Pacquiao cements his legacy as the best ever

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the nerves began to take hold. My mind drifted through a sleepless daze, hopped up on red apples and pure adrenaline, and I began to seriously consider the possibility of Manny Pacquiao losing the fight. "Calm down" I told myself, and ignore this nonsense.

Such a despicable thought could only be the product of three hours spent peering into the jet black horizon of a cold, desert night. The outcome should have been clearer than the infinity of stars hanging just over my head. And yet doubt permeated my thoughts like a cancer.

Pacquiao was living dangerously,

teetering too close to the edge of complacency for my comfort.

And it is never a good sign when your favorite boxer's behavior

mirrors Rocky at the beginning of "Rocky III." It seemed as if Pacquiao had fallen into the hopeless

abyss of mainstream fame. I knew this was it. He had finally gone too far.

He sang on Jimmy Kimmel Live, he trained at home in the Philippines, he belted karaoke late into the nights, he starred in another action movie. Too many vile distractions. Too good of an opponent. The Great Puerto Rican, Miguel Cotto, was bigger than Hatton and faster than De La Hoya. Our Hero had never fought a man as menacing as Miguel Cotto. It would be a dangerous, dangerous battle.

My cousin Jed was in the passenger's seat, fast asleep. He was in no state to console my panic. His duty, anyway, was to secure a hotel room and navigate the city, not to reel in the dreaded angst of some half-crazed adolescent

souped-up on pride. But what was my duty? Surely it wasn't anything remotely journalistic. Can one be fair while openly rooting

for the brutal beating of a man whose only sin is splitting a fat paycheck with the Fighting Pride of the Philippines? No, my duty was carnal, organic and maybe even pure. It was the same duty that hung a Filipino flag around my rearview mirror; the same duty that filleted President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo in those scathing

articles. The Pride of a nation waited just over that smoldering horizon. As Manny Pacquiao presumably

slept, I pushed down on the accelerator.

I was always nervous before a Pacquiao fight. In the weeks leading up to his contest versus Oscar De La Hoya in December ‘08 I was subjected to seeing the Golden Boy prepare with reckless

obsession. He trained high in the snowy and solitary mountains of Big Bear. He ate venison and kangaroo meat. He received acupuncture.

He slept in some sort of anti-gravity chamber. He chopped wood and chased boar. He trained with the rigor of an astronaut. In contrast Pacquiao trained in Hollywood,

a mere two blocks from the walk of fame. He ate adobo and lechon and every other thick, oily Filipino dish imaginable. He lived in a cramped apartment with a dozen of his friends. He sang between workout sessions and sparred before the approving eyes of Mark Wahlberg and Jeremy Piven.

And then Pacquiao publically eviscerated Oscar De La Hoya.

I vowed never to watch HBO's "24/7" again. I refused to put myself through the teeth grinding

nights and rambling days. But, still, the nerves returned with vigor before the Ricky Hatton fight. And then Pacquiao sent Hatton's limp carcass to the canvas less than six minutes after the opening bell. Pacquiao had proved, time and again, that there was no need to worry; that his methods of preparation

are good enough to slay the best fighters Mexico and Britain had to offer.

But as I crept closer and closer to that dimly glowing skyline, my pulse quickened and my palms slicked. ‘‘Get yourself together" I told myself. "Remember what Simmons told you."

In my mind, I recounted my exchange with Bill Simmons at a book signing exactly a week earlier.

Upon seeing my Pac Man shirt Simmons assured me that Pacquiao

would emerge victorious. I explained my fears, but he refused to relent. After all he did have big money riding on the Filipino.

My cousin, and accomplice on this daring mission, noticed my extended silence. "How are you doing? Need me to take over?"

"I can't believe Manny is scheduled to perform with his band after the fight," was my reply.

There was no doubt the karma gods were stacked against our Hero. Yes, he had beaten them before, but how much further could he push his luck? This was Vegas, after all, and the house never loses. How many more sevens could the Pac Man roll?

The calm of the desert night was shattered by the sudden explosion

of lights and colors, shouts and sin all around us. It was three in the morning and Las Vegas was wide awake. Sin never sleeps.

Two things are underrated about Las Vegas: unlimited free parking and 25 cent wings between midnight and 5 a.m. at the Hooters Hotel. We quickly gorged on both. Soon the night faded and the vast desert sky slowly brightened. A stout sense of accomplishment fills a man when he makes it through the night to see the sunrise; when he conquers the vengeful grasp of slumber.

Now we were immersed in pride, inevitably consumed by the great beast around us. Banners,

shirts, screams and scowls all had purpose. Countless flags fluttered in the stale air. This was not the Vegas of popular lore. The green visors, white shorts and gold chains were supplanted, if only for day, by regalia blue and white and red and yellow. The hapless tourists just there to whittle down the monotony of stability seemed startled and confused by the inexplicable

influx of Filipinos and Puerto Ricans, probably lamenting

the unfortunate coincidence of scheduling their Vegas vacation the same weekend as a world class boxing fight.

The sun had dipped below view by the time we made our way to MGM's Grand Garden Arena. Hordes of wild-eyed, blood-thirsty drunks packed the corridors, floating