Postscript to Pacman-ia

It’s been two weeks, but the great Pacquiao victory last January 22 in Las Vegas is still the hottest topic around, the center of conversations in beer gardens, gas stations, the corner store and every tambayan in the country. It is downright unpatriotic not to revel and share in that tenth round knock-out, not to feel that the bloodied and battered face of El Terrible was just revenge for the cut above the eye that he gave our Pacman in March last year.

Morning services in churches across the land were full, and I’m sure everyone said a prayer for Pacquiao. Noontime services were notably not as full; at our usually SRO 11 a.m. service at Greenhills Christian Fellowship, only the ushers were standing that day. We waited for a text message about the result, and a little after one o’clock we were told Pacquiao had lost the fight in the eighth round. The mood obviously dampened; my friend Evelyn wondered if Pacquiao would return the Porsche Cayenne he had bought. But then our pastor joined us, ebullient that Pacquiao had won by a knock-out in the ninth. We asked everyone we met, and called everyone we thought was watching the fight, for confirmation. Friends who we knew were watching the live broadcasts at Rockwell and Megamall were not answering their phones. Those watching the delayed telecast did not yet know the outcome. I must admit it was a frustrating interval before we finally got confirmation that Pacquiao had indeed won the fight–and by a knock out too! I got to watch the fight two days later, but my artist Eugene–a die-hard Pacman-ista if there ever was one–would only let me watch rounds six to ten, when Pacquiao ruled the fight.

We’re all feeling good about his victory, believing we were somehow, some way part of it; and in a sense we were, for our collective support must have given him some extra wind and put some added power in his punch. Many made money on that victory, and many are trying to reap other kinds of profit from it. I too am thrilled about the victory, yet I cannot help but ponder that for Manny Pacquiao, it was a hard-fought, hard-earned and heartfelt victory; like the millions of OFWs we send abroad and whose dollars we use to bolster our economy, Pacquiao gave so much, sacrificed so much, literally putting his life on the line or, in this case, the canvas. How did that old Simon and Garfunkel song go? "In the clearing stands a boxer, a fighter by his trade, and he carries a reminder of every glove that laid him down and cut him ’til he cried out..."