Proud to be Filipino November 21, 2006
I WONDER what it is about dictatorships that make sports flourish -- or at least about our dictatorships. If I recall right, we produced some pretty bright spots in sports during Marcos' time, too. Rolando Navarete was one of them, a hard-hitting though one-sided boxer, who went far but never quite reached the same dizzying heights as Manny Pacquiao. And if the reports are true, though he never reached those heights, he suffered the steepest falls. He is apparently now dependent on the kindness of strangers, or friends, in General Santos City, having added drugs to his many vices.
Eugene Torre was there, too, the Filipino grandmaster who at one point barged through to one of the interzonals that was to produce the challenger for the world championship. Alas, he didn't quite make it. But it was farther than any Filipino had gone before, or after.
These days, we're having some kind of renaissance in sports. I hadn't gotten over the thrill of Ronnie Alcano's victory in the world pool championships when Manny Pacquiao's demolition of Erik Morales came along.
The only thing that's problematic about it is that the dictatorships have a tendency to lay claim to their accomplishments -- and for the sports heroes themselves to oblige. The reasons are understandable: the sports heroes come from destitute circumstances, which is why they took to sports to begin with -- and can do with sponsors, however they are the most obnoxious people on earth.
Those considerations aside, I thrilled to Pacquiao's fight last Sunday afternoon. Though again my viewing was spoiled by someone who ought to know better than sending me a text message revealing the result just before the fight began. You forget all other considerations once Pacquiao steps into the ring and remember only that you're a Filipino. Or you don't even remember at all, all your instincts spring to life with it.
If that fight had any lesson to give, it is the old, but often forgotten one, which is never to fight in anger. The entire martial arts philosophy says you should fight earnestly but coolly, ferociously but dispassionately. You bring your ego to a fight, you're dead. That was what Morales forgot, and he paid the price.
Of course, he seemed like a shadow of his former self, physically as much as spiritually. He looked emaciated, his efforts to lose weight having taken its toll on his physique. As one of the commentators noted, he was surprised to see Morales look smaller than Pacquiao, a sight he never thought he would see. He did look smaller than Pacquaio because he looked thin and reedy. Terible was the last thing he radiated. But that wasn't why he lost.
He lost because he decided to engage Pacquaio in a brawl. The one moment when I thought Pacquaio had him was toward the end of the second round, when after a flurry of fierce exchanges, he looked at Pacquiao with scorn, eager to take him on at his game. Even if I hadn't known the outcome before hand (although hindsight is always 20-20 vision), I'd have thought that. Morales had always been the superior boxer, he had always been the inferior slugger. To take Pacquaio on in a slugfest was to flirt with suicide. A flirtation that was disastrously consummated.
In the end, it was Mexican hubris that did him in. Mexican boxers have always prided themselves with being able to take a punch -- glass jaws are for black fighters like Thomas Hearns, not for people like "Manos de Piedra" and stoned-jawed Roberto Duran -- and won't back away from a rumble. It was the weight of that pride that fell on Morales' shoulders last Sunday. Pacquiao had decked him once before, and when the Pacman seemed eager to do that all over again, Morales' ego was pricked. I don't know what kind of preparations he made. I myself thought he'd go back to the style that won him their first encounter, when he jabbed his way to a unanimous decision and taught his opponent a boxing lesson or two. But his eyes blazed after that second round. And that was the end of him.
None of this is to take anything away from Pacquaio who did a masterful job in the ring. And who did this nation a whole lot prouder by going over to Morales' corner, hugging his head briefly and offering consolation. It was as sportsmanlike a gesture as you could get. Truly, grace is the handmaiden of victory, humility the traveling companion of invincibility. I don't know what, or who, is in store for Pacquaio in months to come, but after last Sunday's fight, even Marco Antonio Barrera must be quaking in his boots. Pacquaio isn't getting weaker, he's getting stronger. The Pacman isn't losing his appetite, he's gobbling up everything in sight. Pound for pound, round for round, he's gone past even the great Flash Elorde.
He's the real deal, the "People's Champ," as Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo called him after the fight. Now, if he can only be as much a winner outside the ring as inside it, and learn to distinguish the genuine Filipino people who want to give to him from their fake leaders who want to take from him. But right now that hope seems a little distant. Maybe someone should tell him it's the secret to becoming a true People's Champ and not Some People's Chump.
* * *
I completely forgot to mention in yesterday's column that the Stop the Killings Bar Tour goes back to Conspiracy, 59 Visayas Avenue, Quezon City (across the street from a Shell station). It's a special night tonight because it's also Writers'/Artists' Night and the writers and artists are threatening to sing after featured artists Dong Abay and Aiza Seguerra. So far, the following have signed up: Rody Vera, Charlson Ong, Pete Lacaba, Susan Fernandez, Marne Kilates and Joel Saracho. Not to be outdone, several ABS-CBN Broadcasting personalities have volunteered their musical talents as well: Marc Logan, Caroline Howard, Eugene Adalia, and Ferdie Aboga. (Forget egging me on, you'll ruin your night.)
http://opinion.inq7.net/inquireropinion/columns/view_article.php?article_id=33811
Eugene Torre was there, too, the Filipino grandmaster who at one point barged through to one of the interzonals that was to produce the challenger for the world championship. Alas, he didn't quite make it. But it was farther than any Filipino had gone before, or after.
These days, we're having some kind of renaissance in sports. I hadn't gotten over the thrill of Ronnie Alcano's victory in the world pool championships when Manny Pacquiao's demolition of Erik Morales came along.
The only thing that's problematic about it is that the dictatorships have a tendency to lay claim to their accomplishments -- and for the sports heroes themselves to oblige. The reasons are understandable: the sports heroes come from destitute circumstances, which is why they took to sports to begin with -- and can do with sponsors, however they are the most obnoxious people on earth.
Those considerations aside, I thrilled to Pacquiao's fight last Sunday afternoon. Though again my viewing was spoiled by someone who ought to know better than sending me a text message revealing the result just before the fight began. You forget all other considerations once Pacquiao steps into the ring and remember only that you're a Filipino. Or you don't even remember at all, all your instincts spring to life with it.
If that fight had any lesson to give, it is the old, but often forgotten one, which is never to fight in anger. The entire martial arts philosophy says you should fight earnestly but coolly, ferociously but dispassionately. You bring your ego to a fight, you're dead. That was what Morales forgot, and he paid the price.
Of course, he seemed like a shadow of his former self, physically as much as spiritually. He looked emaciated, his efforts to lose weight having taken its toll on his physique. As one of the commentators noted, he was surprised to see Morales look smaller than Pacquiao, a sight he never thought he would see. He did look smaller than Pacquaio because he looked thin and reedy. Terible was the last thing he radiated. But that wasn't why he lost.
He lost because he decided to engage Pacquaio in a brawl. The one moment when I thought Pacquaio had him was toward the end of the second round, when after a flurry of fierce exchanges, he looked at Pacquiao with scorn, eager to take him on at his game. Even if I hadn't known the outcome before hand (although hindsight is always 20-20 vision), I'd have thought that. Morales had always been the superior boxer, he had always been the inferior slugger. To take Pacquaio on in a slugfest was to flirt with suicide. A flirtation that was disastrously consummated.
In the end, it was Mexican hubris that did him in. Mexican boxers have always prided themselves with being able to take a punch -- glass jaws are for black fighters like Thomas Hearns, not for people like "Manos de Piedra" and stoned-jawed Roberto Duran -- and won't back away from a rumble. It was the weight of that pride that fell on Morales' shoulders last Sunday. Pacquiao had decked him once before, and when the Pacman seemed eager to do that all over again, Morales' ego was pricked. I don't know what kind of preparations he made. I myself thought he'd go back to the style that won him their first encounter, when he jabbed his way to a unanimous decision and taught his opponent a boxing lesson or two. But his eyes blazed after that second round. And that was the end of him.
None of this is to take anything away from Pacquaio who did a masterful job in the ring. And who did this nation a whole lot prouder by going over to Morales' corner, hugging his head briefly and offering consolation. It was as sportsmanlike a gesture as you could get. Truly, grace is the handmaiden of victory, humility the traveling companion of invincibility. I don't know what, or who, is in store for Pacquaio in months to come, but after last Sunday's fight, even Marco Antonio Barrera must be quaking in his boots. Pacquaio isn't getting weaker, he's getting stronger. The Pacman isn't losing his appetite, he's gobbling up everything in sight. Pound for pound, round for round, he's gone past even the great Flash Elorde.
He's the real deal, the "People's Champ," as Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo called him after the fight. Now, if he can only be as much a winner outside the ring as inside it, and learn to distinguish the genuine Filipino people who want to give to him from their fake leaders who want to take from him. But right now that hope seems a little distant. Maybe someone should tell him it's the secret to becoming a true People's Champ and not Some People's Chump.
* * *
I completely forgot to mention in yesterday's column that the Stop the Killings Bar Tour goes back to Conspiracy, 59 Visayas Avenue, Quezon City (across the street from a Shell station). It's a special night tonight because it's also Writers'/Artists' Night and the writers and artists are threatening to sing after featured artists Dong Abay and Aiza Seguerra. So far, the following have signed up: Rody Vera, Charlson Ong, Pete Lacaba, Susan Fernandez, Marne Kilates and Joel Saracho. Not to be outdone, several ABS-CBN Broadcasting personalities have volunteered their musical talents as well: Marc Logan, Caroline Howard, Eugene Adalia, and Ferdie Aboga. (Forget egging me on, you'll ruin your night.)
http://opinion.inq7.net/inquireropinion/columns/view_article.php?article_id=33811
posted by dqfan06 @ 9:52 AM
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