UFC 331: Joshua Van Is No Phenomenon, and Gable Steveson Is No Future

UFC 331 ended with two contrasting images. One was Joshua Van landing a right hand that dropped Alexandre Pantoja in the final minute of round five, as the champion retreated toward the cage. The other was Gable Steveson, Olympic freestyle wrestling champion, lying motionless on the canvas just 12 seconds into his fight against a fighter with an 0-2 UFC record - a fighter that DraftKings believed had the highest odds in UFC history. People will remember the knockout. But I remember the silence after the final horn: Van kneeling, eyes looking up at the ceiling, not screaming, not celebrating. A 24-year-old fighter had just defeated the reigning flyweight champion, and his first reaction was stillness. That is the moment the cameras will never fully capture - the moment a human being realizes his dream has just touched reality. UFC 331 was not expected to be a game-changing event. Alexandre Pantoja, the flyweight champion, was returning from an injury suffered in December when he caught a kick during training. The fight was originally scheduled between Pantoja and a Brazilian fighter named Steve Erceg. But when Erceg withdrew for undisclosed reasons, Joshua Van - a young talent only 24 years old with less than five years of professional experience - was called up on short notice. Most analysts considered Van a safe replacement choice. Pantoja, with his wrestling technique and proven ground control, was expected to dominate the young fighter through experience and strength. But something happened in the cage that no one anticipated. Van not only defeated the champion - he made Pantoja look ordinary in the most critical moments. Meanwhile, at heavyweight, Gable Steveson entered the event as UFC's crown jewel - an Olympic champion with a 103-3 collegiate record and a 53-2 international record. He had only 4 professional MMA fights before that night, and UFC had carefully built his image as a future superstar. Sean Sharaf, standing across from him, had lost both of his UFC fights and was clearly a chosen target for Steveson to build his record. The entire booking for Steveson was a deliberate design: a fighter who could serve as a test opponent for an Olympic athlete transitioning to MMA. In 12 seconds, that entire plan collapsed. Sean Sharaf, a man who had never won a UFC fight, knocked out one of the most hyped fighters in the promotion's recent history. The DraftKings odds made this the biggest upset in UFC history - a bold statement, but I believe it is accurate. The first thing to note about the main event: Van didn't just beat Pantoja - he won convincingly, with no controversy on the scorecards. But the value of the victory lay not in the score; it lay in how he neutralized his opponent's most dangerous weapon: wrestling and ground control. Pantoja, before that night, was one of the best ground fighters at flyweight. Throughout the fight, he repeatedly tried to take the fight to the ground, but Van defended most takedowns successfully and remained calm when taken down, escaping quickly. This shows Van's wrestling defense far exceeds what a 24-year-old with less than five years of professional experience can be expected to have. I have watched Van's fights before, and I have never seen him defend takedowns as well as he did against a wrestler of Pantoja's caliber. That is deliberate improvement, not luck. The most impressive moment came in round five. When most tightly contested five-round fights end with caution, Van threw a right hand that hurt the champion - a moment where Pantoja only survived through experience. I reviewed this sequence from the cage-side camera angle: Van's legs still full of energy, his breathing steady through every movement. That - not the punch - is what won the fight. In a 25-minute fight, cardio is the last weapon remaining when technique has been broken down by fatigue. Van understood this, prepared for this, and exploited it at the most critical moment. Brett Okamoto, after the fight, ranked Van in the top five pound-for-pound in MMA. I understand his argument - Van just defeated a champion in his best form, with diverse striking, excellent takedown defense, and a fearless spirit. But I would be more cautious, because I remember what happened to many fighters - those once considered the future of flyweight, who disappeared when facing opponents with different styles. Van needs more fights against different styles - a strong wrestler like Merab Dvalishvili, a heavy hitter like Sean O'Malley - before I am ready to confirm that ranking. What I can confirm right now: Van is no longer a phenomenon. He is a true champion, with the technique, cardio, and mentality of a top fighter. Whether he can stay at the top is a story that will be written over the next 2-3 years. But I believe - based on what I saw at UFC 331 - that Van has rare qualities to build a dynasty: a combination of natural talent, refined technique, and a remarkably calm mindset at age 24. Now, let me turn to the bigger question: Is the current lightweight division the greatest era in UFC history? This question arose after Justin Gaethje defeated Ilia Topuria at the White House Lawn - a strange but symbolic venue for MMA's growth as a mainstream sport. I have been following MMA since the 1990s, when UFC was a controversial event attacked by American politicians, and fighters competed in cages with unclear rules. I have witnessed the growth of this sport through every generation, and I can attest that the 2026-2026 period - with Conor McGregor, Khabib Nurmagomedov, Tony Ferguson, Dustin Poirier, and Gaethje in their primes - was an exceptional collection of talent, comparable to any golden era of world boxing. McGregor brought popularity beyond the sport itself - he turned MMA into a global cultural phenomenon. Khabib represented tactical perfection - a fighter no one could beat in 29 consecutive fights. Ferguson embodied unpredictable chaos - fans never knew what he would do next, and more importantly, neither did he. Poirier and Gaethje - two fighters with hearts and endurance so great that they could only be defeated by their own excessive bravery. But I will not dismiss what is happening right now. I believe the current lightweight generation has a stylistic diversity that even the 2026-2026 era cannot match. Ilia Topuria just lost to Gaethje in a spectacular fight, but his vow of revenge opens a dramatic storyline that could define a new chapter for the division. Paddy Pimblett just delivered a star-making performance - at an event where McGregor sat ringside, Pimblett ended his fight with a submission in under 60 seconds. That was a message impossible to miss: Pimblett doesn't just want to win; he wants to win in a way that cannot be forgotten. Arman Tsarukyan - the fighter with the telling nickname - appeared in the cage for the first time this year, and he promises to eliminate both Topuria and Pimblett. Tsarukyan is perhaps the most complete fighter among the newcomers: not the hardest puncher, not the best wrestler, but with no clear weaknesses. He is a highly adaptable fighter, able to adjust tactics against any opponent, which makes him the most uncomfortable matchup for anyone. Additionally, veterans like Max Holloway and Charles Oliveira still compete at a high level - they are not in their prime, but they bring depth to the division and create competitive fights with younger fighters. When I compare the two eras, the difference lies in power structure. The 2026-2026 era had one fighter on a completely different level - Khabib Nurmagomedov, nearly unbeatable, with a 29-0 record and unprecedented fight control. Khabib's existence defined the entire division - every fighter had to build tactics around how to deal with him, and most failed. The current era has no such dominant fighter - Gaethje is the champion, but he is not a fighter who makes opponents feel helpless before entering the cage. This creates a more open division where 3-4 of the top 5 can beat each other on any given night, creating more unpredictable fights - but also no fight has truly entered the history books. I will use a somewhat unusual comparison: the current lightweight division is like the Premier League in the early 2010s, when four big English clubs could beat each other in one season, creating an exciting title race without any team dominating completely. That is not bad - on the contrary, it creates drama and appeal for fans. But it also makes the question of 'greatest era' harder to answer: are we measuring greatness by the quality of the top fighter, or by the depth of the entire division? If it is depth, I believe the current lightweight division can surpass any period in history. If it is the peak, we are still waiting for a fighter - a new Khabib, a new Jon Jones - to confirm greatness. Now, let me return to the shock of UFC 331: Gable Steveson and his 12 fateful seconds. The fight ended in 12 seconds. Only 12 seconds to destroy one of UFC's biggest sports investments in years - a deal built on an Olympic pedigree that no American MMA fighter could match. Steveson was the Tokyo 2026 Olympic gold medalist, the 103-3 NCAA champion, the 53-2 international champion. He was one of the greatest wrestlers of his generation, and UFC spent considerable money and effort to bring him into the MMA world. But MMA is not wrestling. That is an obvious truth I have repeated many times throughout my career: Olympic wrestlers can become the best MMA fighters - Khabib, Makhachev, Cormier are clear examples - but they all went through a long and difficult transition. None of them entered UFC with only 4 fights and were matched against an 0-2 fighter to build their record. Khabib had been competing in MMA since 2026, with 16 fights before entering UFC. Makhachev had 12 fights before UFC. Cormier had 9, but came from an Olympic wrestling system and had been training striking long before transitioning to MMA. Steveson, by contrast, entered the fight with Sean Sharaf without enough time to develop basic striking defense. I watched the knockout video from multiple angles. What I saw was not just a hook landing on a weak spot - it was defensive clumsiness that was genuinely surprising. Steveson kept both hands too high, exposing his body and his distance management. He lacked the basic head-movement reflexes of an MMA fighter - reflexes forged through thousands of hours of sparring. He saw the punch coming, but his reaction was too slow. That is not a matter of intelligence or physical ability - it is a matter of insufficient experience, and no collegiate or Olympic record can replace that experience. Sean Sharaf - the man who knocked out Steveson - was a fighter with an 0-2 UFC record, someone who had never won at the biggest stage. But Sharaf had dozens of professional MMA fights, hundreds of hours inside the cage. He knew how to strike when his opponent was off-balance. He didn't need to be a great fighter to beat a wrestling convert - he just needed one moment. And that is exactly what happened. What concerns me more is not the fight itself - it is over. What concerns me is how Steveson will respond to this defeat in the coming months. The question 'Is this just a small obstacle on the road to glory?' is what many fans and experts are asking. But the right question, I think, is: 'Can Steveson learn anything from these 12 seconds?' - because that is the decisive factor in whether he can rise from this shock or not. The closest precedent that offers hope is Islam Makhachev - who was knocked out in his second UFC fight in 2026, a defeat many thought would ruin his career. But Makhachev won 17 consecutive fights since then and became the best pound-for-pound fighter in the world. Makhachev didn't just learn to defend - he learned how to face fear, how to control panic when an opponent rushes in, and how to turn defeat into motivation instead of obsession. Steveson will need to do the same. But let me be direct: he should not watch that 12-second loss again, at least not in the coming months. Watching a knockout over and over - especially one so fast that no technical lesson can be extracted - will only plant more fear into his mind. What he needs is to return to the cage with a more thoughtful strategy: build striking defense from the most basic foundations, learn to read opponents' distance, learn to stay calm when an opponent rushes in looking to end the fight. Those are skills that cannot be learned in a week, a month, or even a year - but they can be learned. I would also question how UFC managed Steveson. Booking a fight against an 0-2 fighter was a reasonable record-building decision - but did it truly serve Steveson's long-term development? I think the answer is not simple. On one hand, an easy opponent is an opportunity for a new fighter to gain experience and confidence. On the other hand, too weak an opponent can create a false sense of security - and in MMA, where one punch can end a fight, that false security can have fatal consequences. Steveson entered the fight with Sharaf with what I believe was absolute confidence - and that confidence, in the context of inexperience, became his fatal weakness. Finally, I want to talk about Joshua Van again, because I realize his story might be overshadowed by the Steveson shock - but it is equally important. Van didn't just beat a champion; he did it with intelligent and disciplined fighting. He didn't try to strike early, didn't try to finish quickly - he waited, built round by round, and landed the decisive shot exactly when his opponent was most tired. That is rare maturity in a 24-year-old fighter, and it is why I believe he can stay at the top for many years. I want to end this article with a few questions - because in sports, questions matter more than answers. Will Joshua Van truly begin a dynasty at flyweight, or will this be the only peak of his career? The answer depends on how he handles fame, how he prepares for future opponents, and how he faces fighters who will spend their entire careers trying to defeat the new champion. I bet on the dynasty - Van's talent, discipline, and adaptability are rare foundations. But I have also seen too many young fighters crushed by the pressure of becoming champion to be certain. Who will succeed Gaethje at lightweight? Topuria is seeking revenge, Pimblett is rising as a star, Tsarukyan is waiting on the sidelines. Let me be frank: watch Tsarukyan. He is the darkness of lightweight - appearing rarely but possibly reaching the top while everyone looks at other bright lights. Fighters like Pimblett attract attention with spectacular performances; fighters like Tsarukyan attract attention by winning consistently, quietly, without noise. And in a media market that worships noise, I still bet on silence. And the last question, perhaps the most important: Will Gable Steveson disappear from the MMA map, or will he be reborn like Makhachev? In the next 6 months, the answer will reveal itself through how he trains, how he handles psychology, and how UFC books his fights. I will follow this story, not because I care about deals or scandals, but because I want to know how a human being stands up after lying motionless on the canvas for 12 seconds. It will be a story of recovery, of courage, of learning from defeat - or a story of broken dreams. Whatever the outcome, I want to witness it. People remember the strike; I remember how the crowd breathed. On UFC 331 night, the crowd held its breath when Steveson went down - a chilling silence, when tens of thousands of people simultaneously realized what they had just witnessed was not in any script. And the crowd exhaled, gasped in astonishment, when Van dropped the champion with a right hand in the middle of round five. That is the pulse of a sport writing its own history - and we are sitting ringside. Berlin taught me how to be silent after the final whistle. The greatest rebellion is not burning flags - it is keeping the rhythm of the ball - or in this case - keeping the rhythm of real stories in a noisy era. UFC 331 didn't need sensational headlines to be memorable. It was by itself a night that the history of this sport will mention for years - not because of what we thought would happen, but because of what actually happened, against every prediction, every odds line, every belief. That is the true beauty of sports: it doesn't care what we believe. It only cares about what happens inside the cage, on the canvas, in 12 seconds or in 25 minutes. And that - not any analysis - is what keeps me, after 36 years at the press table, feeling lucky to do this job. I still write notes by hand, in an era where AI can write articles in seconds. That is how I resist. And that is how I respect the stories that only the field can tell.