I’ve always maintained that the only person who doesn’t enjoy a birthday party is the celebrant. That’s because he’s usually wondering if everybody’s being fed, if he’s giving a good impression, and if there’s anybody who has any reason to complain about anything. And he’s usually the last person who gets to eat.
Everybody’s written volumes about Manny Pacquiao, and reported in length the amount of money he’s made through the years, and everyone who’s had any remote connection to the four-time world champion has had their fifteen minutes of fame, from gainfully under-employed former opponents to powerful politicians who fancy themselves his confidants. But what nobody talks about is the burden of obligation that society has imposed on Pacquiao, the unspoken rule that he has to take care of everybody, often ahead of himself.
It was very clear at his birthday celebration, which had a much-publicized multi-million peso price tag. Everybody who was anybody yanked his arm, dragged him around like a prized toy, and blinded him with flash photography until he was dizzy. Some people wouldn’t even stop clinging until they’d had at least half a dozen pictures with him. And of course, there were even the broadcast news professionals who tried to stay mere inches away so that, in case he said anything profound or revealing, they would be able to get it on the record.
What a way to live. I used to think provincial city mayors had a tough time. I remember my late uncle who was once mayor of Lingayen, our hometown in Pangasinan. During his tenure, not even his bedroom was sacred, as people walked in and out freely practically any time of day or night, asking for help with this or that problem. Nobody knew their boundaries anymore. It was exhausting just to watch, as if people were suddenly incapable of taking care of themselves. And almost all of them needed money for something or other.
I had a flashback of that after another PBA All-Star Game at what was the ULTRA several years ago. After broadcasting the game, we went with the players to the second floor of a Chinese restaurant in the Greenhills area. I sat at the table of Bobby Jaworski, and this was before he became a senator. For the next two hours, I watched, shaking my head, as people lined up to take his autograph, shake his hand, say hello and just look him in the face. Two solid hours. The man never got to have dinner, since the line stretched down the stairs, out the restaurant, and onto the sidewalk and the parking lot.
And we all know how it is with NBA players. There’s always somebody after them for something. Sign this, take a picture, how are you?
That’s why I admire players who handle it well, though I’m also becoming more understanding of those who don’t. I’ve also been at enough parties to see why foreign entertainers surround themselves with their posses so they’ll at least have some space to breathe.
Some of the people who’ve been around Manny Pacquiao privately rue the fact that, when they’re around him, they have to be prepared to feed the small army that always seems to be around. And this small army, which swells whenever there’s a public gathering, turns stone deaf whenever someone asks them to leave so that Manny can have a little privacy, or eat a quiet meal, for crying out loud. And some close to the Pacquiaos have informed this writer of the particularly irksome habit of one television reporter who can’t seem to take the hint to leave when inside Pacquiao’s suite in Las Vegas, or anywhere, for that matter. I suppose they think they’re just doing their job.
When the first televised political debates were being shown, it was a sign of confidence for upstart John Kennedy to walk across the stage and into the space of crusty old Richard Nixon. Nowadays, though, it’s become downright common to just walk up to somebody’s face when they’re famous, even though it’s impolite.
Bill Russell, who steadfastly refused to give autographs except when ordered by Red Auerbach, once had an argument with a fan who demanded his signature. The fan said, “We made you.” Russell sternly asked, “So do you also want me to bend over so you can kick my behind?” then reminded the overbearing admirer that his admiration was earned by Russell’s working hard to become the best at what he did. The Celtic great refused to accept that it was a price he was required to pay.
Perhaps the people who find themselves benefiting from the smallest of Manny Pacquiao’s graces can give him a little breathing room once in a while, so he won’t have to settle for midnight dinners at his own celebrations.