A polite jab at our boxing obsession

Except for the overwhelming tension and general feeling of unrest, you’d think the throng of avid Pacman supporters were simply worshipping in church: the tightly clasped hands, rapt, upturned eyes, neurotic mumblings and harmonized responses.

Indeed, in the country, the sport of boxing is almost a religion — and Pacquiao is its god.

To be sure, in light of his most recent win against the bigger, badder (but not really) Antonio Margarito, Pacman has undoubtedly clinched his place in the hall of boxing greats. More than that, however, it’s the Filipinos back home who are given cause for celebration — with Manny Pacquiao’s superlative boxing achievements being relegated to that of the entire nation’s. With eight world titles in eight different categories, who says he can’t share?

And while no one can deny the thrilling intensity and artful magnificence of a well-executed boxing match — the fact that no one really bothers about the sport’s humble beginnings can’t be denied either.

Bare-knuckle boxing flourished as a workman’s pastime during the Industrial Revolution. During this era, playing sports was a practical matter: helping create strong bodies well suited to hard labor. Eventually, by 1867, boxing became a regulated sport under the Marquess of Queensberry rules, which introduced the use of gloves and subsequently ushered in the modern boxing era.

Pacquiao for sale: The People’s Champ as a national commodity.

In the Philippines, boxing, like many other things, was a Western import. When the Americans arrived in 1898, instability was rampant following the Spanish-American War. The Filipinos, thinking their liberation was at hand, suddenly found themselves subordinated by yet another superpower. To remedy this predicament, American leaders offered education — a right the Spaniards had previously denied — obliging us “little brown men” to them in the process. Since the curriculum was reflective of American culture, western sports, including boxing, was introduced. However, as boxing invited gambling, which the government at that time banned, matches were usually kept under wraps. Later, with the rise of American-owned fight clubs, boxing continued to flourish and was finally legalized in 1921. This preempted the rise of boxing legends such as Pancho Villa, who, after defeating Welsh flyweight champion Jimmy Wilde in 1923, became the first Filipino world boxing champion. You could say it was his victory that propelled the Philippines onto the international boxing stage.

Undeniably, with the continuing emergence of fighters like Gabriel “Flash” Elorde — who turned pro in 1951 — and Pacquiao himself, by the turn of the 21st century, the country had been widely regarded as a nation of boxing greats.

Of course, while boxing was popular as a sport, it was also attractive as a source of extra income for the working class. More often than not, these men would frequent fight clubs after work, taking up the gloves in an attempt to win the cash prize.

Indeed, you can see how our most celebrated boxers came from impoverished beginnings. Elorde — considered by the World Boxing Council as the greatest super-featherweight champion in history — was the son of a poor farmer. Likewise, Pacquiao started out with only an elementary education to his name. What these two lacked in economic capital, however, they more than made up for in the use of another asset: their bodies.

Similar to blue-collar workers, boxers engage in manual labor: pushing their bodies beyond its limits in order to generate income. In short, by willingly subjecting themselves to extreme clinical beatings, boxers are able to survive.

Think about it. As a professional sport covered by the media, boxing is a spectacle of modern society. As a combat game, it’s a display; an extravaganza of violence designed to attract and mesmerize audiences.

The Sweet Science: What’s in the future for this great spectator sport?

In the Philippine boxing scene, enthusiasm for the sport transcends social class because of what it represents to its various spectators. For the wealthy few, the boxing spectacle is a high-risk business venture. Members of the elite shell out colossal amounts to watch the match at ringside, correspondingly fattening the corporate bigwigs who organized the event in the first place. Meanwhile, for those who’ve placed bets on the match’s outcome, boxing is only further emphasized as a spectacle. With the thrill of the gamble and money on the line, spectators have no other choice but to completely give in to the fight.

Conversely, on the other side of the social spectrum, for poor Filipinos watching Pacquiao’s match, the spectacle is a reflection of a dream. Their hopes for a better life are transposed onto the image of Pacquiao — an icon coming from poverty himself — knocking out his opponent. If someone like Pacquiao can flee from destitution, then, perhaps, so can they. By providing an escape from the banality of everyday life, boxing in the Philippines has become no different from religion (or drugs) — with viewers becoming part of something greater than themselves through the matches. However, while spectators feel that they can live vicariously through the two fighters going at each other, the effect can be stupefying: distracting them from actively living their own lives while immersed in the display of pugilistic brutality.

Truly, boxing is a game both glorious and ugly. It’s conflict embodied in one conclusive fight, yet it’s also business; a raw blood show. And let’s not romanticize: Pacquiao didn’t take up boxing out of a sheer sense of nationalism — he did it to make a quick buck. Yet we continue to channel our sense of pride through this one man, equating national honor with the outcome of a single match. In other words, an uppercut to the face of a western opponent is an uppercut to the collective face of his superpower country, the underdog conquering the conqueror.

Boxing, however, creates an illusion of collective triumph — making it difficult for viewers to realize that the moment of Pacquiao’s winning only exists as simulated reality. The boxer becomes a perfect facsimile of what the audience is not, and can never be. Ultimately, while Pacquiao does make the country proud a hundred times over, his victories are merely temporary respite for all of us. The dream ends once the match does.