Dricus Du Plessis: technique isn't everything

Not a technique breakdown so much as a total breakdown of technique. Say what you will; nobody does it like Dricus.

I always have fun with my fight breakdowns, but usually I do try to inject a sense of gravity into the proceedings. These are professional athletes I’m talking about, and I feel compelled to honor that in my analysis. But not today.

Today we’re going to talk some shit.

How can I avoid it? How could any fight analyst avoid it with a subject like Dricus Du Plessis? The current UFC middleweight champion is not a good fighter. I mean, he is, obviously—he’s the champ—but at the same time he very clearly isn’t. Du Plessis’ game is so full of technical flaws it almost doesn’t do to describe him as a flawed fighter at all. Watching him fight is like watching someone independently inventing the martial arts from whole cloth, totally unaware that quite a lot has already been said on the subject. Look ye mortals: Prometheus descends from Mount Olympus, bearing a fennel stalk stuffed with punches your grandmother would be embarrassed to throw.

Yet Du Plessis wins, and wins. His success is a useful (and, often, painful) reminder that there is more to prizefighting than strategy and technique—much more. There are aspects of combat prowess that cannot be quantified, intangible qualities unique to each athlete. And when it comes to intangibles, Du Plessis’ got ‘em in spades.

So. Let’s have a little fun.

Du Plessis is a slugger, plain and simple; a certified brute. That’s not to say he doesn’t have any flexibility to his game. The guy certainly knows how to make adjustments: time and again he comes back to win fights that either started poorly or spun out of control somewhere along the way. But Dricus Du Plessis is not a subtle fighter. Not by any stretch. When it comes to closing distance, for instance, he doesn’t really bother with fancy feints and jabs. He prefers to just… go for it.

Which brings us to our first example. This is from Du Plessis’ fight with Robert Whittaker, which despite resulting in his biggest win was actually remarkably tame by Stillknocks standards. Still, he found time to saunter face-first into a few solid punches, for the fans.

Now, if you were trying to flatter Du Plessis you might call this a shift. The way I see it, though, there really is no precise term to describe whatever Dricus is trying to do here. In fact, this is true of almost everything he does on the feet. To attach some bit of technical jargon to his moves would not only serve to legitimize them, but cheapen them as well. Why rob the glorious sequence above of its mysterious beauty by stickingit with some mundane label? Why pretend we know what the intention was here when, judging by appearances, not even Dricus himself is privy to that information?

The sequence starts with Whittaker harrying Du Plessis with kicks from long range. Not one to sit back and wait for an opportunity, Dricus takes a moment to charge up his power bar, and follows his instinct.

His instinct is precisely incorrect. Instead of jabbing or feinting or pursuing an angle—something to establish an initiative and force Whittaker to react—Dricus simply tenses his muscles like the Hulk trying to bust out of his restraints and… steps forward. Yes, in a sport where fighters are trained dogmatically to keep even their feet evenly spaced and aligned at all times, especially when moving into an exchange of blows, Dricus Du Plessis goes for a walk. Whittaker punishes him immediately, of course, snapping out a jab before Dricus can even think about whatever it was he intended to do and driving him into a very shoddy retreat. Du Plessis scrabbles for a clinch, but not quick enough to prevent Whittaker smacking him with a hard overhand right.

Silly. Very silly.