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
with the wave of humanity. And I was surely one of them. The celebrities stood out because they carried a mass of drooling onlookers
at their side like a swelling growth. I took part in this mass on several occasions. The circus was in town and I was not going to miss it. My cousin and I found our seats just as the Pac Man was about to make his epic entrance. The buzz in the crowd was as sharp as the buzz in my head.
Maah-Neeeeee! Maah-Neeee! Maah-NEEEE!
There is no atmosphere more electric than the crowd of a racially-charged prize fight.
Pacquiao strode out beaming like a politician on the campaign trail, carrying the hopes and fears and pride and prayers of the Philippines
on his back. Yet another characteristically cheesy song played in the background. In earlier fights, he chose “We Will Rock You.” Last time he chose one of his own songs. This time “Eye of the Tiger” would pump up the best boxer on the planet.
The Filipinos chanted and smiled, but deep in our eyes was the silent fear. Manny Pacquiao was all we had. A nation ravaged by corruption, civil war and merciless
typhoons could, for just one night, escape the third world conditions, escape the anonymity
and the international apathy, and surge into relevance. Tonight the eyes of the world were on a Filipino.
But what if…No, I couldn’t bear the thought. I did not want to live in a world devoid of this pride, devoid of this euphoria. I must savor the taste, I thought to myself. Savor this wonderful gift. Somehow, in the infinite and mysterious grace of the universe, against all mathematical odds, my path had aligned with this Pride, this euphoria. My path had aligned with Manny Pacquiao. He could not lose.
After Cotto squeezed out a win in the first round, I was scared. He seemed a potentially overwhelming opponent. But when that vicious left hook, the same one that nearly decapitated Ricky Hatton, sent Cotto sprawling
to the canvas in the fourth for the second knockdown in two rounds, my nerves were replaced by pure unadulterated exhilaration.
By then Cotto had the look of a man locked in a room with a wild, starving Rottweiler. How could he survive?
Rounds 10, 11 and 12 were an embarrassment. Miguel Cotto didn’t quit, but he ran. Ruthless boos rained down as a beaten man circled the ring, backpedalling,
with eyes cold with fear. Pacquiao had destroyed Cotto’s face and spirit. When the fight mercifully ended early in the twelfth round euphoria pierced the air and the celebration began. The older Filipinos chanted in Tagalog. Wala-na, Wala-na Bom! Bom! Bom! The younger Filipinos-Americans hugged and shouted, waving their flags and signs. The Puerto Ricans respectfully
filed out, disappointed about their hero’s defeat, but honored to have witnessed greatness.
The fight was over. Pacquiao had won. Crime could return, war could resume and reality could be restored in the Philippines. Pride lived on, and for another fleeting moment in time three centuries of colonialism could vanish like gypsies in the night. We were finally the conquerors with the world at our feet.
The usual cacophony of Las Vegas sounds were drowned out by the chorus of cheers and chants. From where I stood I could see the purple horizon meet the barren land that surrounded
the lights. In a few hours I would leave this wonderful place and head back through that barren land, barreling toward that western horizon. “Take it all in,” I told myself. “This will all be gone soon.”