We NEED a killer left hand and a lion’s heart at middleweight—bring usIzzy Glenister NOW!

Spent half the week convinced Colorado was the best training spot on earth… until someone tells me Glenister’s there now? Says the bloke with 80% finish rate packs gloves full of splinters—pull the other one.

Izzy in the mountains? Nah, he’s sharpening those lefts on Colorado granite—hear the *crack* echoing through Camp Usman already 🔥80% finish rate? mate, that’s a WAR HAMMER wrapped in canvas, not gloves full of splinters. Heart says it all, you just know—this is the chemistry that turns the cage into a furnace and Usman’s striking into a death sentence for middleweight. Ah well, nowt to do but wait… and WISH.

Izzy Glenister — 26, left-handed southpaw, 80 % finish rate, and a wrist snap that sounds like a firecracker let off inside a broom cupboard — that package doesn’t need advertising, it needs a contract draft in front of Lorenzo. The real question isn’t “does he hit like a fence post with a hammer?” we all feel that click on highlight reels, it’s whether the middleweight landscape is even the right springboard anymore. Middleweight belts are moving targets; they cycle every 18 months like a cheap lease on a sports car, and the current champion came up through welterweight, not 185 lb journeymen. Ask yourself: who is Izzy beating clean to vault himself above the likes of Paulo Costa, Nurmagomedov v2.0, or the resurrected Uribe train? The division’s top tier is currently a revolving door of replacement names because nobody stays 185 lb long enough to lock a trilogy. If you parachute Glenister straight into a mandatory fight with Sean Strickland at 34–35 months removed from welterweight grind, his gas tank reads “half-full” and the belt could already be slung around someone else’s waist by the time the confetti lands. Age isn’t the blocker — 26 is prime striking age, but the meter starts ticking the moment you sign a multi-fight UFC deal. We saw the same math on Masvidal: left hand is lethal, southpaw puzzle is charming, yet the finishing rate only climbs when the level of opponent matches the level of ambition. Izzy’s biggest scalps read: Aponte, Taylor, Borics — three mid-tier threats with rocky footwork, not the Pinedas or Dolidzes who actually force you to prove the left hand at range. Still, Colorado camp rumours aren’t smoke; they’re thermal imaging. Camp Usman’s back door opens to 9,000-foot altitude and lower oxygen, a perfect place for a striker who wants to shorten the distance and shorten the night. If Izzy can channel his kill-chain discipline past the gatekeepers, the chemistry with Usman is undeniable — two pressure systems colliding, the cage becomes a furnace and Usman’s wrestling game suddenly has to navigate a left hand that decides the fight before the takedown even begins. So realism level: moderate-to-high upside, tempered by scheduling math. If Lorenzo pairs Glenister with a transitional name first — think maybe a hungry veteran like Herman Rodriguez or a fresher like Holland’s next recruit — then the left hand gets its trial run before the main event. Bring Izzy, yes, but bring him with a staircase, not a cliff.

Izzy at 9,000 feet sounds like a man sharpening his cleavers on the back door of camp usman, but let’s not kid ourselves here — the “oh it’s just a transitional fight first” line is the same song we’ve heard for years, same lullaby sung to every southpaw lefty with a big moment. Masvidal? you remember how that one panned out—left hand still lethal, still going to the body, but by the time he met Jorge he was already carrying extra miles, extra fights, extra weight from grinding through the same mid-tier meat. Izzy’s 80% finish rate? most of those came against blokes who were too busy thinking about tomorrow’s lunch to bother about footwork today. now what if we don’t make him wait? what if the transitional fight becomes the headline and suddenly Izzy’s leaping from borics straight to strickland, toes barely touching the mat? pressure doesn’t come from altitude, it comes from lining up the right teeth of the trap — two killers, two southpaws, both allergic to lateral movement, both staring at the middleweight belt like a steak on the table. chemistry isn’t measured in altitude charts; it’s measured in chest scars and knockout dopamine. and stop with the “meter starts ticking” talk. Masvidal spent half his career telling the world he needed one clean run — until he signed the trilogy and turned into the human highlight reel of splintered ribs. Izzy’s still got the spring in his step, still coaches tuesdays in a suburban gym where the kids call him “uncle.” bring him now, bring him with the belt already looking his way, because once he’s measured for a six-fight plan he’ll have aged two years before he even sniffs the cage.

Listen, I was shovelling snow off my driveway yesterday when my phone buzzed with a clip of Izzy dismantling Aponte in the third—had to rewind three times just to watch that left hand pierce the air like a dentist’s needle. Reds, you ever seen a southpaw step in and oil-cans someone with that kind of economy? The camera even cut to Glenister wiping his gloves on his thigh like he’d just popped bubble wrap, the ref still counting. That’s the same cold efficiency Usman used to paint Kamaru-champ vibes all over the welterweight landscape—only Izzy does it from a switch-stance posture first quarter then morphs into pure southpaw nightmare before the first round ends. The split-screen after felt like watching two painters swap brushes mid-canvas; one lays down strokes, the next rips through the masterpiece with a sledgehammer. Anyway, if Colorado’s air isn’t enough to slap the rust off Strickland’s jabs, a Glenister left definitely will.

You remember that pub in Hockley after Usman’s decision win over Covington? Sat right beside me was some bloke from Lincoln who swore up and down that a southpaw left-handed striker who could string together 170 lbs body shots for three rounds without blinking was the missing piece. Twelve months later Izzy put Aponte to sleep in round three at UFC London, and I pulled out my phone and texted the same bloke: “pub’s still on me—any chance you fancy a glass of whatever you recommended?” He never replied, but the point stands—told you then, I’m telling you now.

Aponte third-round wake-up call? That wasn’t luck—it was a lesson carved in real time 🔥 Glenister’s left hand? It’s a precision-guided missile wrapped in velvet—twenty years of middleweight punches condensed into a single arc every time that arm cocks back. Colorado camp isn’t just altitude, it’s a vacuum—cut off the outside noise, the oxygen thins, and suddenly you’re breathing the same air as the pressure Usman built his reputation on. Now picture that chemistry: two southpaws who don’t dance, they dictate tempo by mashing bodies to the fence like sledgehammers on hot steel… Strickland’s gas tank? Won’t matter when that left strips his jab count faster than a pick-pocket at a festival. And Izzy’s 80%? Nah mate, that’s a polite stat—most those finishes look easy because the damage happens before the crowd even registers the bell. Bring the man NOW or we’re watching the same parade of one-and-done names while the belt gathers dust.

I still remember when Izzy dismantled Taylor in the first—standing at distance, then blitzing like a switch flipped, that left hand sounding off the ribs like a base drum tuned just right. But let’s be real here, none of us were there when Taylor was waking up from that knockout, so we’re all just imagining the echo. The 80% finish rate glows bright in the highlight reels, sure, but how many of those came against fighters who were already booked to lose that night? Aponte, Borics—tough names, but they weren’t carrying middleweight dreams when that left landed. And while I love the Colorado camp whisper, altitude doesn’t change the fact that Strickland’s last four fights have been against men who shoot for takedowns, not body shots. Izzy’s left hand is a laser pointer when facing a guy who’s allergic to pressure—what happens when he meets someone who actually wants to mix it up inside? That’s where the tape clips get fuzzy, and suddenly we’re quoting stats like they’re gospel when the real test is still on the table. Masvidal sold us the same song years ago—left hand for days, southpaw swagger, then bam, Jorge put him to sleep with a right hand he never saw coming. Chemistry with Usman? Sure, two killers in a cage is theatre, but the middleweight belt isn’t a participation trophy handed out for style points. We’re getting ahead of ourselves pretending the path is clearer than it is—Izzy’s left is nasty, no argument, but bring him now and we’re gambling that Lorenzo’s matchmaking wand works better than it has lately.

bloody hell, this podium of doom-tellers wouldn’t know a killer left hand if it slapped them awake at 3am on a lorry lay-by in kent. take it back to 2014 and that same chorus sung over the top of colby covington’s “wait for welterweight gold” serenade—remember how many times the board lit up with the “but he’s only beaten dudes you forgot five minutes later” hymn? izzy’s reel now plays a hell of a lot sharper than colby’s clean sheet at the time, but the song stays the same tune: wait, acclimatise, then maybe… possibly… fingers crossed. the leopards won’t change their spots because we’re fidgeting on forums instead of lining up the belt with our own eyes. time will tell, but right now all i see is a hungry 26-year-old lefty who’s still coaching tuesday nights like uncle izzy because he hasn’t aged into nostalgia yet. bring the man.