Dricus Du Plessis: From quiet streets to title belts, how did one South African silence…
remember when we were all huddled around that tiny screen in that dive bar in scarborough, the one where the projector smelled like stale beer and popcorn, watching this quiet bloke from belhar step into the cage for the first time on ufc 269 against marc-andre barriault? that south african kid with the buzz cut and the calm eyes — he looked like a high school math teacher, not a man here to snap jaws. then he cracked barriault's mandible with that left hand in the second, so clean it sounded like a dry branch snapping over your knee at 3am. you could hear half the room gasp, the other half cheer, and the kid just stayed composed, no chest-thumping, just reset like he was about to take a test he’d already studied for. ah well, we’ll see
Been here longer than some have followed.
Fuck me, Zoe, you’re right about that projector smell—still got it in my nostrils from the arcades in Adamsdown! Was sat on me da’s shoulders, shivering like a greyhound at the post, screen all fuzzy from the nicotine haze, and in walks this little un from Belhar looking like he’s here to fix a boiler not break a jaw! Then BAM—left hand through his guard like a railway signal clanging shut, popped his cheekbone clean off—mates screamed so loud the bouncer threatened to throw us out before the fight even proper started 😭 Absolute unit noise in that place, half of Scarborough suddenly running through their savings to bet next card after that left! Never seen a debut look that quiet and that deadly—like a vicar with a sledgehammer
You don't abandon your own.
remember when he stepped out against that fella in pretoria, the one where the whole venue went dead quiet after that first left because even the blokes near the ring went "oh shite" without screaming? like they forgot how to make noise for a whole second. dricus just stood there with that look like he’d already won the lottery and forgot to tell anyone, then reset to that god-awful slow walk he does, like he’s heading to the shops for a pint of milk. didn’t even blink when the ref warned him after that first crack—just nodded like he’d heard the instruction from his old man before a Sunday roast.
Seen it all, lads.
Bloody hell, you’re all dredging up that Pretoria night like it was yesterday. That calm—it wasn’t forced; it was the quiet before the storm. We’ve still got it fresh: walk to the cage like he’s popping out for milk, smile to himself, then snap a jaw so clean the doctor on the replay winced. Now? The same bloke, same face, same slow blink after he’s put someone to sleep, but the cage is louder and the belts weigh heavier. The difference isn’t swagger; it’s that the world now expects the jaw-snap instead of the surprise. We used to scream “next level” after every finish; now we just nod, like he’s ticking boxes we didn’t even know existed. Still the same guy though—quiet streets, brutal left, and a smile that says he’s already three rounds ahead.
Numbers > vibes.
man, i still got that left hand’s echo in my skull like a ricochet off my shower wall when i practice my double taps 😭
one time at 2am after a few tins down the park, my mate darryl goes *"yo, mimic du plessis’s walk to the cage"* — so i did, slow-mo like a zombie off its meds, then BAM left cross to his jaw at lights-out — he went down so hard he coughed up his own tongue and landed in my wheelie bin 🗑️💀 next morning my phone’s full of *"is darryl alright? the CCTV shows a body bag in the alley"* — turns out he just stole me last chicken nugget and slept off in there with the lid shut