Friday, August 24, 2007 Malilong: A closer look at Manny Pacquiao By Frank Malilong The Other Side
DO not judge a man by his size. It could be fatal.
Manny Pacquiao’s fighting weight is a shade over 130 pounds and he’s probably not taller than 5’5”. If I did not know who he was and he had challenged me--–178 lbs. and 5’8”---to a fistfight, I would have probably obliged. And I almost certainly would have gotten killed in less than three seconds.
The fellow is quick, very quick. I learned typing when I was 10 and typed my way through law school after Ferdinand Marcos rendered me jobless when he closed all the newspapers. At 50 plus and aching joints notwithstanding, I can still do 90 words per minute, accurately.
But Pacquiao is faster with his fists and lighter on his feet than I am on the keys of even the most obedient Underwood.
When he jogged around the Cebu City Sports Center oval last week, he looked like a sleek yacht in a sea of lumbering tugboats. At one time, two middle-aged buddies with more than abundant middles made a go at keeping step with him and the result was an instant comic show. “Ang mga tambok ay,” (“Look at the fat ones”) a young boy chortled.
His fists? I tried counting the number of times he threw his vaunted left when he shadow-boxed after doing ten laps in the oval. In less than two minutes, I gave up without learning anything from the exercise except that you get dizzy trying to count what you cannot see. But I knew they were so strong and powerful, I could almost swear the early morning breeze swung in the opposite direction, cowering from their fury.
Early this year, Pacquiao was greeted with lusty boos when he strode into the oval to watch a host of Visayan boxers, led by the then undefeated Boom Bautista, take on foreign opponents in the biggest boxing promotion in Cebu in recent history. Last week, there were no such boos, only adulation, as hordes of fans, including students of the nearby Abellana National School, descended onto the track to get a closer look at their idol.
In February, Manny was a would-be politician. Last week, he was simply Manny Pacquiao, the boxer who has not only thrilled and made proud the entire nation but has ignited a boxing revolution.
Politics rejected Manny but no one is mourning, save perhaps the few who would have stood to gain had the aberration succeeded. In fact, the people--–his real people, the fans who rejoice in his triumphs and who groan with every blow that he absorbs--–have embraced him even more tightly as one does a returning prodigal son.
Boxing can never be the same without Manny. I have watched many fights, squandering meager resources on pay-per-view privilege, but I mostly found them boring. I just did not feel the same rush of adrenaline, the kind that made me jump less than two weeks after my angioplasty, watching Manny rush like a bulldog, his fists pumping in dizzying but harmonious recurrence.
I hope that after May 14, Manny has realized that he has a rare God-given gift and has learned to value the same. The worst tragedy that can happen to any person is to not treasure something or someone while he still has it. And how this nation would grieve if it happened to Manny.
