I AM not really an aficionado of the ring, and have not been since Manny “Pacman” Pacquiao dropped Ricky Hatton in the second round like a fallen log at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas six years ago.
And so, I can’t honestly make the proper eulogy on the debacle, a.k.a. “The Battle for Greatness,” that was allegedly won by Floyd Mayweather Jr. via a surprising unanimous decision last Sunday.
The feud between Pacquiao and Mayweather, ballyhooed as the “The Fight of the Century,” was limp and tasteless. It lacked color and drama, and the artistry and pugnacity that were supposed to highlight the fight for immortality.
I felt bad for Pacquiao, the vanquished, according to a cabal of American judges. I felt bad for Mayweather, the winner and still the undisputed world champion. I felt bad for boxing, regarded by cognoscenti as the Sweet Science.
“I thought I won the match,” that uncharacteristic, terse statement from Pacquiao ruffled many feathers and created a storm of controversy, ending on an alleged conspiracy against the Filipino prizefighter.
Mayweather’s flamboyant father also thought that things were much closer in the fight that he was overheard barking warning signs to his son in the middle of the bout because, “we know some judges are crooks.”
Now, Team Pacquiao has accussed the Nevada State Athletic Commission (NSAC) and the camp of Mayweather of conspiring to ensure the victory of the unbeaten American who makes Las Vegas his second home in the US.
What was highly anticipated to be the best fight in history turned out to be the worst fight in memory. Maybe, I am wrong because it seems it was scarcely a fight, absent the nonstop aggression and perpetual punishment.
And I can’t help but wonder who on earth would come back to see a rematch to justify another monumental amount of time and energy expended and a leisurely $400-million heist pulled off before a mammoth crowd.
Before Mayweather stole the fancy of boxing fans, Pacquiao was the strongest pound-for-pound boxer in the planet. Fear was not in his vocabulary and pain had no meaning for the only eight-division world champion.
He did more to bring glitter and glamour to professional boxing in the face of a veritable challenge from the ultimate mixed martial arts spectacle, and sordid talks about fixed bouts to fuel suspicions that boxing had fallen on evil ways.
I left the digital wonders of the IMax movie house, where I watched the match live from a giant curb screen, feeling weird and brokenhearted, partly because I paid more and grudgingly woke up early for a lousy bout.
“We’ve been robbed,” wailed an old man seated beside a pretty lass probably twice his age and who similarly expected a savage exchange of punches, toughness, meanness, speed, stamina, zeal and courage.
What was on display was not chutzpah but a wily Mayweather, who clinched and ran away from Pacquiao, who was unnerving this time and slow, and the quickness, the agility and the rapid combinations were gone.
Time seemed to have stolen the exciting talents and ferocious gifts of the two famous boxers, and neither victory nor defeat confirmed or validated who among them was the toughest, strongest fighter ever to don gloves.
Maybe we had a better view of the exchanges than the judges and the Compubox that counted the punches thrown. Because in my notes Pacquiao won by a slim margin, unlike that shameful 118-110 score of Dave Moretti for Floyd.
If only the cheers and jeers of the fans in Las Vegas and the most lucrative worldwide television audience were to be the yardstick, then Pacquiao was a runaway winner, and still the undisputed people’s champion.
Our Manny Pacquiao won the hearts of fans around the world, and Filipinos, in particular, jammed public plazas, emptied crowded streets, climbed towering trees and filled up covered gyms to watch the choreographed fight.
Floyd cemented his legacy as the greatest fighter of his generation.“This is my era. And, in my era, I am TBE [the best ever].” Yet, he also acknowledged that Pacquiao was a tremendous warrior. “He’s a tough competitor.”
The postfight petulance and rage from the Pacquiao camp, however, are indications of how fairness and objectivity are gone. It is a testament that something is wrong in a sport rife with conflict of interests and protection of turfs.
The Nevada authorities reportedly denied Pacquiao’s request for a painkiller injection into his injured right shoulder before the fight, but allowed Mayweather to have painkiller shots on his injured fist.
Pacquiao’s team averred the Filipino fought in hostile territory. Although he was not also allowed to bring his water, sports drink and vitamins into his locker room, Manny went ahead with the fight for the “sake of the fans.”
While Pacquiao was drained of his blood sample 13 times, including the final test the day before the fight as part of the agreed drug-testing protocol, nobody knew how many times Mayweather was similarly tested.
Obviously, the Nevada magicians were playing “mind games” and Pacquiao’s undisclosed injury was apparently leaked to the Mayweather camp as the American kept pulling on Pacman’s right arm during the fight.
But the fact that Pacquiao did not disclose his injury could also lead to possible lawsuits from boxing fans that felt cheated and a fine or suspension from NSAC if it does not find his reason truthful and credible.
Pro boxing appears to be on the ropes, and there are probably few fighters of the Pacquiao variety or of the Sugar Ray Leonard and Muhammad Ali moulds who could seduce fight fans into forgetting about its ills for good.
The public outcry, and the harsh truth about rigged decisions, playing favorites, unholy alliances and insatiable appetites when ultimately unraveled could well spell disaster and usher in the poor man’s game’s untimely demise.