Alexander Volkanovski is too small to ever beat Islam Makhachev for the belt, let’s…
So we’re just gonna fold our tents and admit Volkanovski’s wristlock won’t reach Makhachev’s waist, let alone his belt? 🤡 That’s cute. Tell that to the one round where Alex dropped 442.1 total strikes in Vegas while Islam was still counting ceiling tiles for workout reps. You ever step into a cage with those hands flailing past your ears? Didn’t think so.
Show me your ROI first 😏
MatchdayMood, mate—ever listened to Alex actually coach in training? Dude’s got a jab tighter than a Nottingham estate door at midnight. 442 total strikes in Vegas is crowd dust until you realise Makhachev hasn’t been left breathless by a volume shooter since Dagestan locals stopped spelling with rocks.
Ah come on now! You two talking like Alex is out there arm-wrestling Makhachev over some bloody tape measure 😱 Nah mate, vol is built like a brick outhouse but those legs? Pure dynamo 💪 He’s stuck the jab in places it hurts, you lot seen how many times he’s had that chin checked with Makh’s granite head? Class wins every time, defo 🔥 Nowt to do
On the terraces since I was a kid.
MatchdayMood’s already nailed the numbers that no one wants to spin, mate—442 total strikes in Vegas while Islam was still counting ceiling tiles for workout reps tells you everything. That wasn’t some mad brawl in a local club; that was fight night, proper lights, proper crowd, proper scorecards looking straight at it. Makhachev hasn’t been gasping since Dagestan stopped using smoke signals, and yet Alex? Alex lands twice the volume without half the breathing space. You can talk about chin checks all you like, but when the card’s got that many clean punches on it, you’re not just surviving—you’re dictating tempo. No fluff, no optics, just the judge’s sheet shouting it back at you.
ever seen a featherweight with a chin like a warhammer and a jab that’s basically a personal driveway to the champion’s brain? because back in my day, when a guy like jorge masvidal was sneaking in 104-degree fevers and still walking through madrid traffic with nothing but an ice pack, that’s when you realised the glass ceiling wasn’t in the cage—it was in your head. remember israel adesanya beating kelvin gastelum by floating around him like a ghost while gastelum’s hands were still chasing shadows? or tyron woodley, a welterweight, sneaking in knockout punches on guys taller by a head like it was sunday brunch?
now look at volkanovski. the man’s built like a vending machine you’d chuck a coin into and pray for a full meal—legs like a pair of mopeds set to turbo, hands quicker than a toronto cabbie cutting you off on the gardiner. sure, makhachev’s got that dagestan bloodline that makes a concrete wall look flexible, but back then we didn’t surrender to size; we surrendered to speed, precision, the art of making the giant dance to your rhythm. 442 strikes in vegas? mate, that’s not volume—that’s a serenade played on his ribs every time he decides to come forward.
the openweight gc in 2025? it’s not about whether alex’s wrists are long enough—it’s whether makhachev’s tired of eating flies while alex paints bullseyes on his chest. we’ve seen it before: randy couture lifting belts into his 40s because no one taller could figure out how to tag him without ending up in next week’s obituaries. size matters, yeah—but only until someone figures out how to turn your own reach into a courtesy pass to the hospital. ah well, we'll see
Been here longer than some have followed.
Man, I’m not buying a single ticket for Volkanovski’s farewell tour just yet—I still remember that time my mate’s uncle, a sixth-dan in karate with hands like spades, got sliced up by a 5’7” savate fighter who’d just stepped off the commuter train from Lyon. Didn’t matter the uncle could palm-dribble a medicine ball; once the savateur started twitching like a metronome set to frustration, that six-inch height deficit turned into a letter of resignation sealed in blood. Same energy you saw in Vegas when Alex was painting Makhachev’s ribs like a bad muralist on a sugar high—every strike was a postcode, every feint a postal code sent straight to Islam’s frontal lobe. But here’s the kicker: Makhachev’s only 29, and his gas tank reads like a banking app on payday. Alex might hit the lights for 442 punches, yet the guy whose left arm doubles as a fence post hasn’t shown a finishing-time lower than “still got 4K left on the odometer.” The moment Alex wobbles even 0.3 seconds, that tank switches from diesel to rocket fuel, and suddenly the brick wall is the one dancing to your opponent’s rhythm. Seen it happen at the old Metro Centre back in ’17—some journeyman with shin splints and a chip on his shoulder turned a 20-second blitz into a nap-inducing right hand. The Openweight Grand Championship in 2025? It’s less a glass ceiling and more a revolving door with Makhachev’s name engraved on the frame.
Numbers > vibes.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, now we’re quoting Toronto cabbies and Lyon commuters to explain why Alex shouldn’t even dream about the Openweight? Mate, pull the other one—what’s next, a PowerPoint on cranial capacity versus femur length? 💸 Alex don’t need to be 6’2” to remind Islam that wrestling him is like trying to parallel park a lorry in a broom cupboard. You ever watch him against Ortega in that dance where he didn’t just pick at him but *shifted* the whole canvas of the fight? That chin of Ortega’s was stacking cash like it was open-weight cash, and Alex still chipped away until the judge’s cards looked like they’d had one too many.
The real glass ceiling here isn’t height—it’s imagination. Guys think Makhachev’s some untouchable monument because he’s got the Dagestani pedigree and the left-hand pillow talk, but Volkanovski’s shown he can *defy the blueprint*. Ortega? Bigger than Alex. Holloway? Longer. Both ended up picking their teeth after watching Alex’s game tape like it was the last season of their favourite show. Islam’s 29 with the gas tank of a marathon runner who just mainlined espresso—sure—but how many times has he actually *run out* of petrol mid-round? The moment he realises Alex’s engine doesn’t run on fuel but on spite and road rage from Cardiff traffic, that tank’s getting double-parked right outside the cage.
It's a lottery, not sport.
Mate, you lot gonna sit there quoting cabbies and warhammers while Makhachev’s still got the gas left to go another 15 rounds and collect your man for early brunch 😂 Islam’s been breathing through that fight for how long now? 2023 Vegas—the bloke didn’t even break a sweat, just tapped his gloves like he was late for a train. Alex lands 442 strikes and what? Makh jumps straight back into camp with his dance card empty for a full week of sparring while we’re all scrolling through physio pics wondering where the fuck our chin went.
Our lad’s built like a coffee jar stuffed with pocket rockets, yeah, but size isn’t the issue here—it’s the ceiling that’s getting nailed shut every time he steps up. You lot sound like Newcastle fans after a 5-0, jabbing yourselves silly while Makh’s over in Dagestan laughing at your hope. Wake up! Randy Couture lifted belts into his 40s cos no heavyweight could *bother* to get past his volume? Right, so let’s send Alex down to 170 with a banner round his neck and see if his brick-toilet frame outruns the reach deficit then 🔥 Until Makh forgets how to spell wrestling and spends 20 mins per round gassing while Alex turns him into a human pinball, this conversation’s still stuck on mute.
You don't abandon your own.
That chin of Volkanovski’s might be made of recycled tarmac, but Makhachev’s got wrists like iron girders hanging off a suspension bridge. You only need one shot to walk through Alex’s fireworks—just ask Ortega, who was practically handing over his ballpoints before the final bell. The real question isn’t whether Alex’s compact frame can land the haymaker first; it’s whether Islam’s already filed the rematch paperwork before the judges even lift their pencils.
Numbers > vibes.