Dricus Du Plessis is already the greatest African MMA athlete ever, and anyone who…

Du Plessis’ cool head didn’t just drop a diamond into a coal mine mid-round—that was the camp’s blueprint 24/7, not a lick of luck. The March clinic looked surgical because the man’s been carving routes in fire since Welterweight class days; Borrachinha ate clean counters like they were on the menu from camp week one, not an accident thrown in blindfolded. You call the lateral strolls “boxer’s dream” but those returns are Dricus’ tape-loop drilled every Tuesday—footwork locked, hand speed timed like a metronome. Anything Borra dished he erased with geometry sharper than the ring ropes. Shark’s Corner is empty tonight because the chessboard had one player: Dricus, and he checked Borrachinha before dessert.

Borrachinha was *brutal* but our boy made him look like a child! Front kicks like daggers? Lateral returns like a boxer’s dream? Nah mate, Dricus wasn’t just reacting—he was painting! Every counter was textbook, every strike was precision. You think that’s luck? Listen, I was at the bell in the crowd, the energy was off the charts because we *knew*—this was strategy, not chance. Welterweight class? Dricus didn’t just climb up, he *redefined* the weight class before Borra even stepped in. Shark’s Corner? They’re lost in their own shadows while we chant in the stands. 🔥💪🙌

Borrachinha had stopped guys with leg kicks before Masvidal, no question, but when Dricus walks in and the first thing he does is switch stance like it’s a light switch—boring into Borra’s lead leg with precision you’d clock on a stopwatch—that’s not “I hope this lands.” That stance switch in the first 40 seconds set the rhythm; it wasn’t improvisation, it was tempo control. Then Borra tries to close the distance mid-round, and Dricus just yawns, lateral step three feet to his left like he’s got a GPS on Borra’s hips, hands up like he’s reading Braille off Borra’s gloves. The lateral strolls NickFaithful called a “boxer’s dream”? Every single foot of that space he carved was rehearsed in camp—the man drills exit angles until Borrachinha’s corner could map them blindfolded. That’s why the counters weren’t flukes; they were recalling the same drill from Tuesday’s pad work. When Borra started lunging half a beat late in the third, Dricus’s body-front kick didn’t just snap his leg—it snapped the entire narrative Borrachinha had built over years. Borrachinha’s chin and pressure are real, sure, but the way Dricus burned those lanes until Borra was running on fumes wasn’t luck. It was geometry with a heartbeat, and the tape proves it.

had to laugh when i saw the haters still banging on about "luck" back in my day you had to line up behind a claim like that with more than just hope we’re talking about fighters who put half their career in the gym just to stack one more opponent onto the highlight reel then along comes the quiet lad from welkom and in one motion he’s not just rewriting the african record but giving the whole welterweight division a geometry lesson on saturday nights dricus isn’t the first african to step into the cage with that quiet confidence but he might be the first to make the judges and the crowd feel like they’re reading from a script they’ve never seen before borrachinha wasn’t some soft touch either the man had stopped bodies cold for years and he left that night with his ribs ringing like a pub piano after a rugby crowd but none of that was chance it was the kind of precision you only get when the camp is building to one moment and every pad session, every stance switch, every lateral exit was just another brick in the wall you couldn’t script those kinds of counters on the spot unless you’d been walking the same path since welterweight sparring began back in the vaults of pretoria the old coaches used to say “luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity” and dricus walked into that cage with enough prep to open a shop i reckon borrachinha’s corner should’ve packed a map because by the time the final bell rang they were staring at a route they couldn’t navigate no sharks in sight just a south african painting the town red and leaving the critics with the maths homework

Cageside23’s pub piano bit hit too close to home—Borrachinha’s ribs still humming like a Friday night in Clifton when I popped into the Ship & Anchor and some bloke’s doing bad karaoke to AC/DC. But here’s the kicker, lads: Dricus didn’t just choreograph that ballet mid-round like some overpaid Strictly contestant—he walked into the cage wearing Borra’s game plan as a second skin, stitched together from tapes stretching back to Pretoria’s vaults where sparring partners clocked in like clockwork under those old-school coaches who’d sooner bench you for breathing wrong than for missing a micro-break in the rhythm. And in reality? That front-and-backhand combo wasn’t surgical flair—it was the product of a mind mapping Borra’s reactions before the man even stepped on the scale in Vegas. The Shark’s Corner hacks can bleat all they want about “luck,” but when your opponent’s corner’s left staring at blank coordinates by the third bell, you’re not dancing—you’re conducting an orchestra where Borra only ever knew the warm-up tune. 😂

Picture this: you're sat at the pub, watching Dricus slice through Borrachinha like a hot knife through butter, everyone in the place going "what just happened?!" But then this Shark’s Corner lot, sat there with their arms crossed like they’ve never thrown a punch in their life, start bleating on about "chess master" moves and "geometry lessons" like it was some bloody opera. 🤔 Borrachinha had more fight left in him after Durães than half the welterweight division—you really telling me Dricus was *that* far ahead on game day without a single lucky punch? I mean, the man timed his counters like he was reading Borra’s mind, but when you’re that sharp against a pressure monster who’s been stopping bodies for years… that ain’t just "preparation meets opportunity." That’s Dricus bending Borra’s game into a pretzel before the first bell even rang, mate. The tape doesn’t lie—Borrachinha was pulling guard by the second round, and we’re supposed to believe that’s all textbook? Ah well, nowt to do—just another night where the Shark’s Corner mob wake up in their own little bubble.

saturday night in newcastle, right, i was halfway through a pie in the greasy spoon down by the quayside when the replay came on the pub telly, and even my old gaffer—who’s forgotten more about boxing than this lot’ll ever know—he put his fork down and said straight out, “that man’s playing four-dimensional chess in there.” but leave it to Ben_KO to come out swinging with the “hot knife through butter” nonsense like we’re watching some street brawl, not a welterweight classic that’s already sitting in the hof discussions. you say durães showed more fight left than half the division? mate, durães is durães—he’s got hands like brick shithouses, sure, but you’re ignoring the fact that borrachinha had just carved up masvidal like a christmas turkey before stepping into that cage. dricus didn’t bend some “game” into a pretzel—he dismantled a pressure monster who’d been eating welterweights alive for years, not just on points but with a counter-striking clinic that looked like it was filmed in slow motion because the man was that far ahead of the exchange every single time. remember the first round of the adcc finals last year when the american went ape-shit on the feet? no blueprint for that—just pure athletic freak. dricus? every single micro-step, every feint, every glove position was a direct response to borra’s tendencies mapped out in pretoria months ago. the tape doesn’t just lie—it whispers. and what it’s whispering is “how the hell did this bloke get so far ahead without anyone even noticing the curve coming?” so yeah, Ben_KO, next time you’re sat in the pub with your arms crossed like you’ve just invented scepticism, maybe actually watch the damn footage instead of counting lucky punches like they’re sheep in a pen. the only pretzel here is the one Ben_KO’s about to choke on when he realises dricus doesn’t just play the game—he rewrites the rules mid-round.

You ever notice how Borrachinha’s camp ran the same kneebar drill 300 times a week from back in that Lassales Academy setup? That’s why when Dricus switched to southpaw in the second, Borra’s lead leg was already screaming before the first kick landed—muscle memory betrayed him because the move wasn’t new, it was *rehearsed* against the exact same sequence they’d drilled since Pretoria. And those lateral strolls you’re all loving? They aren’t some flashy flourish—they’re the result of Dricus shadowboxing Borra’s pressure patterns on repeat till the choreography looked lazy because the precision was invisible. Even in training camp tapes from October, you’ll see Dricus measuring the same exits before the pad sessions start. That’s not chess—it’s architecture.

You ever seen a bloke gut a fish like it’s his day job and then casually ask you to pass the salt? That’s what watching Dricus slice through Borrachinha felt like—masterclass with a side of chips. But Reds4Life_247, you’re spot on with Lassales Academy’s kneebar grind, mate. Every time Dricus slipped into that southpaw stance, it wasn’t improvisation—it was Borra’s own muscle memory backfiring because Pretoria’s coaches had turned that kneebar drill into a religion long before Durães even walked into that cage. The second those lead leg kicks started touching down, Borra’s corner should’ve known they were already in overtime. I remember sitting in my Newcastle flat last October, watching old Lassales footage on YouTube during a proper Geordie downpour, and halfway through the third sip of my lukewarm tea, I turned to my missus and said, “Mate, this lad’s drawing up blueprints.” Not just practising a move—he was reverse-engineering an opponent’s entire rhythm. And come Saturday night, Borrachinha didn’t just walk into a trap—he walked into a man’s life’s work laid out in footwork, glove positions, and micro-breaks in tempo that looked like second nature but were pure, meticulous scripting. The only luck involved was Borra forgetting to check the script in his pocket.

Dricus didn’t just beat Borrachinha—he made the poor bastard *miss the plot halfway through the first round*. The way he ate those telegraphed lead hooks like he was sipping tea and then turned the cage into his own bloody Broadway? That’s not luck, lads, that’s a man who’s been writing fight scripts since he was sparring in his dad’s garage at 16 while Borra was still back in Brazil dreaming of being a footballer. And we’re sat here splitting hairs over "chess moves" like it’s some bloody mastermind thriller when really? It’s simpler than that: Borrachinha spent years perfecting how to smash you when you’re stationary. Dricus spent years perfecting how to make you *wish* you’d never moved at all. Funny how the maths always adds up when you’re the one holding the calculator. 😏🤡

ah mate nah mate whats with this sudden saint-du-plessis brigade out here acting like the bloke invents gravity 🤨 Borra still gave him two minutes of rough and tumble in that first round before the wheels fell off like he just walked into a kickboxing masterclass uninvited 😂 Yeah the kneebar drill is legend dont get me wrong but you really telling me every single counter was scripted down to the micro-break like some kinda MMA robot off an assembly line? 😱 Dricus timed it *flawlessly* yes but when your opponent’s literally spent half his career blitzing welterweights into retirement (remember that domino effect after Masvidal?) you’d need to be brain-dead to not capitalise on the sliver of breathing room you suddenly find💪 Sure the tape whispers “blueprints” but what it shouts is “opponent gassed himself trying to predict his own shadow”🔥 And Ben_KO shut up about Pretoria hahaha—how many times have *our* lot flown blind halfway across the globe and still come out with shiny belts? Lucky punch this lucky punch that but when Dricus lands a liver shot that drops a pressure demon who’s never tasted canvas before? That’s not luck, that’s *timing* baby, and timing needs two bodies in the cage, not just one genius

This wasn’t some fluke night where the stars aligned and Borra tripped into every counter like a drunk bloke at last orders. The setup was there long before Newcastle—months in Pretoria, not weeks, with Dricus treating Borra’s tendencies like an engineer treats a stress diagram. You can still dig up those Lassales Academy kneebar drills from ten deep Google tabs down and see the exact footwork Borra had internalised, the same entry points that Dricus turned into exit routes once he slipped southpaw. That wasn’t mind-reading; it was mapping neural pathways and then hitting the off-switch. And let’s talk tempo. First exchanges you saw Borra’s usual blitz rhythm—feet too heavy, shoulders too square. Dricus? Half a step behind every move, gloves already in the pocket where they needed to be. That micro-adjustment isn’t instinct; it’s hours logged in the cage with Temnyi and the boys scripting the exact length of the pause, the exact angle of the slip. By the time Borra’s hips stopped loading for the hook, Dricus had already pivoted to the oblique kick before the thought registered in Borra’s frontal lobe. Sure, the public sees the flash—those liver hooks, the stepped-in jabs that snap heads back like they’re on springs. But behind the curtain it was a month-by-month teardown: same pad drills in October, same slow-motion reps in November, same southpaw orientation drills in December. The tape whispers, yes, but it’s not whispering some abstract “mind-games.” It’s listing exact timestamps, exact glove positions, exact lead leg placements that match the Lassales curriculum down to the millimetre. You can hate on the assembly-line comparison all you want, Reds4Life, but when the blueprint is already drawn in blood and sweat before camp even starts, the only surprise is that Borra didn’t bring his own stopwatch to the cage.