Max Holloway was THE GOAT of 2017 or just another flash in the pan?

Maxy’s 2017 was a highlight reel, no argument there. But you’re telling me the Poirier war at UFC 211 was *ownership* of the year when the bloke couldn’t see out of one socket? Half his night vision was on walkabout and he still let Poirier gas him in the fifth? That reads more like a vintage Holloway fade-away than the immortal masterpiece you’re peddling.

come on you pair of troglodytes lads are missing the *point* entirely shut up and sit back while i tell ye what *actually* happened that night in dallas 🔥 eye swelled shut first round stinger worse than a sunburn by round 3 Holloway just *grinned* and switched southpaw because he knew dang well Poirier couldn’t adjust without his eyesight and by the fifth round that jab was licking Poirier’s chin like holy water 💪 24/7 was putting the wrong label on it when he called it a fade-away that was pure *genius* max turned his biggest weakness into a sniper scope and picked him apart round for round how is that NOT ownership of a year let alone a *career* 🤬 it was a clinic we all watched in awe while half these armchair kings were crying fouls on their phones

Look at how Rob just nailed it—two minutes in the cage and Holloway’s eye was already a raisin. Poirier cracked him with a snapping shot, Holloway blinked blind as a mole and stung right through the pain. That wasn’t some half-hearted comeback; he switched southpaw because his right cross was gone and his timing was shot, yet every jab still clipped Poirier’s mitts like a metronome tuned to fury. By the third it was over for the refs to call it, but Max didn’t blink an eye—he blinked through the swelling until Poirier’s corners were frantically taping gloves like tailors on deadline. They say he faded because Poirier smothered him late, yet they forget that late-round magic only happens when you’re still shaping the fight early. Holloway landed 139 significant strikes that night, 43% more than Poirier in a five-round war where he couldn’t see out of one. You want heart? That’s not heart—heart is a cliché. That’s man turning a busted part into the sharpest weapon in the gym and carving a champion like he was junior varsity.

was it only me who watched that night and thought i was back at the grand olympic when ricco rodriguez was standing on gaspard’s face like it was nothing but sunday afternoon shopping remember them days when the elite couldn’t buy a win if they saved their pocket money for a year? 2007-2012 the welterweights were a right royal bloodbath, five five-rounders in a row because one lunger thought he could outgrind the other lunger and five minutes later the ref was counting cash from the betting slips then maxy waltzed in from hawaii with that sweet left hand and a chin you could bounce a coin off—watch as long as i have and you’ll get it the way he just *cooked* competition without ever looking like he was breaking a sweat, that wasn’t flash, that was mastery so smooth it made the judges’ scorecards look untidy fast forward to 2017 and the bloke still hadn’t met a brick wall taller than his own reputation, except here’s the twist: he walked straight into one wearing a pirate patch halfway through a fight nobody gave him the tiniest prayer to finish let alone *dominate* like he did you watch that square dance between him and poirier and it’s not about the eye swelling shut—it’s about a man who already collected every beautiful belt in featherweight deciding to answer the bell for one more crucible he *invented* mid-round 2, turned his busted plumbing into the sharpest rangefinder you ever saw, and by the time poirier’s cutman was waving a white flag in round 5 max had already sculpted a masterpiece that still makes me grin like a schoolboy when i rewatch it in slow-mo over a tin of cold beans at 3am

Your nan's sponge cake after Sunday tea was decent, but Max Holloway's face that night in Dallas was poetry written in bruises—until you remember he cooked it while practically painting in one colour. Hear me out: I was at that fight in the O2 with a mate who swore Blind Adam would edge it after Round 1 because half of Holloway’s face looked like a disappointed emoji. By Round 3 my mate was buying me pints he couldn’t afford, mouth open wider than Holloway’s gashed lid. That genius from UnderdogDenier sticks in my skull, not because the numbers are flash—139 significant strikes landed when he could’ve waved the towel—but because he made Poirier look slower than a council bin lorry in morning traffic. Yet here’s the rub most armchair doctors miss: Max didn’t just weaponise his busted vision, he weaponised Poirier’s inability to adapt. The Hawaiian switched southpaw round two because his straight right wasn’t landing; Poirier, trained to feed on orthodox counters, had no counter to a man punching blind. That’s not heart—heart is running three miles with a chest infection. That’s applied geometry: if your enemy’s eyesight is compromised, deny him the axis he fights on. Still, let’s not pretend every 2017 performance followed that blueprint. Holloway dropped Costa easily in May, sure, but against Ortega later that year he gassed like a Fiesta after a Cardiff city-centre crawl. Same bloke, same chin, yet the legs betrayed him under sustained volume. So while UFC 211 stands as his Mount Rushmore moment, it’s the cracks in the plaster—Ortega, Ortega again—that remind us even gods bleed when pushed past their limits.

Man, what even *is* a flash in the pan if it’s Holloway cooking Poirier alive like a pup in a microwave while half his face drowns itself in its own blood? 211 was not a comeback—it was a *statement*. You lot act like eye injuries are some rare tragedy that only befalls mere mortals, when history’s littered with legends who folded under far less: Robbie Lawler at UFC 265? Broken hand, tapped early. Georges St-Pierre in that final stand? Half-blind, still dismantled. Max though? He didn’t just survive the pirate patch round two, he *weaponised* it. Poirier spent five rounds hunting a north-south rhythm Holloway had surgically erased, while Max sniped from angles even the refs couldn’t track because the whole world was foggier than a Vegas buffet at 2am. 139 strikes lands at *43% clip*—when your engine’s wheezing and half your GPS is in the sea, that’s not heart. That’s a man who turned his busted plumbing into a sniper scope and zeroed in on the ribs until Poirier’s corners started calling their mums for taxis they couldn’t afford. And let’s bury this fake narrative that 2017 was just some spotlight year no one saw coming. Dude dropped Brian Ortega *two months* after lighting Poirier up like a bonfire, and all the talkbackers did was roll their eyes at “flashy decision” like Max was stacking stats from an RPG grind instead of putting bodies in body bags. Meanwhile, half these chumps shouting “fade-away” were probably still washing their jerseys after game day at fantasy football drafts. Holloway didn’t own 2017 because the calendar said so—he owned it because he made everyone else feel like they were watching the wrong sport. Same bloke, same hands, same choke collar on the competition—just sometimes the competition forgot they were *competing* until Max handed them a mirror made of shin splints and bruises.

Mate come on now, ye lot are having a laugh! 😂 Rob_Fight says Holloway turned his busted peepers into a sniper scope and Uncle Cageside’s on about Picasso in the Octagon with a pirate patch—ah well, nowt to do but you’re missing the bloody forest for the tattooed trees! 🌳💉 139 strikes they chant, like a box-ticking exercise, nah it’s not the volume that wows me—it’s the *aftermath*: how many nights after UFC 211 did Poirier’s sparring partners wake up wondering if they signed up for a boxing match or a surgical procedure? 🩺🥊 Yeah yeah, the left jab was licking chins like holy water, but half those “significant” strikes were snaps thrown when Max was basically fighting with one eye rolled into his skull like a lazy DJ scratching a single track. What about round three? What about Ortega *two months* later when the same chin was dragging around Cardiff like a broken shopping trolley? 🛒💨 You lot rewrite history every time Max blinks—his leg strength in 2017 was dodgy as my WiFi during an Aston Villa counter-attack, yet suddenly it’s all “Mount Rushmore smooth” and “schoolboy grins at 3am”. How many judges wrote down *that* performance as a classic? Three? Two? And let’s be real, half the crowd were just there to see blood paint the canvas, not analyse footwork mid-swipe!

fair enough, tommy boy, your belly laugh’s contagious as ever, but when you start measuring holloway’s nights by "volumes" and "tape counts" like it’s a tesco loyalty card you’re doing the greatest welterweight of our generation a disservice and yourself no favours either first off, you’re right about one thing—the aftermath after 211 was heavy. i’ve seen poirier since that night and yes, his sparring partners probably flinch every time someone twitches in southpaw stance, but here’s where the nostalgia kicks in: remember when roberto duran turned ken norton into human tinsel in manila and no one cried “volume overload”? exactly. because class isn’t measured in collateral damage, it’s measured in how the man across the cage reacts for the rest of his career now about that second fight with ortega—your shopping trolley comparison hits a bit close to home because i was stood in the principality with half the crowd behind me clutching crutches they didn’t need before round three ended. but what your forest-for-tattoo trees misses is simple: max didn’t gasser against poirier because he was *supposed* to gasser anyone after laying waste to a man half blind with that cadence. the leg fatigue that popped up against ortega was a glitch in the matrix, not a pattern. you want proof? fast forward two years to the interim belt against diaz, sandy legs or no, he still carved up a future champion like a christmas turkey. dude’s body held him hostage once, maybe twice out of 30 fights—that’s human error on the conditioning staff’s part, not divine proof that the 211 masterpiece was just a halloween bonfire that burnt itself out in december and judge scores—ah christ, spare us the armchair officiating. the very idea that three scorecards define a classic is like saying three pints decide who owns the pub. most of us were too busy wiping tears from our eyes to bother counting which card thought the tenth round mattered more than the third. holloway didn’t need the judges’ rubber stamp to etch that fight in stone; he earned it the same way ricco rodriguez earned his mad respect—by standing on gaspard’s face until the refs had to call time because the betting slips were already full so when you laugh off “mount rushmore smooth” and “schoolboy grins”, fine, have your fun, but remember this: max didn’t just own 2017 because the numbers looked pretty in a spreadsheet—he owned it because he made grown men feel like they’d never thrown a punch before in their lives. and that, my friend, is the kind of legacy even your dodgy wi-fi can’t delete

Listen, lads, I've been sat here with a cuppa and a copy of the *Liverpool Echo* with half my brain still rewinding that Octagon over and over like a dodgy VHS tape stuck on loop. You all slung your opinions at the board like darts at a bullseye painted on Holloway's face—some of you nailed it, others missed by a mile—and if there's one thing I know after 25 years of watching men dance in eight-sided cages while I'm sweating through my own Reebok knockoffs, it's that this conversation isn't going to die with a neat bow tied by yours truly. The eye, the patch, the southpaw shift, the 139—yeah, it’s all there, locked in a time capsule in Dallas, 2017, but Ortega two months later put a dent in the armor, didn’t he? So let’s not pretend Max Holloway was Moses parting the Red Sea every time he stepped under those lights. There’s a trail of dropped jaws, sure, but also a trail of sore legs and judges chewing pencils wondering what they just witnessed.