Well, Saturday night I saw a real, honest-to-gosh brown bomber accomplish the same job of destruction in even a shorter time. And, pound for pound, he is meaner and deadlier. His name is Manny Pacquiao. In just about the time it takes a ringside customer to locate his seat in a crowded stadium, Pacquiao disposed of Thailand’s Fahprakorb Rakkiat-Gym. I have witnessed feats of pugilistic annihilation almost countless times. But Pacquiao’s feat covering just over two minutes of the first round leaves me breathless and agape like Considine.
Such audacity I have never seen, such elemental force, such savagery.
Once Pacquiao entered the ring (Rizal Memorial Colleges gym) in Davao City, you knew he was a warrior. He had tufted hair, forelocks dyed near orange, two gleaming turrets for eyes, a body shaped for mayhem, and two gloved fists that never stopped behaving like Cruise missiles. They sought their target unerringly and try as he would, Rakkiat-Gym could never evade them. In the end, the 27-year-old Thai, a ring murderer himself, dropped like an overripe pomelo, helplessly seeking to crawl out of the mists that enveloped him. He laid his fists twice, thrice on Pacquiao jaw, but that was all. Pacquiao was never really hurt. It was a mismatch from beginning to end.
I saw something I never saw before in Pacquiao’s deadly arsenal – a booming right cross. Like Gabriel (Flash) Elorde, Pacquiao was a southpaw with about the same handspeed and deadly aim. Like Elorde again, Pacquiao developed midway in his career a right cross that traveled just this much and had just one target – the enemy’s jaw. Pacquiao’s lefts of course did their usual job, as did his combinations. But it was that right hook or cross, three out of four times I believe, that felled the Thai.
If Pacquiao stays on course, sticks to the superbantamweight class and grows slightly into featherweight, nobody in the world can beat him. Of course, it goes without saying he sticks to regimen of hard and relentless training, sharpens his reflexes even more, and does not get spoiled by fame and fortune. And eats Davao tuna by the ton.
What is unique about Pacquiao is that his face remains that of a choirboy as his fists unleash destruction. He doesn’t snarl at all or bare his teeth or knit his eyes into ferocious seeing peepsight of an advancing typhoon. The warrior is riveted on his shoulders that, like Pete Sampras and his blistering service, discharges power into his arms and legs. And, by golly, Pacquiao is a sight to see as he sets about to dismember and destroy his enemy. Which is the first and last commandment of pugilism.
I have written about him in past columns and there is nothing much I can add to my depiction.
Pound for pound, with the possible exception of the immortal Pancho Villa, he is the best Filipino fist-tosser ever. Pacquiao is a natural like a tornado with its downspout is natural. Not for him the dancing legs of a Flash Elorde, the elegance of a bullfighter like Manolete twirling his cape to tease and madden a bull, the all-around class of a Muhammad Ali. Pacquiao is there to fight with the least trimmings if possible and, I don’t remember anybody who finishes his foe with the least fuss. He is an ambulant fireball, and you can say that again and again.
Manny Pacquiao has also a macabre sense of humor, or better still he is a village wit. He said he had already cased the Thai’s style early in the first round finding that his punches were a little bit slow in coming. "Si Fahprakorb," Pacquiao mused immediately after the fight when he was interviewed, "kung sumuntok sa Lunes, darating pa sa Biyernes." No wonder, Pacquiao lost no time storming into the Thai, measuring him in just split-seconds, then banging almost at will, He gave the Thai no time to breath, no time to seek the safety of distance, no time to dance away or ride a bicycle.
These days, when it seems Fate is terribly unkind to the Philippines, when almost everything is bad news and hardly if ever any good news, Manny Pacquiao lifts your spirit. He is a Filipino, great athlete and thus a great Filipino. Yes, the little Brown Bomber. Again, in the presence of such prodigies, I stand bareheaded in the wind.
What was it about FPJ that has entranced the masa for well nigh several decades? What is it about this celluloid wunderkind that now strikes fears in the realm of presidentiables because according to the political grapevine, chances are that FPJ will run for the presidency in 2004? Why do many say that if he runs, FPJ will beat everybody hands down? And that includes of course the incumbent in Malacañang, President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo?
I had to find out. So I glued myself to Isusumbong Kita sa Tatay Ko twice.
Primo, he is local moviedom’s supreme macho hands down. Not even Joseph Estrada in his prime as a movie actor can match him as FPJ leaves his signature on every scene. FPJ is taller, heavier, handsomer with no trace of bluster or braggadocio in his movie persona. His are earnest eyes below a thick shock of black hair, almost that of a gypsy’s. Secundo, he plays the loner very well, the man who does not want trouble at all but whirls around with deadly fistic musketry if you provoke him. Tertio, and this is his movie trademark, FPJ’s fists are the most lethal in the business, an alternating tattoo and one-shot haymaker. He isn’t into karate or taekwondo or aikido the way Bruce Lee was seriously or Jackie Chan or Chuck Norris. FPJ fights only with his fists. No leg kicks, no whirling into the air, no tumbling up and down. Anyway, all the gorillas end up in the kangkungan.
He has a becoming modesty in his films. The voice is deep, baritone, always engaging, that of the exploited and the oppressed. In Isusumbong Kita sa Tatay Ko, FPJ was a garage mechanic, widower living with Nanay (Anita Linda) and an only daughter Judy Ann Santos whom he managed to send to an upscale college because he worked hard at his trade. The daughter earlier turned out to be just an adopted daughter, and the film gets a lot of emotional tension when Judy Ann Santos finds out. It goes without saying father and "daughter" got along famously.
The excuse for madcap and mayhem is Judy Ann Santos’ rich and spoiled schoolmate – Archie – nephew of a congressman. Archie takes to Judy Ann, throws a birthday party in his mansion, tries to seduce and then waylay her with a potent sex capsule melted into her wine. FPJ, having warned her not to attend the party, arrives in time, just as she is bout to imbibe the wine. Archie and his gang rise in high dudgeon, engage FPJ and all of them are beaten to a pulp with fists that behave faster than a machinegun. In a later encounter this time designed to kill FPJ, Archie is arrested and his pluguglies bested. This time FPJ uses a gun just as deadly as his fists. Father and daughter feud passionately. Father and daughter eventually reconcile.
The plot is old and skimpy. No matter. FPJ makes up the difference. He also sings with Judy Ann Santos, romps with her and that’s all the audience wants – with of course all the action thrown in. It’s moro-moro, it’s zarzuela, it’s barnyard operetta. It’s when you throw in Fernando Poe Jr. that from Aparri to Jolo, the audiences crowd eight to the bar, whoop it up, and go home regaled to the rafters that life isn’t so bad after all when you have FPJ for two hours or more in a moviehouse. I understand that in Moroland in Mindanao, the super-idol is FPJ. When he is in trouble because of the script, Muslim insurgents starts shooting at the big screen and stop only when FPJ gets out of the hole.
I am convinced that, when and if FPJ throws his hat into the presidential ring, he could be the man to beat. Filipinos, especially poor Filipinos, romanticize life into just bad and good, set up their own heroes and idols, and FPJ is up, up there.
It’s all myth-making but myths are the hardest to destroy.