Why Manny Matters

By Pennie Azarcon dela Cruz Executive Editor, Sunday Inquirer Magazine WATCHING wrestling was how we bonded with my father when we were growing up. I remember how on Saturday nights, he’d pull up an armchair directly in front of our black and white set, turn the channel to wrestling and loudly egg on the contenders like he were in a cockpit, which was in fact where he was on Sunday afternoons. Released from our house chores, us girls eagerly watched from the sidelines, taking our cue from the paterfamilias and rooting for this guy with feathers on his head and Apache markings on his face. Meek and poker-faced, the native American character definitely provided the perfect foil against his blustery Yankee foe. Bullied, bamboozled and bent every which way, the Apache took all the punishment quietly until the very last round. It was then that he would suddenly regain his mojos and with a few well-executed throws, have the muscled Kano lying face down on the canvas and howling with pain as his legs were being twisted into fancy shapes. As the referee tapped the requisite three counts, the Apache would execute this rain dance we often saw on cartoons, complete with the mouth-tapping woh-woh-woh victory whoop. Sometimes we’d even mime the dance and the war whoop, and would erupt in cheers when the referee raised the Apache’s arm to declare him winner. It didn’t matter that we were practically watching the same routine on weekends, only with slight variations on the wrestling techniques or the get-up of the contenders. It didn’t matter either when, many many years later, we would learn that the brash antics, the suicidal leaps on the enemy’s chest, the heart-thumping kicks to the groin, the pretzel twists to the legs and the blue-face inducing headlock were all staged. More than a modern-day gladiator fight, it was mere entertainment—a well-choreographed series of moves and blockings meant to fan the illusion of a spontaneous streetfight. Actually, knowing it was only for show made it better. At least nobody got hurt, the squeamish me thought, smiling benignly when the son, two generations later, superglued himself to the TV to root for Batista, Guerrero and all these steroid-swollen heroes of the square ring. Of course this was before some wrestlers died in their sleep-- from overdose of those prescription drugs that are meant to make them look beefier, meaner and therefore, more appealing to us sanguine viewers. Most people probably feel the same way about boxing and its many heroes. But while I loved wrestling, I can’t stand boxing. All that blood! And those half-shut swollen eyes curtained by a steady stream of blood flowing from a cracked brow. Most boxers are also so skinny and malnourished you just know they’re in a life or death battle every time they pull on their boxing gloves. It doesn’t help that we’ve heard so many heartbreak stories of small-town boxers who died in pursuit of glory in a sport that they saw as their only way out of poverty. After all, unlike basketball, another national passion, one didn’t have to be tall to ride victorious in boxing. So many scrawny probinsyanos have made it, so why not them? Which explains why I’ve recently had a change of heart for Pacman. I remember studiously avoiding his fights on TV, closeting myself in the room and reading a book or scanning my mobile for the much awaited text message. Yup, there it is: the result of the boxing bout, courtesy of friends from the US who were watching it live or a local boxing aficionado who has access to Pay Per View. Holding aloft the phone, I’d sally forth to the sala where the menfolk were huddled, cursing the endless chain of commercials and making dire predictions as to what round Pacman’s foe would kiss the canvass. “Alright! Round 8, by knockout…the winner, Manny Paaac-quiiiiiiiaaaaaoooo!” I would announce gleefully, to the collective hiss of the male viewers. From then on, everytime I emerged from the room during a Pacman bout—whether to take a leak or make some coffee—the hubby and his friends would quickly cover their ears and shut their eyes, mentally banishing this spoiler into hell. Well, this time around, while I still didn’t watch the fistorama on TV, I desisted from my usual role of pre-empting the results of the bout. I wanted the guys to savor the full glory of the Pacman win when it finally happens before their eyes. So many nay-sayers were against this match, a mismatch they said, but the puny prizefighter from GenSan ignored them and went on to demolish the heftier Mexican-American. How and why the country now regards Pacman as a national hero is the theme of this Sunday’s Inquirer Magazine. Let me again be a spoiler and tell you what’s inside the issue: the story of Pancho Villa, the Pinoy legend before Pacman; an excellent essay by Francis Ochoa (who covered the Pacquiao-De La Hoya Las Vegas match) on why Manny matters; fearless predictions on the next Pacman; a feature on Pooh-quiao, a literal punchline to the boxer’s serious business; how Pacquiao’s boxing shorts makes money; why more women are taking to the sport, starting with the daughters and heirs of Flash Elorde, and much more. I probably won’t still be watching boxing anytime soon, but I remember cheering this issue on and becoming a Pacman fan overnight. Credit it to the surge of pride and the international respect that this former bakery worker has given us Pinoys, literally grabbing it with his fists. It’s a knockout issue, promise!