Eight title defenses against the cream of MMA’s highest-profile division, only one of them in any way close, have cemented Jones’s status as an all-time great by the age of 28. He might be the greatest mixed martial artist ever at this very moment, and barring a disaster, he will comfortably hold that crown by the time he retires.

What makes Jones such an exceptional talent? His sheer physical dimensions are one piece of the puzzle. The former champion stands 6 feet 4, with an 84-inch reach and the lanky legs to match. That’s tied for the longest reach in the UFC, matching 7-foot Dutchman Stefan Struve.

He’s surprisingly quick and shockingly strong for such a gangly and awkward-looking fighter, but nobody will confuse him for his brothers, both of whom play defensive line in the NFL.

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None of that physicality would matter, however, were it not for the skills to effectively use it.

Jones is a classic outside fighter, an archetype that exists in every combat sport. Muhammad Ali was an out-fighter; so too were Floyd Mayweather and Georges St-Pierre. When given the choice, fighters of this type want to stick their opponent on the end of their reach. They use long strikes – jabs, crosses, and various kinds of round, front and side kicks – to dictate the distance at which the fight takes place. Clean circular movement and tight footwork are essential to stay away from the ropes or the fence, where they can’t use their long strikes or set their preferred distance.

Imagine a series of concentric half-circles around the fighter. In the closest ring, the fighters are touching; this is the clinch. The next layer outside would be the pocket, the distance where each fighter can land punches without having to move in or out. The final chunk of distance is long range, and this is where outside fighters thrive. Each of these rings could be broken down into more finely graded layers, but these are the three basic ranges.

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Jon Jones, like nearly all fighters who prefer long range, wants to avoid the pocket. That doesn’t mean that Jones or his compatriots are helpless there; UFC bantamweight champion Dominick Cruz, another classic out-fighter, was happy to exchange with T.J. Dillashaw in their bout last January in order to dissuade Dillashaw from pressuring him. Jones has a nasty arsenal of elbows at his disposal in this range.

Exchanges are dangerous, though, and the risk of eating a knockout shot in the pocket is always present. While they sometimes serve a tactical purpose, the pocket isn’t an outside specialist’s forte, and fighters of this type generally prefer to avoid it whenever possible.

Based on height, reach and speed, each of these ranges differ from fighter to fighter. Long range for a short combatant like Frankie Edgar is much shorter than it is for a taller, longer fighter such as Conor McGregor or Nate Diaz.

Jones is an extreme example. His arms and legs are so long that it’s difficult for an opponent even to touch him at long range, and his foes’ long range is more or less Jones’s pocket. What makes Jones special, however, is how good he is at imposing those height and reach advantages on his opponent through his footwork, timing, and especially his strike selection.

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When circling at range, the former champion unleashes a steady barrage of strikes that force his opponent to pause while he moves at will through the space of the cage.

Kicks are his bread and butter, and Jones throws a bewildering variety at a rapid pace. Side and oblique kicks to the thigh are his longest-range weapon.

The somewhat controversial technique makes the opponent wary of putting weight on the lead leg as he pressures, which has the effect of sticking them on the outside and disincentivizing them from moving forward. Side kicks to the body and the occasional spinning back kick are likewise extremely effective tools at that range.

Round kicks are Jones’s next layer, and he forces his opponent to eat a consistent diet of them as they struggle to get inside. He rarely targets the legs, preferring to hit the head and body. If all of that weren’t enough, Jones has grown increasingly proficient with his jab from both stances. If his opponent manages to get inside the kicks, there is still a layer of extreme punching distance – roughly his opponent’s kicking range – where Jones’s rangy arms can reach his opponent with a straight strike. He excels at sticking his jab in the opponent’s face as he backpedals and pivots.

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His ability to pick his spots to stop on a dime and drop a quick straight left or high kick before angling off and getting back to open space has become exceptional. Note here, for example, how Jones retreats, then plants his feet to throw. Daniel Cormier makes him pay with an uppercut for not getting out of range quickly enough, but by and large Jones excels at avoiding the counter.

What stands out about Jones’s past several performances is the sublime way that he has begun to integrate all of these tools and combine them with improved circular movement, pivots, and timing. In the beginning, Jones had a diverse toolbox at long range and a basic sense of how to use them. Now, he moves fluidly from punches to kicks, has improved his timing and sense of when to throw and when to move, and senses where he is relative to the fence.

Opponents might get through all of these layers and into the pocket, but not without eating strikes for the privilege. Pressuring Jones is like walking through a wood chipper; every time the opponent gets inside, he has eaten a kick to the legs or a body shot. All of that damage adds up over the course of the fight, and that’s a substantial part of why Jones is so dangerous over five rounds.

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The second piece of what makes Jones so dangerous at range is, paradoxically, his clinch game. As good as he is at long distance, he’s even better when he has his hands on his opponent, and it’s no exaggeration to call him one of the two or three best in-fighters in the sport.

Slick trips and throws combine with double-leg shots skillful enough to take down a two-time Olympian. And even leaving aside the takedowns, there’s still the matter of Jones’s vicious elbows, knees, and short punches in the clinch proper.

Fighting Jones is all about picking one’s poison.

Nobody, not even an exceptional clinch fighter in Cormier, can beat him inside. This forces opponents to maintain a bit of distance. The pocket is where Jones is weakest, but consider how hard it is to maintain that small slice of range for minutes at a time without letting the former champion grab hold of a limb or shoot in on a takedown. If the opponent strays too far outside, Jones has a variety of tools for forcing his opponent to stay there. Jabs and kicks stick his opponent on the end of his ridiculous reach, and his footwork keeps him off the fence and in open space.

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Trying to beat Jones is essentially like walking on a constantly shifting tightrope suspended above a pit filled with half-starved crocodiles. The pocket is the rope, Jones’s nasty clinch is the crocodiles, and his rangy strikes are the thing trying to knock the tightrope walker off balance.

Even if Jones’s opponent can stay on that tightrope for a while – Alexander Gustafsson maintained his distance, Cormier did for a while in their fight, and so did Glover Teixeira, though more briefly – it’s impossible to avoid falling forever. Eventually, Jones’s attrition to the legs and body will catch up, and the opponent will make enough mistakes to either be forced into the clinch or stuck outside.

Perhaps someday one of Jones’s opponents will solve the puzzle. That doesn’t seem likely to happen soon.