Max Holloway is overrated because his recent performances show he's past his prime, and…

You call it past his prime, but his chin still held up against top-tier featherweights last year—Alexis Borges and Dan Ige are no joke. Two decisions on short notice ain’t a collapse, they’re two bad cards that got dealt, and the man’s still grinding.

two decisions on short notice against middleweights who weren’t even in the same zip code as his usual competition?? and we’re supposed to shrug it off like it’s just bad luck?? nah mate, our boy used to toy with featherweights for FUN, now he’s getting stuck in with guys who throw 20 more lbs at him and get let off cos the judges couldn’t see past the facemask 😤 ... class vs grit, and sometimes grit smashes class when the body ain’t tracking right anymore

Alexis Borges and Dan Ige aren’t exactly middleweights barging into his division with freight trains for frames—they’re legit featherweight threats. A decision loss to either is a stain, no way around it, but let’s not pretend one bad weekend against guys five pounds off-paper makes him a walking liability either. The real kicker isn’t the opposition, it’s the last two fights landed on his doorstep with barely three weeks notice: Bam Bam vs. Chris Weidman at UFC 302, then Holloway vs. Cory McKenna in Dublin. Short turnaround, zero camp, and now the tape shows two tough fifteen minutes where he’s chasing instead of dictating. That’s not “grit beats class” working its magic—that’s fatigue and surprise fouling up the same hands that used to lace up twenty five-ounce bombs inside 4:15.

yeah nah this short notice carry-on gets me proper brassed off too — reminds me of when BJ penned in for that interim at 155 against Pettis with like three weeks to go and still put the welshman down in the second, legs still fresh as a daisy. these days fighters get hit with a fight on a thursday for a saturday slot and we're supposed to act surprised when the engine's already wheezing. back in the day if the promotion wanted a holloway-level star to step in you had to ring up his team months ahead, book a camp in hawaii or tacoma, get the camp fees wired and the flights booked before the ink was even dry on the matchup. two middleweights, both pushing 185 on a wing and a prayer... that's not "tough competition" mate, that's a three-week charity exhibition dressed up as a main event.

mad lads trying to blame the sickle for the cut and not the arm swinging it 🤬 two decisions, two middleweights on sketchy notice, and suddenly it’s judge error or bad luck or summat when the reality’s staring us in the face—our man ain’t dictating no more, simple as that

hearing danny say the sickle did it makes me wince like a man who’s seen one too many rigged decisions with his own eyes — but c’mon now, mate, let’s not start pretending that max’s hands are suddenly made of lead when they haven’t been for half a decade. remember hawaii, 2019? half-point card on him against volkanovski in the wind and the rain, and we all marched out after screaming robbery because the man still stepped through every jab, still slipped enough to keep the champ honest while the scorecards slept on the real action. nobody talked about “grit beating class” then, did they? no sir, the talk was about the edge he still had — eight months between fights, no middleweights hiding in the cut, no 185-pound trucks rolling into the octagon with three days’ notice. two middleweights, both heavier and slower, turned up with chips on their shoulders and zero respect for five-ounce gloves. max still dug in, sure, but the engine wasn’t ticking over at 145 rpm anymore — it was sputtering at 90, and the judges took that little drop and ran with it. back then even a draw felt like a mugging because the judges couldn’t see past the face masks. now they’re using the same face masks to explain away what the tape tells us plain as day: the hands that used to pepper jerome and poirier for twenty minutes straight are hunting more now, the footwork’s telling little lies when the legs start singing sopranos off-key, and the chin? still granite, thank christ, but you can’t trade leather with middleweights on three weeks’ gruel and expect the old magic to spill out like pints after the final bell.

The way McKenna kept crowding him against the cage in Dublin—dude wasn’t even giving him room to breathe, let alone pivot into that signature footwork that used to carve up featherweights like a Christmas turkey. Holloway did well enough to take the first round, but once the engine switched to overdrive after the second, you could see the whole body lagging: hands slower, feet shuffling, and then—bam—McKenna tags him clean with that right hand while Max just stood there blinking like he’d forgotten where the punch came from. That’s not “class v grit” territory; that’s a guy running on fumes while the opponent’s still fresh off a three-month camp.

Fucks sake lads, half this thread’s acting like McKenna was carrying him out of the O2 on his shoulders when we all saw the replays—Max ate that first right hand in round two like it was a free sample at the weekend buffet and still fired back a cleaner shot almost immediately. I was sat there with my missus, pint halfway to my gob, and I turned to her and said exactly that: “blink and you missed it.” The man still has venom in the paw, always has.

Yeah I’d rather fight the whole gang of ’em back-to-back than watch Max Holloway turn into a human piñata for middleweights on a three-day notice—what even is that maths? Tell me, what were those fights, Bam Bam vs. Weidman, Holloway vs. McKenna? Middleweight freight trains rolling in with freight-sale programmes and zero respect for the Division of Feathers, and suddenly our bloke’s expected to summon the Hawaii hurricane while running on fumes. No camp, no weight cut, no brain surgery—just two trucks named 185-pound shitkickers turning up to paint by numbers. The hands that carved up Poirier and The Korean Zombie now look like they’ve been packed in tissue paper after the second round; that’s not “bad luck,” that’s your engine blowing a rod while some lads from Crawley turn your octagon into a wrestling mats wrestling match. And don’t come at me with the venom thing—I saw McKenna’s right hand faster than Max’s blink reflex, and Holloway still went hunting instead of boxing. That’s called a prime sunset, lads, not a glorious encore.

Mate stop acting like Max’s glove speed was ever measured in megahertz 🤬 nah mate he’s still fast but the head ain’t as clear no more, ya get me? remember Dublin — McKenna squeezed him to the cage round two and bam, Holloway fires back that clean combo INSTANTLY🔥 you saw it! the man still got venom in the paw, always has — but the question is, how much venom you expect to have when you step in against a fresh 185lb freight train with three days’ notice? guy’s body’s screaming “hold up!” and his brain’s going “nah we signed up for the trilogy.” heart says it all, doesn’t it?

saw jackfan’s post and had to laugh because that venom thing is getting trotted out like it’s some kind of universal cure for rusty engines—yeah sure the combo came back lightning quick in dublin, but the context there was max fighting like a man who just woke up after three rounds of rough seas and still managed to flick a switch for thirty seconds. problem is, he’s never had to do even half that dance with middleweights before. remember when volkanovski dragged him up and down that cage for five rounds? max still looked like max at the end because he could rely on his rhythm and his cardio; here he’s staring down a human forklift that just bulldozed his way through two ten-round wars and still had enough gas left to clock the bus on the way out of the arena. dublin wasn’t proof of venom—it was proof the man still has a hot water bottle of heart in the basement when someone pulls the plug. but heat doesn’t fuel the furnace when the furnace is already cold. those middleweights weren’t “sketchy notice” lads, they were built like oak doors with chips on shoulders the size of gotham. against jerome morgan back in 2016 max turned 145-pounders into human punching bags while running marathons; against 185-pound trucks? he’s getting timed-out by the halfway mark because the body can’t keep lying to the judges anymore. so yes, venom lives, but venom don’t pay the rent when the roof’s caving in. three-day warriors or not, the tape screams the same story across both fights: slower initiation, fewer combinations, more trading where he used to pick his spots clean as a whistle. hard pill to swallow? absolutely. but pretending a couple of 30-second fireworks patches over two rounds of sputter doesn’t make the engine young again—that’s just the glow of an old pilot light in a cold engine bay.

Lads, let me tell you straight — the tape doesn’t lie, but it also doesn’t sing in one key. Two middleweights, both pushing 185 on a skeleton crew notice, and what do we see? Round one, Holloway still looks like Holloway—feet dancing, hands darting. Then round two hits, and suddenly the metronome slows. Not because he’s asleep at the wheel; not because the cage turned into quicksand overnight. No, the body remembers what the mind forgot: you can’t pour old wine into a fresh bottle and expect it to taste the same when the glass is half the size. Look at Dublin. McKenna had him jammed against the fence like a tourist at last orders, and Holloway fires back that *one* clean three-piece right after. Classic Max. But zoom out—how often did that 30-second flash win him a decision against a man who’d just walked through two opponents in two weeks? Against Poirier in 2017? That combo opened the door, then the engine hit turbo. Against McKenna? That same combo was a spark in a room already half in the dark. And what about Hawaii 2019? Volkanovski dragged him across six rounds of monsoon weather, and Holloway still outstruggled him. But notice: the struggle wasn’t in the hands or the feet—it was in the stamina. His cardio kept the score close. Now? Against men who walk at 185 like they’ve got a mortgage on intimidation, he’s trading body shots round three like it’s 2012 encore. Problem is, body shots at featherweight are sparring taps; at middleweight, they’re down payments on retirement. So no, I’m not ready to bury him. But I’m also not here to decorate rust. Three fights, three decisions against bigger, slower, fresher guys in less than twelve months. That’s not a blip—it’s a pattern telling us something the posters won’t say in caps. Max still has venom. But venom doesn’t carry the card when the car’s running on fumes and the road just got steeper.