Portrait of the pugilist and fight fan as Pinoy

My earliest memories of Philippine boxing take me back to the now-extinct Burnham Park Auditorium, the community social center and ballroom which doubled as the local gym for much-awaited boxing brawls featuring local legends and visiting journeymen gunning for transient glory and a fistful of pesos. Rey Ming Chan, a bruiser who would mellow into refereeing bouts until the 1980s, and Fighting San Carlos, both of whom never gained national let alone global prominence like Manny Pacquiao, are two names I remember among the several boxers whose bouts I watched as a young boy tagging along with my uncle Mac and other adult boxing aficionados. 

Close to ringside, I could feel the steaming heat of the crowd; was enveloped by the cloud of cigarette smoke; flinched at the thud of gloves impacting on human jaws and torsos; witnessed the spray of sweat off the faces and heads of the fighters jolting each other with haymakers. Every devastating blow that made the opponent double up, wobble or drop was greeted by the excited howls of the crowd that cried for more punishment to be inflicted. The only human noise to approximate that Roman cheering in the auditorium I was to hear years later, when I would pass by a so-called “coliseum” where a cockfighting derby was being held. (Years later, I would watch the Thrilla in Manila with some colleagues from academe. The resident of the house was a mild-mannered professor whose field of expertise and classroom demeanor reminded one of the high-minded philosophers of ancient Greece. But as soon as the titanic bout was on, he was transformed from Socrates to raging spectator, punching the air and cheering on the protagonists as if he were at ringside. Normally capable of sociological detachment, he was obviously allowing another human instinct to temporarily take over.)

A master boxer like Pacquiao could easily have been a champion during those early days, but the sport and the times were such that there was no way he could have gotten rich from the boldest profession. The golden age of Pancho Villa and Ceferino Garcia belonged to a pre-war generation. It would take a Flash Elorde to revive the fortunes of the Filipino boxer, but another golden age was not forthcoming. The likes of Roberto Cruz and Rolando Navarrete faded away before they could really stamp their class on the world stage.

I had a practical reason for wanting to watch boxing matches in my early years — I wanted to learn how to box, to defend myself from bullies, a regular fixture in one’s childhood. I even bought a British pocket book at the old Cid school supply store on Session Road called Boxing for Beginners, which had illustrations of how to throw basic punches as well as defend one’s self against them. I took boxing lessons from grade school and high school classmates who knew their stuff, and got quite a drubbing. But at least I won two out of three bare-knuckle grudge fights on that hallowed ground called Mt. Mary. I lost one bout to my rival in class because, instead of boxing, he wrestled me to the ground, which made my punches ineffective. I would date the introduction of mixed martial arts in the Philippines to that unequal fight I had when I was in grade six. That pug I fought later became an SVD missionary priest.

Boxing has come a long way since those lean years of Rey Ming Chan and his tribe. Now people pay a lot of money — in places like Nevada and Texas anyway — to watch a world championship fight, and if they cannot be at the arena itself because of pricey tickets that only the rich (e.g., Filipino politicians) can afford, or the place is too far and only the rich (e.g. Filipino politicians) would bother to fly over, they order pay-per-view on cable TV or watch the bout live in special venues such as restaurants (with breakfast or brunch included in the price of admission), gymnasiums, auditoriums, cinemas and other places provided with giant screens where the fans can watch the live feed by satellite. And of course the most successful boxers become millionaires or billionaires overnight.

The Pacquiao-Margarito fight was my first opportunity to watch a live match featuring the current national icon. All but one of his past matches I had followed on radio which broadcast them in real time, without commercial interruptions. I had foresworn ever again watching any of his fights on delayed telecast because of the lengthy ads, which were a temptation to practice your kickboxing skills on the TV screen. In the run-up to the momentous (okay, the hype was getting to me) Pacquiao-Margarito showdown at the Dallas Cowboys Stadium in Texas, I was seized by a sudden epiphany: Why was I punishing myself and letting reclusiveness get in the way of taking part in experiencing national happiness, no matter how gross? Why wasn’t I being one with the zeitgeist? How could I, a writer, feel the pulse of society, confined to my pad, listening to a radio broadcast and merely imagining one of the greatest gladiatorial events of modern times? Why don’t I go to nearby antiquated Ever Gotesco, the classier TriNoma or SM North, to join my compatriots in what must be the only moment in history when this fratricidal country is united? Why not feel with them the thrill of victory, the heart-stopping rhythm of pounding fists, the spectacle of imploding eye sockets, the cathartic spurt of blood on the enemy’s face? And it was then that my heart was flooded with nostalgia for the extinct Baguio auditorium.

I told a friend my decision to see the action live, once and for all.

“But there’s a terrorism advisory,” she warned. “There could be explosions in the most public of places, and what better target of opportunity than the crowded cinemas showing the Pacquiao fight?”

That almost put paid to my plan of being one with the zeitgeist. Then, a couple of days before the event, I went to Shopwise on Commonwealth Avenue to pick up a bottle of shampoo, a famous brand. The promo girl said, “Ser, plus P50 only if you buy the shampoo, and you have a ticket for the fight at The Big Tent!”

That fateful shopping trip did it. The terrorists could not have known about The Big Tent, tucked away somewhere in Isadora Hills, quite a way off Commonwealth Avenue. I was supposed to be there at 8 a.m. the following Sunday, to catch all the preliminary bouts, and to get a good seat. Almost all women I know abhor boxing. They cannot stand the sight of two men beating each other to a pulp. So I expected to find at The Big Tent only beer-drinking males of all ages, all vicariously feeling like warriors about to become the toast of the world. What a surprise, then, to see so many women — wives, girlfriends, teen-aged daughters — among the big crowd tightly squeezed together on hundreds of white mono-bloc chairs. The air conditioning was adequate, the screen was humongous, the acoustics were great and the picture was high-definition. At the back of the crowd was a table selling food and drinks.

As the main event unfolded, I found myself becoming critical of how this big-time business of boxing was being conducted now. Why do the fighters have to wait in their holding rooms — their images (preening, shadow boxing, muscle-flexing) flashed on overhead screens — while their national anthems were being sung on the ring? Boxers used to stand behind the singers, presumably to derive strength and inspiration from the rendition of their respective anthems. I would even suggest that in order to rev up their fervor and psych themselves some more, the boxers could be made to sing their country’s anthems. (Think of the All Blacks and their hakka.) The downside, of course, is that we won’t get to see and hear the likes of Zyrene Parsad, as well as the amazing Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders in their moving and unexpected display of harmonic singing. So much for their bimbo image then.

Everyone has talked and written about it by this time: how, in the 11th round, Pacquiao looked imploringly at the referee. I think everyone in the audience instinctively knew what it meant, as confirmed by the champion later. “Boxing is not for killing,” he quipped, and indeed Pacquiao had expressed his concern to the referee over the heavily damaged eye of Margarito, an injury that, of course, the champion had skillfully inflicted on the plucky challenger. The referee manifested some concern, too, halting the fight briefly at least twice to look at the eye of Margarito, eliciting some audible boos from the crowd, which presumably wanted nothing less than non-stop, flesh-ripping action from round one to finish to get their money’s worth. It is rare for a boxer in the moment of combat to start getting worried about the injury he has caused his opponent, and the gesture shows the humane side of a warrior. No boxer would want to totally decommission, much less kill, a colleague in this brutal, bloody business.

Some sportswriters have said that there have been boxers in the past who exhibited the same Christian charity and humane touch as Pacquiao did, yet I remember only one such boxer, and he was Big Ben Bolt, who showed class and compassion by refusing to hit the massively injured face of his opponent, instead concentrating on body shots in the concluding round of a championship fight. But this great moment in boxing took place in the imagination of writer Elliott Caplin, and was illustrated by the great John Cullen Murphy in that eponymous comic strip.

While Pacquiao is basking in hero worship and iconhood, some people choose to be morose and sardonic in their perception of Filipino culture at times like these. A former comedian who now broadcasts as the resident folk theologian of DZBB (although I listen to him only for the cha-cha music and the golden tunes from long ago and screen out the rest), suddenly blurted out a broadside days after the bout – “Nagkakaisa lamang tayong mga Pilipino kapag may binubugbog si Manny Pacquiao. Hiyawan tayo, at hindi pa tayo kuntento kung di niya mapatulog. Gusto pa nga yata nating patayin na yung kalaban. Ano bang klase tayong tao?” or words to that effect. Part truth and part hyperbole, of course. We may be baying for blood, but we only want the other fellow beaten senseless and out cold, not lifeless on the canvas.  

On the night before the big fight, the Grand Lotto 6/55 was enticing millions of Filipinos to line up in front of lotto outlets throughout the country, each one hoping to be the solitary person to scoop up the jackpot which was nearing the half-a-billion-peso mark — still less than half of what Pacquiao would eventually earn for half an hour spent beating up another boxer. I was one of five million Filipinos patiently waiting in line to take a shot at the 1-in-28 million odds of winning the jackpot, an amount that Pacquiao was guaranteed to pocket the following day as his initial paycheck for just that one bout. Nobody won the Grand Lotto that night, though.

While envying the good fortune of the one Filipino who had it all, still we waited with bated breath and high hopes in all viewing venues across the country as the main event inched closer. The certainty of a Pacquiao victory or the remote possibility of hitting the jackpot in the lottery — this is what gives the Pinoy Everyjuan the ultimate heart flutter in these parlous and desperate times.