Photo by Chris Unger/Zuffa LLC

In the days of GSP, Anderson Silva, and early Jon Jones, fights could be (and often were) broken down in relatively broad, compartmentalized terms. Striking, boxing, clinching, wrestling, and grappling didn’t limit the discussion of the fight, but these elements generally encompassed enough to read fights at the time. For instance, Shogun Rua might’ve been a more technical striker on the feet than Jon Jones, but Jones was a better wrestler, clincher, and grappler, so the likely scenario seemed to be Jones would be able to take Shogun down and win the fight from top position.

In practice, this was partly true, but Rua > Jones as a striker didn’t exactly come to pass. Jones’ length meant that Rua’s plodding footwork wasn’t sound enough to get in on him reliably, and Jones’ linear kicking arsenal meant that Rua would often walk into jamming kicks that shortened his steps. Even in the finishing sequence, Jones threw a long left hook to the body into a double-collar tie knee to the face, a combination he’s never thrown before or since to my knowledge. In many ways, Shogun was still a better striker than Jones, but it didn’t mean Jones didn’t punish Shogun thoroughly in the striking portion of their fight. Just because Shogun was a consistent Thai-inspired leg kicker doesn’t mean that he was always going to cripple Jones’ wonky footwork. Just because Shogun was the more comfortable counterpuncher doesn’t mean that he would be able to reliably find counters against such a long, indecipherable opponent.

A lot of early MMA was decided by one fighter owning a significant advantage in one area or another, and simply doggedly pursuing that area as much as possible to win a fight. One of the reasons Georges St-Pierre is still regarded as such a great champion is because he actually possessed a system of offense that worked across different phases. If Josh Koscheck was a good enough wrestler to stave off the takedown, Georges still owned a decided striking advantage where his patented jab would dictate the fight. If Thiago Alves’ leg kicks were threatening Georges’ step-ins, a reactive double leg takedown would prove to be the answer against the aggressive striker. As such, general archetypes for fighters such as wrestle-boxers, pressure fighters, and grapplers became useful terms to define strengths, as well as providing a broad overview of how to approach them. (Hint: Don’t grapple with the grappler)

Over time, however, these terms have become dated and shallow, as the sport itself has evolved. Now, a person can rarely just identify a fighter and say “Paulo Costa is a good pressure fighter, but against a wrestler like Yoel Romero, he’ll probably just get taken down.” MMA has become a far more interstitial, granular sport in recent years, and analytical discussion about the sport needs to evolve the same way. It is no longer enough to simply look at specific areas of a fighter’s game and evaluate them in a vacuum. Dimensional assessment requires an examination of how a great many key areas link to create a fighter’s game, and which of those areas are exploitable by whom.

Section 1: Analytics, Development & Advantages

The days of Dan Hardy getting ragdolled by the first committed wrestler he’s ever faced in GSP are over. As the sport of mixed martial arts has evolved over the last half-decade, it seems to me as though the framework for analyzing specific matchups has shifted significantly. In particular, the sport is accelerating in such a way that nominal advantages aren’t necessarily always what they appear. What seem like large chasms of skill between fighters are often far narrower than analysts might assume.

In the best divisions, just about every competitor is (at the very least) competent in every phase of MMA. The baseline necessity for being a UFC fighter has risen, so fighters with Dan Hardy’s wrestling or Ben Asken’s striking are almost completely absent. As a result, the likelihood of a fighter owning an enormous advantage is a specific phase is possible, but far less likely than it used to be. The advantages that exist here are often much narrower, and there are a lot more parenthetical factors at play in fights than are typically accounted for. Fighters who own enormous skill advantages in certain areas are usually either standouts (such as Khabib Nurmagomedov) or uniquely defined specialists (like Demian Maia).

When fights are broken down in broad technical terms, these discussions can frequently miss the intermediate pieces of matchups. Striking, boxing, clinching, wrestling, and grappling are all vital components of fighting, but so are wrestling threats, active jabbing, adaptability, athleticism, drawing counters, baiting counters, countering counters, work rate, and offensive sequencing. If we go even further, there are more individualistic elements such as confidence, poise, adaptability, momentum, drive, risk mitigation, and will power. Amidst all of this, fighters need to determine how to leverage certain elements of their game while potentially shielding others, and the interplay that many of these qualities have with one another aren’t necessarily straightforward. As a technical sport and as a visceral engagement, fighting is too chaotic to be simplified in such insulated terms.

A fighter like Rafael dos Anjos has an argument as one of the most skilled fighters I’ve ever seen. Since his career revitalization with coach Rafael Cordeiro in 2013, RDA has fought some of the absolute best names in MMA today and has come out of it reasonably impressively. However, as subtle wrinkles in his game have developed (including a propensity for extended clinch exchanges, a weaponized pace, and an incredibly deep southpaw striking game), other elements have eroded (such as his full bore pressuring approach). Not only have certain elements improved while others have eroded, but RDA’s strategic efficacy has never been very good, even at his best.

When RDA was spending all of his time with Cordeiro as his coach, suffocating pressure was his modus operandi and it meant that almost every opponent was approached the same way. There is a certain logic to this, as RDA went on a tremendously good winning streak at lightweight. However, when certain opponents (such as Ferguson and Alvarez) began figuring out holes in his pressure, RDA was largely undone. When he was either punished for coming forward (Alvarez) or when he was committed to an outfighting game (Ferguson), RDA showed a unique lack of comfort for such a skilled fighter. He still competed with Ferguson for 25 minutes, but it was clear that his confidence was weakened a bit and his ability to find ways around Ferguson’s jab was shockingly limited. His offense began to flag. His pocket defense eventually regressed back into a double-forearm guard. A fundamentally worse, but more relentless fighter continually pushed him backward and outworked for the duration of the bout. RDA loses a fair bit of effectiveness when he isn’t the initiating.

Rafael dos Anjos is more skilled than both Tony Ferguson and Eddie Alvarez. In fact, I’d go as far to say that dos Anjos is more skilled than almost everybody he’s lost to, including Colby Covington. However, his inability to relay his skills in a strategically and tactically reliable way meant that he lost fights he should’ve been able to win. He has done this repeatedly throughout his career. Despite a spotty record since 2016, only Khabib, Usman, and possibly Leon beat RDA by being clearly better than him. Dos Anjos has given a lot of fights away just by being comparably easy to rattle and by shelving his best tactics instead of finding ways to reintegrate them. When RDA begins losing fights, he rarely fights his way back into winning them.

This seems like a long-winded way to say the better fighter doesn’t always win. However, I also want to reiterate that just being “better” than an opponent in one area doesn’t always guarantee that you will be “better” than said in that area if everything else is even. Crafty and disciplined fighters can beat technically deeper fighters if their approach is right. Strategy and tactics play such a vital role in MMA at a certain point that skill disparities can often be patched over or narrowed depending on a fighter’s course of attack.

If a fighter is going to press an advantage, they need three things:

A pronounced advantage where they are clearly, evidently better than their opponent. A consistent tactical way (or ways) to present this advantage. A diverse ability to engage this advantage without becoming too predictable or readable.

In other words, (1) you need to be better, (2) you need to consistently prove that you are better, and (3) you need to consistently get to (or remain at) the place where you are better. If a wrench is thrown in any of these rules, the advantage will likely not be evident.

No one was this trend clearer to me than at UFC 245. Max Holloway vs. Alexander Volkanovski seemed to have fairly straightforward dynamics going in, but after it concluded, I was forced to rethink my entire analysis.

Section 2: Strategy Over Skill?

Even though I picked Volkanovski to beat Holloway in my preview, I cheated a bit since I tended to side with the masses that Max’s offense and pace would likely be enough to win over five rounds. Volkanovski was still a fighter who relied on the clinch as a safety zone, and that wouldn’t be there versus such a voracious grip-fighter in Max. Despite having great cardio, Max was likely to be the best round-winner Volkanovski had ever faced, a massive step up from late-career Mendes and Aldo. It seemed like Holloway would just be able to provide a little bit extra over five rounds to secure a competitive fight. Everybody gave Volkanovski a good chance, but against such a diverse and potent champion, it seemed like a little too much to ask.

I learned an important rule in fight analysis this year: Picking fights is not about what you know a fighter can do. Instead, it is entirely about what a fighter can convince himself or herself to do.

Max Holloway’s fight with Dustin Poirier might’ve taken something out of him that he’ll never quite get back. Max still has a great chin, a fantastically deep striking game, and rounded ancillary skills in the clinch and in tie-ups, but his willingness to exchange with opponents has been eroding since the Poirier war. That is fundamentally the key to Max’s success; he must be able to consistently exchange with an opponent to break them. The Poirier fight seemed to have eroded his confidence or his willingness to put himself in the line of fire to accomplish this. Or, he might also be attempting to fix a defensive flaw, but his approach against Edgar and Volkanovski proves that if that’s the case, Holloway has overcorrected a mistake.

The difference between Max from the Poirier fight and Max from this fight is stark. His pressuring footwork is now far more linear. He doesn’t exit exchanges on angles as much, nor does he hope back into range when an opponent thinks they’re safe. His combinations are a lot less varied in terms of plane of attack and rhythm. His clinch breaks used to be punctuated with knees and body shots. Maybe Volkanovski would’ve beaten any version of Max, maybe not, but the way Max has been trending since UFC 236 leaves me reticent.

I’ve seen Holloway glide between kicking range and boxing range. I’ve seen him exit on angles as an opponent is throwing before shifting his feet slightly and entering on a different angle before blind-sighting an opponent with three or four punches. I’ve seen him strip grips in the clinch, turn his opponent along the cage, and dig at their body in a way that Nick Diaz could only dream of. I’ve seen him slowly removing an opponent’s ability to work a certain tool over the course of a fight. I’ve seen him find new ways to punish certain tools of his opponents over the course of a fight. I’ve seen him turn his game up two, three, and four gears higher over the course of a fight. Against Dustin Poirier, I watched Max Holloway battle his way back after a terrible first round to nearly take the fight over at several points in one of the absolute best fights the sport has ever seen.

However, against Volkanovski, I watched my favorite fighter look flummoxed and frustrated by a singular tactic, which he never found a way to work around. If the three rules I previously listed in Section 1 are true, Holloway failed all three against Volkanovski. The Australian was so tactically disciplined in the pocket, never overreaching with his punches and never being discouraged when he came up short, which meant that Max was fighting a bigger hitter with more command in his usual area of comfort. The leg kicks interrupted Max’s entries, denying his excellent jab more than usual and this meant that Holloway was unable to enforce his tactical edge with any sort of regularity. And finally, Max’s lack of tactical adaptability in dealing with the limited, but polished weapons of his opponent meant that his pressure, entries, and combinations were unusually pedestrian and easy to read.

Volkanovski couldn’t take Holloway down, which wasn’t necessarily a surprise. In addition, he wasn’t able to hang in the clinch with Holloway, who still crossfaced the hell out of Volkanovski and framed him off well. The shocker was how this didn’t seem to matter in the grand scheme of things, since Volkanovski’s outfighting gameplan was so systematic and relentless. Is Alexander Volkanovski now a much better striker than Max Holloway? I don’t think so, but he is certainly a much more savvy strategic and tactical thinker, which did a lot to narrow and even supersede the arsenal of the more decorated champion. Since the Ortega fight, Max’s strategic gambit has tuned more towards a one-size-fits-all approach and while his technical game is still incredibly deep, it is also much easier than it should be to diffuse with the right tactics. Conversely, Alexander Volkanovski possesses the finest strategic efficacy in MMA, and he will win a lot of fights with intelligence, craft, coachability, and discipline.

Max Holloway can still beat Alexander Volkanovski, but if he gets an immediate rematch, he will lose and likely quite badly.

Section 3: Hypotheticals

Let’s use this model for a hypothetical matchup between bantamweight contenders, Petr Yan and Aljamain Sterling. First, I’ll outline a list of qualities from both fighters and then analyze where the interstitial pieces fall in this potential bout.

Petr Yan:

1. Pros

· Superior pressuring footwork

· Better defensive depth and options in the pocket

· Better shot selection/tactical inferences

· Great command of the sport of boxing (rhythm, shifts, body punching, counterpunching, etc.)

· More comfort under fire

· Far more offensive potency, both in singular moments and attritional

· Tremendous pace

· Incredibly reliable and violent on clinch entries, transitions, and breaks

· Mentally unflappable

· Fearsome and relentless scrambler

2. Cons

· Generally needs the fence to do his best work

· Generally needs almost a full round to begin building momentum

· Can be dropped

· Can be taken down with well-time shots

Aljamain Sterling:

3. Pros

· Fantastic output, both as a top player and as a striker

· Excellent chain wrestling

· Solid reactive shot wrestling

· Improving boxer, and better interplay between punches and kicks

· Voracious submission grappling threat

4. Cons

· Uncomfortable under pressure and fire

· Lacks the same sort of offensive potency

· Can be dropped

· Can be knocked out

· Utilizes reach as an insulator

· Positioning in the pocket can be broken more easily

· Easy to hit to the legs and body

In this hypothetical matchup, the qualities laid out largely favor Yan. As a building fighter, Yan would likely spend a little bit of time getting a feel for Sterling’s rhythm on the feet, possibly fending off a shot or two before sequencing his offense to start breaking down his opponent. Yan is both far deeper as a striker and far more potent, having dropped or finished almost every opponent he has faced thus far in the UFC. If Sterling can’t consistently take Yan down, he will be locked on the feet with a buzzsaw and Aljamain has already proven to be fairly uncomfortable under pressure.

In my view, Petr Yan is a better-constructed fighter than Aljamain Sterling and I imagine he would likely be favored to win if/when this fight gets made. However, everything I just illustrated doesn’t necessarily encapsulate this fight on the whole. For example, say Sterling times a few well-placed takedown shots from range and either gets Yan down or forces him into a scramble. This might dissuade Yan’s usual relentless pressure somewhat, which means Sterling’s volume might be a useful point-winning tool in this matchup.

Also, consider that so much of Yan’s success comes from his ability to make educated reads on his opponent. Similar to fighters like Lawler and even Shane Burgos, Yan tends to rely on the information an opponent provides before making his tactical inferences. When he sees patterns, he will key in on them. Against a fighter in Aljamain whose volume is entirely designed to keep an opponent off and prevent them from getting singular reads on him, this might mean that Yan is unable to find his marks with as much consistency. So, even if the wrestling isn’t an active phase of the fight, it shouldn’t be out of the question for Sterling to win 70% of a kickboxing match here, and potentially do enough to win the fight.

Despite a nominal advantage for Petr Yan as a boxer and striker, a few threats from Aljamain Sterling could prove to be enough to win in a way that many analysts and bettors might not see. I’d still favor Yan in this particular matchup, but hopefully, you see the larger point I’m making about the MMA metagame. Singular elements of a fighter’s game are becoming less reliant in terms of calling specific matchups, because the sport itself facilitates so many possibilities and threats.

Conclusion

After UFC 245 wrapped, I felt somewhat burned out from MMA. Over time, I’ve grown tired of hedging my bets between feeling smug and feeling sad, and to be completely transparent, there simply aren’t that many fighters left in the sport for me to care about. However, the more I considered the top two fights on the card, the more I realized this article needed to be written. The philosophy of “there are levels to this shit” is the exact reason I got into fight analysis in the first place. That kind of limp, catch-all aspersion is exactly the problem with many self-proclaimed analysts and fans following the sport. In reality, MMA has become both incredibly heterogeneous and better overall, meaning that the enormous chasms of skill that used to define the sport in its early years have almost completely dissipated.

Fighters will still own advantages and weaknesses in specific areas, and they should still look to maximize their odds of winning in the former areas while mitigating time spent in the latter. And despite literally everything that I’ve written here, there is still no totally accurate way to predict fight outcomes. The purpose of their article was simply to prove that large discrepancies in phases are becoming less prevalent than they used to be, while nominal advantages aren’t always what they might seem on the surface.

MMA is a complicated sport. You don’t have to be the best at everything. You just need to be good enough to play your cards right.