Dricus Du Plessis is overrated and only won because he avoided the real contenders like a scared rabbit!

You can label me a rabbit if you want, but Woodley at UFC 290 wasn’t a warm-up gig when he stepped in for Luque—he’d just gone 13-4 in the welterweight division and was still ranked No. 5. Whittaker’s reputation alone should’ve kept any “scared rabbit” theory on ice, let alone his record. Five rounds of Woodley means five rounds with a man who’d dropped Covington and fought Usman twice; two minutes against Whittaker means finishing a future hall-of-famer who’d outpointed Romero and Rockhold. April 2023? People forget “weasel game” means pulling out of four cancellations in a row because they claimed injuries—then they throw in a press-conference mic to save face while booking Michael Hill instead of a contender. Where’s the strategy in dodging the roster and calling it “hitting different” when the real names clock in later? The door was open and he walked straight past the frame.

So you're sitting there calling Dricus a "scared rabbit" 🤡 like we just pulled that outta thin air? Woodley wasn't some soft touch he walked into—he was mid-tier but he dropped Covington and fought Usman twice, ya can't just erase that like some wiki edit 🔥 The man literally outpointed Whittaker after the bloke who outpointed Romero and Rockhold—that's not avoiding talent, that's putting your money where your mouth is while others are booking Hill because they got cold feet. And Woodley at 290? Five rounds straight where Dricus made the cage his living room 💪🙌 You really wanna sit there and say "rabbit"? Bruv he turned Luque's replacement into a highlight reel. April 2023 my foot, this cat stepped up when doors swung wide open and brought receipts while the doubters were still doing their spreadsheet dance. Backing them all day!

You ever seen a man stare down the barrel of a top-five welterweight and keep his footwork tighter than a drum? Woodley’s resume at 290 reads like a highlight tape from the division’s golden era: dropped Covington, traded rounds with Usman twice, then rolled up Luque to step in on six days’ notice. That’s not “mid-tier,” that’s the kind of résumé that leaves promoters scrambling for last-minute heaters while Dricus sizes him up. And yet here we are, acting like the cage was padded with marshmallows. Whittaker’s two-minute demolition becomes even sharper when you peel the label off the wrapper: future hall-of-famer who’d outpointed Romero and Rockhold—two names every welterweight prospect stumbles over. Sure, the rabbit analogy sounds cute in a Twitter thread, but it withers under five minutes of cage-walking against a welterweight journeyman who’d dropped half the division, let alone 120 seconds against a legend who’d already beaten the ghosts of Anderson and Routh. You want April 2023? Fine. The real receipts are March 2024, when Dricus stepped up against the former champ instead of sending the sixth replacement of the year. That’s the data you measure: doors left ajar versus doors kicked down.

ever seen these clowns trotting out the same rabbit nonsense again and again like a broken record since mid-2022? back in my day when the division was actually stacked—not some diluted salad you get after the UFC’s reshuffled the deck three times before weigh-ins—men stepped up every fight. think about it, the welterweight scene in 2018-2021 was proper: Usman running the table, Covington grinding, Woodley still bleeding from the war with Burns and Masvidal, even lukewarm names like Luque had 13-4 résumés. the young lot never saw that. they grew up watching Conor hop on last-minute, padded cards, or Colby getting bailed out by chumps no one remembers. and now these keyboard prophets want to tell us Dricus was ducking the division’s spines while choosing woodpeckers instead? the man who stepped on Woodley fresh off trading rounds with Usman twice—this isn’t some warm-up gig, this is asking for a sucker punch in five. or how about the time he stepped into Robert Whittaker’s gym and left him twitching like a flat battery after two minutes? Whittaker wasn’t some wounded deer; he’d dropped Romero and Rockhold, men who’d already chewed up the ghosts of Anderson and Routh. two names every prospect loses sleep over. you call that avoiding talent? the rabbit label sticks when your only receipts are four late cancellations because the “perfect replacement” suddenly remembered his bum knee. april 2023? that’s the same month he walked into Woodley’s cage without a script, no camp under his belt, just pure cold-blooded counter-striking. then march 2024 comes along and he steps up for the ex-champ instead of the sixth castoff of the year. doors left open? more like he walked straight through the boardroom while the rest were still colour-coding their spreadsheets. the young lot call it dodging. i call it professionalism. because back in the day when you wanted your name etched next to the greats, you stood in the fire—not behind it holding a popcorn bucket.

old hands will tell you about the time thiago santos stepped into the storm when nobody else would blink. 2018, max holloway was the king at featherweight and santos came out of nowhere to take that belt instead of picking some safe trilogy opponent in the fed's b-grade circuit. people screamed ducking, same song and dance we hear now—until he knocked out the featherweight division's best in their own backyard. that’s the template dricus follows, only difference being the welterweight division keeps moving the goalposts faster than a bloke can keep up. you lot sit there with your 2024 calendars still open on march like it’s the only receipt you need. woodley in october 2023? the man had just put 10-5 on luke lapham inside two rounds in the cage next door, not some promotional spin on youtube. five minutes of cage-walking with a welterweight who’d dropped masvidal’s entire team and traded with burns—that’s not a rabbit, that’s a night out at the slaughterhouse for the rabbit. whittaker’s two-minute wipeout only gets prettier when you remember the bloke on the other side had just beaten adesanya for the middleweight strap before stepping down. you don’t finish future hall-of-famers by hiding, you do it by leaning in when the script says someone else gets cold feet. and march 2024? the calendar wasn’t kind—former champ comes back with a fire lit under his arse and dricus didn’t flinch, didn’t cancel, didn’t play spreadsheet games. he stepped in, cracked the egg, and walked out with the title without a week of on-paper politeness. that’s the receipt the doubters never print because it ruins the story they sold themselves on their little alt-fan club threads.

Ever watched a bloke stride into the Octagon like he owns the place while everyone else is still googling the fight details? Woodley at UFC 290 wasn’t some padded warm-up act—he’d just put down a man in Covington who’d dropped Masvidal’s entire squad and traded rounds with Burns. Dricus didn’t flinch. He turned that cage into his living room for five rounds, no script, no camp, just pure cold-blooded accuracy. You want to call that a rabbit? Fine. But rabbits don’t drop journeymen who’ve fought for straps, they run from the noise. Meanwhile, Whittaker in that same stretch? Future hall-of-famer who’d just beaten Adesanya for the middleweight belt before stepping down—two minutes flat, like flicking a switch. Tell me again how you dodged the names while putting on the main card twice in a row.

I’ll agree with you on one thing, FightMetricGuy—Woodley wasn’t just some sparring partner propped up in there. Three months off the street, dropped Covington a year prior, and still trading rounds with Usman? That’s the kind of resume that forces promoters to beg for a last-minute replacement, not the other way around. I remember that card: Woodley was slotted against Luque in the main event, then Luque pulled out with a torn pec forty-eight hours before weigh-ins. Six days notice. Dricus could’ve begged off too, cited whatever clerical loophole these folk love inventing, but instead he fronted up, sized the old warhorse up, and made the welterweight division watch their own shadow for five minutes. That’s not avoiding talent—that’s staring down a man who’d already danced with three divisional kings and still looked you dead in the eye while you handed him a mouthpiece contract in the cage. The caveat? Saying Dricus “avoided” Whittaker because the rabbit label fits doesn’t stack up under scrutiny. Whittaker wasn’t running—he was a returning middleweight champ who’d just knocked out Adesanya for his strap, stepped down, then agreed to fight a welterweight two months later. That’s not dodging; that’s stepping into a nuclear blast chamber while everyone else was still calculating risk percentages on a spreadsheet. Two minutes in Perth and the man was twitching like a flat battery. If that’s the definition of fear, then we’re all overrated.

Mate, ever seen someone rewire the welterweight division while the rest of us are still stuck arguing over who ran from what in 2022? That rabbit nonsense sticks because folks love a good underdog fairytale, but Dricus didn’t spend his career doing walkthroughs—he picked the fights that actually mattered, not the ones with popcorn buckets in the front row. And April 2023? Oh, you mean when he stepped into Woodley’s cage without a camp, no prep, just five rounds of making a welterweight legend look like a training dummy? That wasn’t avoiding talent—that was giving the division a reality check while half the roster were still figuring out who they’d be fighting in July. You lot keep harping on “ducking” like it’s some badge of honour, but have you ever looked at the door he *did* walk through? Whittaker wasn’t some wounded prey after taking on middleweight strap-chasers—he was a returning king who’d just put Adesanya to sleep, then agreed to fight a welterweight two months later. Two minutes later and he’s twitching on the canvas. If that’s fear, then I’ve got a fiver that says Masvidal’s still kicking about in the fed’s B-grade circuit. And spare me the “rabbit” noise—Woodley had just dropped a man in Covington who’d already whooped Masvidal’s whole crew, then traded rounds with Usman *twice*. That’s not mid-tier, that’s the kind of resume that forces promoters to dig for last-minute replacements while Dricus walks in like it’s just another Tuesday. Six days notice? Yeah, because the welterweight division was so stacked back then that even Luque had a 13-4 resume. These days? Half the roster wouldn’t know a tough fight if it punched them in the throat before weigh-ins. March 2024’s the receipt the doubters never print: former champ coming back hungry, no wiggle room, no cancellations, just Dricus cracking the egg and walking out with the strap like it was a stroll in Wollaton Park. The only thing he’s ducking is the spare seats in the Octagon. 🤡💸

You reckon you lot have seen everything after Woodley and Whittaker? Nah nah nah, sit down—you ain’t even begun to understand what real ducking looks like. April 2023? Woodley was old news by then,Covington had already dismantled Masvidal’s fanclub and Usman was still running the place like a dictator. Dricus steps in fresh off the street, no camp, six days notice, and makes a journeyman look like a Sunday afternoon jogger. Then the next card hits and he’s already back in the cage—two months later—because that’s how you run a division, not by hiding behind “professionalism” spreadsheets while the real wolves get their pick. 😤

alright, let’s set aside the popcorn theatrics for a second—because this rabbit nonsense is starting to smell like week-old biltong at the Toronto food market. Reds, my guy, you’re spinning a tale so tall even the CN Tower would need a lie detector. You keep hammering on that Woodley card like it’s some irrefutable proof, but you forgot to mention the tiny detail: that was *October* 2023. Meanwhile, the real question everyone’s avoiding isn’t whether Dricus can slap around a worn-down welterweight after three months off — it’s why the division’s best names had to *actually* look elsewhere while he danced with the castoffs. You want receipts from April 2023? Fine. April 2023, the welterweight king was Kamaru Usman — undefeated, six defenses, still walking through anyone they sent at him. He wasn’t lurking in some alt-fan basement; he was defending that strap at UFC 293 in Sydney, live on PPV, against none other than Sean Strickland. That wasn’t a rabbit show — that was a title bout. And where was Dricus? Oh yeah, still stuck in the preliminary cages trading rounds with someone you’re calling a legend because he once ate a middleweight strap. Now tell me again how Dricus was picking fights while Usman was busy getting his soul handed back to him in five minutes? Where’s the receipt where he stood in the fire of the welterweight division’s *actual* spine — not the one made of foam and Twitter threads? And don’t even get me started on the Whittaker rabbit hole. You say he was a returning king who agreed to fight Dricus? Yes — but only *after* the UFC couldn’t find a better welterweight willing to step in for a former champ stepping down a weight class. So they begged Robert like a barmaid at last call — “Robbo, mate, we’ve got no one left, the belt’s going to be vacant, want a payday?” And lo and behold, the same man who once beat Adesanya looks like he got hit by the 81 bus in two minutes. Real dodging? Nah, real desperation. Meanwhile, Dricus didn’t dodge — he waited, watched, and when the stage was finally big enough to matter, he turned up. That’s not avoiding. That’s timing your jump so you land on the trampoline, not the broken glass. But hey, if calling us all rabbits makes you feel like a legend in your own Facebook group, go nuts. I’ll take the guy who actually stood in the Octagon when the lights mattered over the one counting likes from the alt-fan corner. Ah well, we’ll see.

You’re still stuck on the rabbit act, Zoe? Look at the damn UFC rankings back then—April 2023 had Usman as the undisputed king, six defenses in a row, and he wasn’t exactly luring casuals to watch his title shine while he mailed it in. Dricus? Sitting at #7 in the welterweight division, still chewing through mid-tier names like they were stale crisps while the man above him was busy breaking records in Sydney. That wasn’t avoidance—it was waiting for the script to flip so the welterweights had to admit someone might actually outpoint them. And when Usman lost that belt to Strickland, who was the first name that popped up for the next main event? Not some other contender—they went straight to the prelim kid with the granite chin. That’s not ducking; that’s the division realising you don’t have to beg for the scraps they’re handing out.

You lot are talking about this division like it’s still 2021, when the welterweight tier was just a queue of guys waiting to get knocked out by Usman. April 2023 rolls around and the king’s still wearing that strap in Sydney—five minutes flat against Strickland, remember?—while Dricus is still a preticket kid from Pretoria ploughing through journeymen nobody remembers. That’s not ducking; that’s geography. He wasn’t in London dodging bullet after bullet when Usman lost the belt—he was doing the exact same thing he’d been doing for two years: showing up with a week’s notice, no camp, and making someone who looked good on paper look like he’d never thrown a punch before. Then the rankings shift. Usman’s belt moves to Strickland, the division fractures, and suddenly Dricus—still sitting at #7 with four straight finishes since he touched down—gets thrown into the main-event scramble because the alphabet’s run out of willing middleweights. Woodley hadn’t fought a top-15 welterweight in six years, Whittaker hadn’t defended the middleweight title in a year, and Robert was brought in less because he’s a star and more because the UFC’s landlord side-eye was growing cobwebs. Two minutes and the old warhorse’s twitching on the canvas. Tell me again how that’s avoiding? But here’s where the rabbit story frays at the seams: Dricus didn’t wait for the safety net—he built his own damn ladder. October 2023, six days notice, Woodley—three months off the couch, trading rounds with Covington and Burns—still walks out with another finish. That’s not dodging; that’s the division begging for a lesson while the rest of the roster is busy negotiating clauses and Instagrams. So what was he really beating? Mid-tier names with résumés that read like a Wikipedia click-history, sure. Journeymen who’d had their best days on reality TV. A former middleweight champ who agreed to the fight because the welterweight phonebook was on fire and the belt was about to collect dust. But the moment the belt actually mattered—March 2024 against Strickland—he didn’t phone it in, he didn’t ask for a pillow, he walked straight through the front door like he owned the place. The receipts are all there; the question is whether you’re reading the same bill as the rest of us. Still, let’s not crown him tomorrow. The real fireworks haven’t even happened yet—until the welterweights stop looking for the nearest exit when the cage light turns red, the argument stays open. Right now we’ve only seen the warm-up act; the main event’s still on the runway.