For millions of Filipinos, Pacquiao gave us something — and someone — to believe in.
I was sitting by myself, tears streaming down my cheeks, in the middle of Freedom Park in Malaybalay City, the municipality of approximately 190,712 painted over the mountains of the southern island of Mindanao in the Philippines.
Manny Pacquiao had just been knocked out cold by his biggest rival, Juan Manuel Marquez, in their fourth meeting after a draw and two victories for my countryman. This time, it was different. Marquez, pent up from the close nature of their previous fights, left no room for questions.
At the end of Round 6, the 10-second clapper sounded. Steps away from seeing his corner, Pacman walked into the Mexican slugger’s right hand and fell unconscious. As he rag-dolled face-first onto the canvas, the roar of MGM Grand in Las Vegas blared through speakers around the Philippines, where life was sucked out of 7,641 islands in agonizing unison.
The hundreds of residents who came to attend the public, government-funded watch party quickly vacated the premises with their heads down. I, 14 years old, was learning what heartbreak feels like for the first time.
Still, I sat there, waiting for my hero to sit upright as his foe relished in celebrations.
This was the kind of impact Pacquiao had on myself and our nation. Born in our mountain province of Bukidnon, raised in the coastal city of General Santos, conceived in poverty but soon wrapped in gold from his battles on and off the ring.
Luscious forests, an abundance of natural resources and crystal clear waters embrace the coasts of the Philippine archipelago. Still, a humble, God-fearing and smiley Pinoy who embodies the Filipino fighting spirit on the world stage is one of our biggest and most important contributions.
Just days before I turned seven in 2004, I saw "Pacman" fight for the first time. I remember it vividly, sitting with my father in the living room in a moment that changed my life for good. Minutes after Pops ensured the antenna was pointed in the right direction to have the least amount of grain, I fell in love with sports and realized how they affect the world.
“It’s more fun in the Philippines” is our tourism board’s slogan to invite foreigners to travel to our beautiful islands. But that was not the case for Thailand’s Narongrit Pirang during his visit. The event was dubbed “Yanig sa Taguig” — the Tagalog word “Yanig” directly translates to “vibration,” but its connotative meaning suggested the ground would shake in Metro Manila from the impact of the fight.
Staring at the joint broadcast from Solar Philippines and the Radio Philippines Network on our square box, I had my "Inside Out" moment, experiencing a color wheel of emotions.
“The Philippines’ national treasure, ‘Merciless’ Manny Pacquiao,” he was dubbed then. And he lived up to that old moniker, overwhelming the visiting Pirang through four rounds. After scoring knockdowns in the second and third, Pacman put an exclamation mark to the contest, sending Pirang to the canvas twice in the fourth round.
As the referee waved his hands above his head, a sea of Filipinos erupted around the ring. The commentary team raved in a cocktail of Tagalog and English idioms as I saw Pinoy pride beaming on my father’s face. That same joy was injected directly into my veins that day, awakening a welcomed sickness I felt for years to come whenever Manny stepped in the ring.
That was the last time Pacquiao fought on Philippine soil. But I learned quickly that it was never an issue for our people.
Saturday night in Las Vegas was Sunday morning in the Philippine Islands. The routine became simple: Get up, get ready, go to church, then rush back home, where a massive, flavorful feast was prepared for direct and extended family and friends. Name any classic Filipino dish in the books and it is likely to be on the table. Lumpia, Adobo, Kinilaw, the all-important white rice and even Lechon — the whole-roasted pig usually starring in birthdays, anniversaries, weddings and fiestas — would be the centerpiece on Pacquiao day. All around me titos (uncles) popped the caps off the San Miguel and Red Horse beers and led the battle cries 7,000 miles and oceans apart from the arena.
Regardless of your religious affiliation, church leaders knew what everyone was there to pray for on those days. From Catholics to Protestants, “Go in peace and go Manny” was the pistol pop that signaled everyone to try their best to be as organized in leaving the pews and avoiding a stampede out of the Lord’s house to go home or to a local restaurant to watch the festivities. Our Muslim brothers and sisters also religiously tuned in, and even the small population of atheists in the Philippines believed in something for as long as the fights lasted.
The hurry was necessary, especially for those taking public transportation. Minutes before noon, drivers would park their vehicles and walk toward the nearest gymnasium or park, where local government units had erected gigantic screens and bought the pay-per-view for the masses to watch in a communal setting.
By the time our national anthem, “Lupang Hinirang” ("Chosen Land"), was sung, the streets were quiet. By the time the first punch landed, cheers rang around like amphitheaters and coliseums.
Adults used to tell us as kids that crime rates went down and even the rebellious groups populating a spec-like portion of the country paused their activities when Manny fought.
The Philippines is an optimistic mosaic of joy and suffering, poverty and prosperity, beauty and madness. We have foreign and domestic conflicts hovering over us. But only one fight mattered when Pacquiao stepped in the squared circle — one man to unite more than a hundred million others.
When Manny lost his first fight against Eric Morales in bloody fashion, I felt a grudge for the first time.
I remember being sick to my stomach as his mouthpiece soared across the ring from one of Morales’ crisp punches. After arriving back in the Philippines, Manny appeared on national television, black and blue, worshiping his God as proud fans eagerly chanted “rematch” at the top of their lungs.
When the second bout rolled around following his TKO win over Hector Velasquez, I was geared up. I drew a Philippine flag and wrote a misspelled “Packman vs. Eltelibre” (Pacman vs. El Terible), waving it in front of the same television I watched the Pirang fight on two years earlier.
Mouth filled with Maruya (Banana Fritters), I began bantering in front of the screen, timing my bathroom breaks between rounds. Pacquiao corrected the loss with a convincing Round 10 TKO, which solely meant one thing — a trilogy.
Pacquiao vs. Morales 3 came at a difficult time in my family’s life. My cousin Osvaldo, who was in his early teens and loved combat sports, had sadly passed away during a school field trip. On their way back to Malaybalay City from Davao, an approaching truck’s tire exploded at high speeds. The vehicle uncontrollably struck the van he and his classmates were in, killing him and his best friend, Maverick.
“Manoy” (older brother), as we called him in the family, and his father showed me my first UFC fight on television. We used to recreate wrestling moves as he playfully threw me in Batista Bombs and Alabama Slams onto our grandmother’s bed. I do not doubt that if he were around, he would have been closest to the screen for the Morales trilogy, just as he'd been for previous fights.
His visitation was held at our grandmother’s residence for a few days before his funeral. Amid our grief, I and several cousins gathered in front of the television in one of the bedrooms, as he would have, to see "Pacman" close their rivalry with a three-round showcase.
From there, those Sundays when Pacquiao fought were experienced with even more pride and joy as he compiled one of the greatest 15-fight runs in boxing history. The myth of the “Mexicutioner” was born as Pacquiao fought the best of Mexico and found much success.
Every week leading up to a fight felt like we were preparing for the second coming of Christ. Rosaries and novenas were dedicated to his victories. News outlets closely followed his training camps. Sports networks marathoned his previous fights. Pacquiao was not just a boxer we rooted for. He was a champion who gave back to his people while putting the country on the map. At this point, he had begun getting involved in politics, which gave "Pacman" a platform to advocate for athletes across the Philippines.
Selfishly, for us, there was a slight concern that his out-of-ring life affected his in-ring performances. When he left the Roman Catholic church to become an Evangelical Protestant, some feared he lost the killer instinct as “thou shall knock out thy neighbor” is not a commandment in The Bible.
Nonetheless, Pacquiao did not waiver from 2005 to 2011. He appeared immortal. As for me, my youthful naivety and unwavering faith in my idol led me not to fear for him. Except for 2008's Oscar De La Hoya fight.
I was aware of "The Golden Boy’s" prowess and obvious size advantage. At church, I clinched my interlocked fingers, pressing them against my forehead, praying for our national hero to get through the fight intact.
In the end, Manny outclassed his idol as De La Hoya surrendered to his fast hands. We knew we were witnessing history.
Every week leading up to a fight felt like we were preparing for the second coming of Christ. Rosaries and novenas were dedicated to his victories. News outlets closely followed his training camps. Sports networks marathoned his previous fights. Pacquiao was not just a boxer we rooted for. He was a champion who gave back to his people.
When the streak ended in 2012's controversial decision against Timothy Bradley, we felt like our whole nation got robbed. The same narrative took place with Jeff Horn years later. Still, Filipinos rallied behind Manny with each fight, and I felt that even more when I moved to the United States in 2016.
When I tell American folks where I'm from, plenty of times they reply "Manny Pacquiao," and it always puts a massive smile on my face.
Although it is pleasant to watch the fights on a Saturday evening, it does not compare to the atmosphere of those Sunday watch parties in the Philippines. Nevertheless, I gained a new appreciation for the stateside Filipinos willing to give up their Saturday nights and be late to church the next morning to yell “Manny” for 36 minutes and watch our icon compete well into his 40s.
Pacquiao’s last outing in 2021 was meant to be against Errol Spence Jr., who ultimately suffered a retinal tear in his left eye and was forced to withdraw. In stepped another younger, top-class fighter in Yordenis Ugas. While the opposition was different, I knew it would not be much easier for Manny, whose retirement we had been praying for.
For the second time in my life, I sorrowfully watched Pacquiao get battered. The footwork that served him for the prime years of his career had betrayed him. Father time had remained undefeated and claimed another victim as I saw my hero refusing to give up while fighting to meet the final bell.
I watched from an apartment in New York City, sighing in relief that “at least it was not Spence,” knowing that beating would have only been worse.
Pacquiao then left boxing, or so we thought, and ran for the Philippine Presidency. But after his losing bid for the seat at Malacañang Palace, we learned "Pacman’s" urge to compete has struggled to leave his aging body.
Now, four years removed from his last outing, Pacquiao is stepping back into the ring against a dangerous opponent Mario Barrios this Saturday. Once again, I’m met with anxiety from a Pacquiao fight week. Only this time, it does not come within a melange comprised mostly of belief.
After watching fights for so many years certain of the upcoming victory, Filipinos are back in church praying our living legend at least survives "El Azteca."
Amid my chest-cramping fear out west, my family and friends back at home — aware of probabilities but clinging to the hope brought by previous chapters — are preparing for Sunday’s familiar festivities. We will never have another Manny Pacquiao, so we might as well enjoy the thrill for what this is, despite the terrifying and likely results.
"Salig lang" in our native Bisaya — or "Just trust" in English — has become the motto as we hope "Pacman" can turn back the clock for this fight.
I will always remember how my Catholic mother allowed profanity to slip from both her and us during "Pacman" fights when it otherwise usually resulted in momentary excommunication in our household. I will never forget how I hugged a stranger like a lost brother when Chris Algieri hit the floor for the sixth time, how Pacquiao gave us hope that somebody from the Philippines, despite endless struggles, made a great name for himself and inspired others to dream.
Should he pull it off, we hope, we pray to all the gods he walks into the sunset with a victory. Either way, Filipino hearts and eyes, as they have been all these decades, will back our hero.
If that means sitting by myself and watching him pick himself up from defeat again, so be it.
Category: General Sports
