It’s unfortunate that a couple of world-class exploits recently carved out by Pinoys also happen to have paled soon after in the slipstream of other, inadvertent consequences, related or not.
Efren Peñaflorida’s triumphant return as CNN Hero of the Year was all but overshadowed by grim news of unprecedented atrocity, thanks to the creation and coddling of monsters that have turned into the latest dubious poster boys for warlordism.
That Efren pushed a cart of books towards superstardom as a hero has been eclipsed by the surreal image of a backhoe filling up a pit of premeditation with motor vehicles and corpses.
The only blessing this carnage can bring is perhaps to bring up to speed the rationalization, let alone realization, of the process of rendering certain elements in our landscape into capons or castrati.
We can take this on a metaphorical level, if we want to. After all, much of our archipelago is still seeking to be civilized, at par with the planet’s mature societies.
In Mindanao, it is high time that everyone not in military or police uniform is stripped of his extension of a member — the gun that apparently makes him a man. Emasculation is the only solution, not quite ultimate, though perhaps seen as extreme by those who can’t strut around without weapons.
The Maguindanao Massacre tells us all that it’s high time — to relieve everyone of his imagined manhood. Of course it should be across the board — easier said than done. So-called paramilitary units will cry sudden vulnerability in the face of lost commands, terrorists, mulcters, kidnappers, bandits. But an end to all that banditry cannot ever be in sight unless we start somewhere.
We start with the Ampatuans. Then work the hoary way down to the Mangudadatus and all other datus and their royal kin, thence the vigilante squads and the mayors who have them in their payroll. And maybe when most everyone who has been thus castrated start hitting the high C’s with their falsettos, just maybe, all armed groups, whether secessionists or rebels or terrorists, would want to join the high-pitched concert lest they be left out to no applause.
As for Manny Pacquiao, sure, now he’s denied — rather belatedly after the initial series of sheepish smiles of a champion cat that’s swallowed a curious canary — allegations of an illicit love affair.
And sure, all the menfolk who throb with excitement over each combination of punches our hero throws atop the ring may be in tacit mode of approval and envy over the extracurricular engagement.
But if Danton Remoto and his politically evolving ilk have been struck down once again by a medieval mindset that cries immorality, should our pound-for-pound champion of the historic seven titles in seven different weight classes be spared of a question of moral turpitude once he files his COC?
Why, adding a cachet or “K” to that certificate makes him cock-of-the-roost and cock-of-the-walk, without having to convince everyone about a cockamamie denial.
So who was the girl in the car covering her face on You-Tube, with the smiling LoverBoy behind the wheel, waving at foreign cameramen in Vegas? Or if they were just “best friends,” why should they leave the Baguio Cathedral meters apart yet within the same frame of visibility to amateur paparazzi cameras? Same with that egress from the John Hay clubhouse.
Or shouldn’t we believe stories from the HBO crew that they found it difficult to “shoot” Manny for that special docu while waiting for a certain K. to finish her ablutions, such as constantly wiping the sweat off her champ’s brow, until she went off-frame, since they were told never to show her?
Hmm. I’m not suggesting caponization after canonization, not for Manny Pacq. It’s just that the impasse around the spire of veracity raises questions. Morality is something that practically implores an each-man-to-himself reckoning. But veritas is something else, while verisimilitude tows in many synonyms — all having to do with believability, plausibility, authenticity, and credibility.
Ah, eternal verities go hang. The artful dodger escapes any reading of the riot act. What the shame of a sham does, however, is to put to waste all the glorious prose his ring triumphs have spawned.
Best pound-for-pound photographer Ben Razon who lords it over the ring at The Oarhouse in Malate has exulted:
“Tonight at the ground zero of man’s excess, selfishness and gamble, the kid from Dadiangas has climbed and reached THE plateau reserved only for history’s greatest accomplished boxing warriors.
“And the uniqueness of it all is that — neither black or white, he bares the soul and spirit of that which is purely and absolutely Filipino.
“Manny in this present day and age is telling both OUR ordinary and EXTRAORDINARY story to the world and to all men, unlike no other Pinoy or Pinay for that matter — has ever done.
“Mabuhay tayong lahat sa araw na ito, at MABUHAY ang sambayanang PILIPINAS.
“And it’s far from over yet, folks.”
Indeed, it was far from over, as we soon learned that his athletic prowess is not confined to that particular arena of battle.
Or consider the following excerpt from a paean by New Jersey-based poet Patrick Rosal, in an elegant online piece titled “Manny Pacquiao — OFW of the Century.”
“After Pacquiao, surely, another savior will come along, who will be the object of the country’s devotion, a figure to pour all their best gifts into, so they can finally see those gifts embodied in one man, which is to say, the soul of the Philippines perhaps is already epic and brave, but in the myths that capture the Philippine imagination, the Filipino people locate their most excellent destinies outside themselves. The truth is they are already heroic. And they are everywhere.”
Rosal’s e-mailed follow-up was a masterful dissection of the destruction of Cotto:
“... (T)he tactic was masterful as Pacquiao won the psychological battle as early as the sixth round, long before the 12th round stoppage. There were moments when Pacquiao would step into Cotto’s power zone as if to test the bigger man’s will and Cotto simply would not throw. Cotto was afraid his opponent would slip the punches and quickly fill the gaps with a barrage of his own. Pacquiao used his extraordinary hand speed and deception to land combinations from unconventional angles and body positions.
“When a southpaw throws a left-hand lead — as opposed to the conventional right jab — to set up combinations, it’s sometimes seen as an insult to his opponent’s defense and/or speed. One gauge of Pacquiao’s growth as a fighter and his recent dominance is the number of left-hand leads he has been able to land, particularly in his last three fights against Oscar de la Hoya, David Díaz, and Ricky Hatton. Last night Pacquiao threw fewer left leads than he has in some time, in part, out of respect for the size, power and counter-punching ability of Miguel Cotto. It is, however, yet another example of the new welterweight champion’s ability to adjust to his opponent’s strength from fight to fight without sacrificing the efficiency of his torrent-like attacks.
“Pacquiao’s preparation clearly was not just physical... At every bout, he ascends and descends the stairs to the ring with a smile. And the smile isn’t a contrivance or a game, but an honest expression of his inner self and the sign of the kind of mental edge Pacquiao has cultivated as he’s matured — confident and always loose.”
Yes, very loose. As in the morals of loose change? In any case, far be it from me or anyone to question what Pacman does outside of the ring, which we’re all privy to as hecklers and armchair theorists.
I have felt Manny’s heavy hand. It’s a big hand, reeking of power, from the swollen knuckles down to the palm. He grabbed my Nokia N96 after I had flubbed the first head-shot click at arm’s length at a birthday party at Manila Polo Club, weeks before he left to fight Cotto.
“Akina, alam ko ’yan,” he said, still all in smiles. And he used his celebrated left hand to click us up.
“Tnx, champ,” I said. He smiled back again. He was magnificently loose. And somewhere on the far table he had left, to cater to this senior citizen’s request, still sat the K or cachet to claim even more manhood.