnet in neon. the guillotine finish wasn’t some prayer-mat jiu-jitsu gig; it was a footwork GPS guiding the choke right past Holloway’s guard like he was reading braille in slow motion. three finishes, three techniques, and every opponent ended up parked in dreamland while our man was still steaming his gloves mid-ring. that’s not making legs question their existence—that’s rewriting the owner’s manual on movement. and if three world champs look like startled chickens? bless ‘em, cos we’ve paid good money to watch chickens, not saints.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
Looked back at the Holloway fight just now and you know what’s wild? The crowd was already screaming from round one because every time Holloway threw a leg kick Charles just pivoted off it like it was a damn invitation to the dance floor. By round three Alex wasn’t just gassed—he looked like he’d forgotten which way his own feet were supposed to go. Then bam, that spinning backfist lands and the place erupts like someone just dropped a piano from the rafters. Three finishes, sure, but it’s that round-one footsie that turns the whole trilogy into a masterclass, not just the knockout reel.
Numbers are honest, takes aren't.
Remember back in 2019 when Oliveira dropped Pettis with that spinning back fist that made the whole of TD Garden go “what the hell just happened?” I was sitting three rows from the cage, and even the red-haired guy three seats down spilled his beer because his feet forgot to keep him upright. That’s the moment I knew Charles wasn’t just another finisher—he’s a choreographer who drags opponents into a routine they never rehearsed. Fast forward to McGregor: guy walks in after that scooter incident, neurologists probably filed him under “no re-entry,” yet Charles treats the whole fight like a lead-change drill session. He didn’t knock Conor out; he unlocked a part of Conor’s brain that controls directional IQ and hit the delete key.
So yeah, the POTY snubs grind my gears. But here’s the hitch that bugs me every time someone slaps a “magic” label on it: Charles has fought 16 times since 2020—every single finish has come inside the distance, most of them in the first two rounds. That economy is invisible unless you tally the fight cards. Three finishes against three different styles, true, but also 13 non-finishes where the judges rewarded him just for existing on the feet. The crowd erupts during the theatrics; the scorecards tick up without a KO sticker because his movement itself is the main event. Judges count points, not jaw drops. Until the POTY ballot actually asks, “Who made the most judges do a double-take mid-scorecard?” Oliveira’s still waiting for a stat that measures what he does week after week: forcing every elite striker he meets to relearn basic locomotion under bright lights.
I keep my own tables 📊
Take the three fights Nick’s nailed—McGregor, Makhachev, Holloway—and line them up like tracks on a greatest-hits album. The opener’s McGregor: three months after the scooter, Conor shuffled in like he’d been microwaved and still ended up parked in the Paddy Power app before the halfway mark because Charles’ footwork isn’t a weapon, it’s an active cancellation signal for every orthodox rhythm Conor’s wired for. That’s not luck, that’s rewiring someone’s motor cortex mid-pay-per-view.
Then the middle cut: Makhachev. You ever watch a world champion at 155 absorb every takedown the Dagestani diaspora can dream up, only to get turned into a human top-ropes act by a southpaw-to-orthodox shuffle so crisp it looked like the ref was counting in pi? The spinning backfist came off a single step, off a trap left that Makhachev never clocked because his hips were still chasing yesterday’s rhythm. And the crowd? They screamed like they’d just seen a live flamenco tragedy.
Third track: Holloway. This is the one where you watch round one and realize Alex isn’t fighting Charles Oliveira—he’s fighting Charles’ mirror in a wig, because every leg kick Alex threw got greeted by a pivot that turned the kick into a doorbell for the dance floor. By round three Holloway’s arms were pinwheeling like he’d forgotten gravity had an S-curve, and the finish wasn’t just a choke—it was the natural denouement of a man whose own feet had become obstacles.
So three fights, three finishes, but also the unseen tax receipts: Oliveira’s last sixteen starts since 2020, every single scorecard that awarded him movement alone while opponents flailed like toddlers on ice skates. The judges tick his totals without needing a KO sticker; the crowd erupts mid-round because his steps are the main event.
Still, I could be wrong, but the magic label keeps sticking because the footage doesn’t lie—every elite striker leaves the cage looking like they’ve just been re-registered as pedestrians.