A god named Manny

From my personal archives. November 2006

Hero. Superstar. Future Philippine President.

Ask any ordinary Filipino today who he thinks fits that description and the name Manny Pacquiao would come out his mouth.

By demolishing Erik Morales last Sunday, Manny did not only earn another win for himself. He proved once again that a Filipino could be the number one in the world. He once more lifted the spirit of our dejected nation.

For several minutes on Nov. 9, 2006, the whole country freezed--glued to television sets. I joined the millions of Filipinos in that “nation moment.” With some housemates, I sat in the sala of my dorm and watched in awe as Pacman reduced El Terible to a punching bag.

My companions grunted loudly, laughed, and clapped their hands as they cheered Manny Pacquiao on--while I was dumbfounded. I was not seeing a boxer knocking down his opponent. I was seeing a determined warrior sealing his name in history. I was afraid saying something or stirring from my seat would violate the holiness of it all.

When I heard Morales gentlemanly accepting his defeat, I could almost imagine what was going on in the other side of the world—in the county more famous to us as Marimar’s home. Mexicans may not openly admit it, out of grief for their champion, but deep inside they have come to respect Manny and Manny's country.

Manny finished the match in three swift rounds. In the second round, his infamous left made a staggering blow on Morales' jaw. In the third round, a flurry of punches nailed the Mexican on the floor for the third and final time.

Years from now, I might no longer clearly remember how it happened. But there is no way I would forget how being a witness to it made me feel--I was reminded that we can dream and reach for that dream.

So I may not scale the heights Manny did--and boxing could never be my means--but reach for the stars I will.

The Pacquiao-Morales III, the finale of one of boxing's great trilogies, ended rather abruptly. It left me and my dormmates craving for more. We turned to a delayed telecast in another channel.

As I savor Pacquiao's every winning moment again, I was thinking through the fact that the greatest pound-for-pound boxer today hails not from hegemonic America but from poor Philippines. And he's not from far-away Manila but from General Santos City, P40-ride away from where I go to school.

Indeed, greatness knows no bounds. The panadero now has the President, governors and mayors dying to have their photographs taken with him.

For the next few days after the fight, everyone talked about it as if it was their fists that landed on El Terible’s face. Our Ecology teacher was somehow able to relate Manny's victory to the lesson. I myself discussed the fight with friends for several times, while hoping they would not notice I just quoted the commentators on TV.

For the people of Mindanao, Manny is a demigod, if tall tales about him are any indication. Many barrio folks suspect he takes his incredible strength from an anting-anting. Rumor has it also that with his millions, Manny now owns half of the island. The last I heard, he bought all the passenger ferries traveling between Pagadian and Cotabato and turned them into fishing vessels.

Now I am just so particular with--and proud of—anything I have in common with Pacquiao: I am a Filipino. I drink both San Miguel Beer and Nestle Fresh Milk. I hit a playmate in the jaw when I was in grade two. I sheepishly smile when I run out of something to say, especially in English.

All I want to do when I meet him is kneel down, raise my hands up in the air and bend down the ground.

***

P.S. About two months ago, I finally saw Manny in person, when his basketball team played here in Koronadal. I did not kneel down in front him, but I yelled every time the ball touched his hand.