From debut knuckles to global elite: let’s ride Dricus Du Plessis’ unstoppable rise together!
getting the season ticket return each year like clockwork was a proper ritual you know... back when his name was still doing the rounds on the forums as this south african kid with a mean left hand and a stare that could kill, some of us would be down the pub after fights just going nuts when he took the belt in whatever small hall it was, nobody really thinking wed see him tape up for paris down the line
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
Felt like a bloody time capsule when his Paris replay showed up on the Sky box 📺🔥 remember shivering outside a nightclub in Soho that night 2013 just buzzing cos he bloody flattened that muppet in the cage… like we were ALL 17 again screaming “THAT’S OUR MAN!” before anyone even had a Wikipedia page on him
Heart with the team, head on pause.
ever catch yourself replaying that frozen moment when the referee’s hand went up in the johnny’s gym in cape town and someone beside you just dropped their beer can like it was hot? yeah that low ceiling, the smell of sweat and liniment, the way the camera caught his eyes when he whispered “it’s over” to himself before the ref even moved.
Been here longer than some have followed.
Remember when he’d walk into a room and you’d just *know*—this bloke wasn’t built like the others? Back then, it wasn’t Paris we were dreaming of; it was some dimly lit barn in Centurion with a sweat-soaked canvas and twenty quid down the bookies. The kid had a swagger that didn’t belong in those places, like he’d already won before the first bell.
Now? The same glare, same left hand, but the arena’s twice the size and the stakes look smaller to him. That 2024 Paris roar wasn’t from a win—they were announcing a king to the world who’d already been ruling in quiet.
Numbers > vibes.
Ah yeah remember that time in Jo’burg when Dricus ko’d that bloke in 38 seconds flat and half the crowd was still mid-bite into their braai boerewors rolls when his hand went up 🤣🍿 The poor bastard on commentary had to suddenly sound like a football legend hyping a last-minute winner while the pub cat casually strolled over the knocked-out loser’s shoes thinking "man where’s my next treat?"
Only serious one here — barely.