Charles Oliveira nullified Max Holloway in shocking ways on Saturday night at UFC 326, a vintage pillar-to-post performance which otherwise wasn’t in the spirit of the mission.

When Nathan Diaz proposed a BMF belt in the year 2019, noblemen raised their snifters at the idea of two game, primal creatures emptying their pockets of f***s. Diaz, who was returning from a three-year sojourn, had just beat Anthony Pettis in a traditional MMA match. He won a decision on the scorecards, the civilized manner in which such disputes are settled if neither of the principals in question can finish off the other.

He told Joe Rogan that he enjoyed Jorge Masvidal’s last fight, acknowledging the unusual high levels of Masvidal’s gangsterism. Nevertheless, Diaz was quick to point out that the Miami-based Masvidal “wasn’t no West Coast gangster,” a distinguishing factor meant to underscore the rugged life perhaps better understood by those from Stockton.

Later on that night Diaz laid out what became the tenets of what he called fighting for the mantle of being “the baddest motherf***er in the game,” which was shortened to “BMF” by the UFC for commercial purposes. This abstract title would do away with wrestlers “finding loopholes” to win on points, and discourage tumbleweed contenders who’d blown nondescriptly through the welterweight ranks in previous years, guys like Jake Ellenberger and Rick Story.

Those were names Diaz cited. He was unafraid of issuing strays, which was in keeping with the premise to unearth bad motherf******s.

In short, what he had in mind was “real fighters” showing up to fight "real fights," the kind of thing where if you’re not careful, you might find yourself getting got. No pat-a-cake, no scorecard reliance, no soft, stick-to-your-guns game plans. And he ain’t wanting no come-latelies, either, those types who don’t have what it takes to survive long years in the cage.

“Guys who’ve been here forever and are still on top of the game,” Diaz said when talking about what he had in mind. “Now we're fighting for the baddest motherf****er in the game belt, and that's mine.”

Masvidal beat Diaz at UFC 244 less than three months later for the inaugural BMF title, which was wrapped around his waist that night in New York by The Rock. Diaz took such a beating that the doctor’s called the fight off, fulfilling the original prophecies of the BMF order for OG competitors to go out on their shield.

Much has happened since the time of the BMF origin story, but — as was pointed out in the aftermath of UFC 326 — in the first four BMF fights there had been but one effective takedown. Just one. That was when Masvidal took Diaz down, an instinctive act he might’ve apologized for later on. In each of the previous four BMF fights, two of which involved Holloway, there had been at least one knockdown.

There was a gentleman’s agreement in place to stand and trade and to test the street measures of the gangster heart. Holloway redefined this at UFC 300 when he was way up on the scorecards yet threw down the gauntlet in the last 10 seconds, pointing to the center of the cage and inviting Gaethje to come touch his chin. With a second left on the clock Holloway scored a knockout for the ages. That was BMF. The knockout, yes, but the abandon. The bludgeoning of the scorecards.

The kaplooey of the senses.

Jeff Bottari via Getty Images

On Saturday night, Oliveira showed up as a man who checked a great many boxes for prime BMF candidacy. He was still on top after a decade-and-a-half in the Octagon, and he had a great many UFC records for submissions and overall finishes. His cult following, garnered after being labeled a “quitter” earlier in his career, showed a certain kind of mettle, perhaps unique to the Oliveiran character. That he’d held a UFC title was secondary to the fact that he was still dishing out ass kickings, qualifying him for status on the Diaz grading scale.

Yet when Holloway came forward in the first minute, throwing what looked like the opening salvo to a beautiful suite of pure violence, Oliveira said screw that mayonnaise. He shot in on Max, hoisted him into the air and dropped him on the canvas where any such aerial warfare could be rendered moot. For the next four minutes Holloway survived submission attempts with a dry body, managing to draw a big ovation when he raised his eyebrows at the camera as if to add some humor to the festivities.

Had Oliveira submitted him right then and there, the BMF might’ve changed hands without quarrel. As it were, that’s not what happened. The second round was the same thing, this time Max looked a little bewildered with his inability to keep the fight standing. Was he expecting a different fight from Oliveira? The old gentleman’s agreement? Only Max knows for sure, but the betrayals were stacking up against him in the moment. In the third round, the pattern continued, only now there was a soundtrack — a chorus of boos.

It wasn’t that Oliveira’s dominance was the problem; it was that he was nullifying the fun of the fight. Holloway’s fireworks would never go off. Holloway, who served the Diaz vision so well in fights with Gaethje and Dustin Poirier, was being ransacked by a shrewd customer playing fast and loose with the unwritten rules. Face cranks? Body locks? What streets were these? The audacity of Oliveira’s game plan to stay out of Holloway’s danger areas went against all Diazian principles.

In the fourth round, the “championship rounds” by strict definition, daydreams took the place of the stricter vigil. Parlays were being crumpled up in Vegas. The fun meters that people brought in were dipping dangerously low, while Oliveira worked Holloway’s back and kept his mouth so close to Holloway’s ear that he could’ve whispered sweet nothings. What was this blonde incubus saying?

By the fifth, Diaz himself, who saw his high-minded doctrines succumbing to the nerditure of a Brazilian rogue, was on X letting it be known he didn’t approve.

“Boring Mother F***ers,” he wrote.

When it was all said and done, Oliveira got his hand raised, and the BMF title was wrapped around his waist. His face had two tiny scratch marks on it, just enough to know he was in a fight. It was a 50-45 scorecard that went against the spirit of the mission, in what was — under different circumstances — a masterful performance. Not everyone is cut out for that BMF life, at least not the way that scholars have interpreted it.

Just don’t tell the guy who holds the title.