MANILA, Philippines — The foe, a mediocre Mexican with very feeble knees, failed to bring out the best in Manny Pacquiao.
There was serious drama, but the collective heroics did not reach the required noble level.
In fact, Pacquiao had to be cut on the left eyebrow — a live wire accidentally scraped of its tar coat — for him to blaze with the old fire.
The Pacman finally sparked and spewed venom.
But this was already in the sixth round.
Himself speaking, Pacquiao would admit he took it easy and played around in the early rounds.
Maybe Pacquiao did this on his own?
Or did he decide to clown first in connivance with his promoter, Bob Arum, who marketed the impending mismatch as a built-in classic?
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It was a main event that finally turned legit only with the help of an accidental head-butt.
Of course, Pacquiao would display commendable maturity in going all-out for the inevitable knockout.
While the promised picnic basket would shake and willingly unwrap, the Filipino hero did not slurp.
Pacquiao was composed, methodical, dignified.
There was no butchery, but instead a clinical clean-up.
However, the demolition of the hitherto unbeaten Jorge Solis would not — shall not — be ranked among the best of Manny Pacquiao.
Mr. Arum had again successfully marketed a forgettable mismatch.
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Of course, there was the same screaming ovation that had attended Pacquiao’s two previous conquests of the legendary Erik Morales.
But once fans started to settle down to make an honest count they would realize something was missing.
What had been served was not exactly the promised main menu.
The trouble with knockout wins of the Pacquiao class is that they’ve started to look and taste all alike.
Give his luckless, cheated hordes of Pinoy fans Pacman wins of the doubtful variety and they would still blindly lap it up.
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Marlon Brando was himself a sure sell-out in his prime, and much later during his bloated gray years.
“On The Waterfront” and “Godfather I” were both undisputed knockouts.
Not “Julius Caesar” and “Mutiny on the Bounty,” both certified flops.
Now, the sorry thing with Pacquiao’s last show is that, marketed as an epic, it willingly bordered on the comical.
While the requirement for the monumental match was for some catharsis, they instead had servings of the vulgar.
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Yes, Pacquiao did not have to throw his biggest punch to topple his shaky foe.
After Solis had flipped off the floor following the first knockdown in Round 8, all Pacquiao needed was another nudge for Solis to go down again and all too willingly give up.
It would become clear Solis was in full control of his senses but, nevertheless, stayed down long enough to avoid being blasted out.
That would’ve been a forgivable ploy, but only if Solis were not a Mexican who must uphold the enviable legacy of his macho predecessors like Bobby Chacon, Julio Cesar Chavez and, yes, Erik Morales.
Solis, full of big talk before the fight, has sissified Mexican boxing to the eyes of the world.
Of course, he was right in saying his wife could hit harder than Pacquiao.
Solis was already down on the floor plotting a cheap escape before Pacquiao could cock his patented killer follow-up.
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(TRAGIC TEXT: His location, based on his last text message, was in the mountains where he was helping out poor, hungry, oppressed planters. That was my friend Benjie Angeles, a dedicated agricultural activist. On Tuesday, there came this tragic text message: “This is Jewel, daughter of Benjie Angeles. I apologize for being the bearer of bad news. Our dear father passed away at 0108 a.m. 15 April 2007, Asian Hospital. His remains lie at Arlington Memorial Chapel, Pasig City. Please omit flowers. Thank you.” Pray for this unsung hero, please.)
