Manny Pacquiao: The Renaissance manchild
MANILA, Philippines - Like any red-blooded Filipino male, I love playing pick-up basketball. I’m also not very good at it. This self-awareness actually helps me be more effective on the court — I generally get out of the way, go to the right spots on offense and defense, and make sure the ball ends up in the right hands. In short, I try not to ruin everyone’s fun.
As a self-avowed basketball scrub, there is one type of player I cannot stand during pick-up games: the basketball scrub who thinks he’s actually good. When I’m guarding one of those guys, my competitiveness reaches Michael Jordan levels (my body stays home at barangay “liga” third-string point guard level). I stick close to him, goad him to do too much, like over-dribble, or careen towards the basket awkwardly, until he bounces the ball off his foot or the backboard. I really hate those guys.
So I think I know what legit professional basketball players on Blackwater Elite feel every time they had to guard Manny Pacquiao during his PBA debut earlier this week. I can imagine the lexicon of incredulity silently building in their heads.
Fortunately, Pacquiao will be taking a break from playing and coaching the Kia Sorento team in the PBA to prepare for his title defense against Chris Algieri next month. Unfortunately, he may be back. And there’s really no one that can stop him from doing so, because the only one who can stop Pacquiao from doing Pacquiao things is Pacquiao himself.
SELF-AWARENESS
Self-awareness, like (legal) drugs, can be beneficial with the right dosage, but deadly with an excessive amount. An overdose leads to insecurity and inaction. A proper dose leads to a proper sense of perspective. Its complete absence, however, leads to bloated egos and comical levels of dilettantism. Whatever self-awareness Pacquiao originally possessed has been finally obliterated as he stepped foot on an actual professional basketball court, completing a long and painfully-awkward shedding process that began with a seemingly harmless (except to the ears) music album, a couple of song performances on Jimmy Kimmel Live, a couple of B-movies, a couple of TV hosting gigs, and a very harmful seat in Congress.
One way to grasp the incomprehensibility of “Pacquiao: The Celebrity Dilettante” is to view him through a close, if less intrusive parallel. Let’s consider him, for a moment, as the James Franco of the Philippines.
James Franco, as you may very well know, is the star of many tedious stoner bromance comedies, author of short stories, director of short films and documentaries, and perpetrator of eye-rolling pieces of performance art. Also, he’s just plain full of himself. Director Danny Boyle, in an interview with Telegraph, recalled being asked by the actor, “What do you want from me in this scene?” during the filming of 127 Hours. “You mean your character?” a confused Danny Boyle replied. “No, no. Franco. What do you want from Franco?”
But where Franco’s forays into varying degrees of pretentiousness seem like an ongoing vanity project, Pacquiao’s adventures in dabbling seem more innocent, almost childlike. To be clear, they’re both delusional megalomaniacs. It’s just that Pacquiao seems less interested in appearing competent at his recreational vocations. I don’t think he seriously sees his music and basketball skills as exemplary (except his political career, where his delusions of adequacy are pretty much industry standard). I just think he really loves singing and playing basketball.
PINOY EVERYMAN
I do, too. A lot of us do. It’s probably a safe bet that more than half of our population wish they were playing basketball and singing for a living. Pacquiao is the Pinoy everyman, the avatar of a suffering people’s most honest aspirations. Our dreams are his dreams. But only he has the wherewithal and fortitude to go ahead and do whatever the hell he feels like.
I always find it amusing whenever people confidently claim that, when put in a celebrity’s sullied shoes, they would fare better. As if an ordinary person could ever imagine the power of popularity. As if they can imagine what it feels like to have so much success and praise go to their heads that all self-awareness evaporates. Manny Pacquiao just played and coached professional basketball, despite being grossly unqualified for both jobs, because he wanted to. He has the money and the clout. In this country, which has never truly been a meritocracy, these things matter the most.
During his aspiring ascent to the top of the boxing world, Pacquiao was the personification of the Filipino Dream, offering rare but real proof that one can rise from the ubiquity and hopelessness of poverty, and go from sleeping on the streets to owning mansions, if you work hard and dedicate yourself to a craft. But like underground art and revolutions, great success eventually contradicts itself. As Pacquiao continues to morph between the boxing ring, TV and movie cameras, the concert stage, the session hall, and the basketball court, so does his message. The new Pacquiao is proof that you can truly be anything you want to be if you throw money and clout at anything. It is a truth of which we no longer need reminding.
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