Las Vegas, July 20, and the night is all Pacquiao. He is the one everyone is talking about. The people love him. Keith Thurman is hardly mentioned.
The MGM Grand Garden Arena is overflowing. There is something about unique about the crowd. Usually at a big fight the high rollers come out to show they have been a part of history and push away the working people. Not tonight. Ticket prices were kept at an affordable price and the center is packed with women wearing their Sunday best and men with calloused hands and sunburnt necks. These people know boxing.
Keith Thurman makes the long walk to the ring. He is not used to ?Boos? and the crowd gives him plenty. It?s no way to treat the champion. They don?t dislike him; they just like Pacquiao better. Because many boxing fans are getting older, they want to know if a 40-year-old man can still compete against a younger, hard-hitting, champion. Thurman has been a great champion. He is just not Pacquiao.
Pacquiao enters the ring to a standing ovation. Flags fly. The applause is like standing behind a 747 engine on take-off. Thurman has been pretty disrespectful toward the Pac Man. It?s the usual pre-fight trash talk?so unnecessary. These two have nothing against one another except respect. They both want the same thing. Only one can have it. The crowd tenses. The bell sounds. Even Sheri, the minute usher directing people to their seats jumps up.
When he walked in, Manny?s face looked old, older than his 40 years. You can beat age into a face; you cannot beat it out. From the neck down, in the ring, no age is apparent. He looks better than he has in years. Time has retreated. He fires non-stop, moves like a thorn-stuck jackal, nipping, biting, scratching. He is everywhere. Thurman looks confused. He moves backwards. Wham! He is down. The crowd is up. He works his way to his feet. Pacquiao, teeth barred, rushes in. The bell sounds, barely audible over the shouts. Pacquiao walks to his corner as if it is just another day, another fight, another day at work.
The corner rescue team works frantically on Thurman. Towel, water, ice. Anything to revive him. The minute is far too short for Thurman; far too long for the crowd. At the bell he is pushed into the snake-pit and Pacquiao is waiting. Again, Pacquiao is everywhere. Thurman looks tentative, confused. Pacquiao is not the washed-up old man he expected. Thurman throws few punches. Moves cautiously. Several times he stumbles as he tries to move forward. His body has recovered. His mind has recovered. His emotions remain scrambled.
As the rounds proceed, the crowd gets pensive. Pacquiao is starting to tire. Thurman moves in range in the middle rounds. Pacquiao runs into some nasty shots, shots that would put an ordinary fighter down. Silence fills the building. The crowd is a single heart, a single breath. They realize one punch can change everything. Their world can explode. Many takes a hard shot in the 5th. His head swivels to the right then snaps back into place. He attacks in the last few seconds. He will not surrender.
The 6thround. Is Manny finished? He appears to be tired, slower, older. Confidence builds in Thurman. He is a tiger?a bull?an animal who has finally pounced on his victim. His teeth are out. Pacquiao covers up, gets knocked about. He misses. Again he is pounded. The crowd can feel what Thurman feels: a chest filling with oxygen, a thumping heart rushing blood through his young body. Power. Tightened muscles. Legs of steel. Fists like stones. Dominance over his foe. Pacquiao eats a hard right. Pacquiao survives. The round belongs to Thurman. The hunted becomes the hunted. Perhaps the turning point has arrived.
Pacquiao gets his second wind. He is again on Thurman and again Thurman looks confused. A man this old should be on oxygen by now, the medics called, the emergency room notified. What keeps him going? Round 10 and Pacquiao knocks Thurman around the ring like a Q-ball shot from a cannon. Pacquiao, ubiquitous, simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. He fades into the distance. Only his fists show, large, quick, attached like leeches to Thurman?s face and body, crushing ribs and jaw, sucking out blood. The fists fade into blurs. The face appears, the mouth grinning, the eyes like searchlights never moving from Thurman?s face. Thurman is blinded by the light. Pacquiao?s face morphs into one large sneer. For a moment he is Gregor Samsa, a ?monstrous vermin,? a giant insect, one that has always existed and will continue exist long after man has blinked out. The round should tie up the fight for Pacquiao.
Thurman is not finished. He rocks Pacquiao in the 11th. He is desperate. It?s now or never. Never, it is. Pacquiao will not be denied his place in history as the greatest boxer that ever lived. Pacquiao pushes, shoves, and all with gloves and heart and determination. His heart is the heart of the crowd and their heart is his heart all beating in unison, the everlasting beat of man?s will to survive, and not just to survive, not just to exist, but to dominate, to reign supreme.
The last round and Thurman is finished, a beaten champion, a beaten man. He has fought hard. He has fought well. He has fought like the champion he is. He is not shamed and not disgraced, just beaten.
It is now time for the worst possible scenario?the judges? decisions. The arena falls silent. Boxing has so often failed itself that no one trusts the judges. Murmurs can be heard. The crowd suspects a double-cross. Figuring up the scores is taking a long time, always a bad sign. The row of press photographers, all experienced in boxing, starts to grumble. ?Are they going to rob this poor bastard?? someone says. The photographers tally their scores. None of them gives Thurman more than 4 rounds.
Jimmy Lennon Jr. finally steps to the microphone. He is a real pro, probably the best in the business. He takes his time, lets the anticipation grow. The first judge, who apparently had not watched the fight, gives it to Thurman. The photographers start looking for the emergency exits. Even Sheri, the cute usher, looks worried. If the fight goes to Thurman there will be a riot. The ring torn down. Bodies scattered and piled like the ghosts of boxing?s past.
The next judge has Pacquiao winning. Proof an honest and knowledgeable judge can still be found. The crowd suspects a draw. But didn?t Lennon mention a split decision? Still, it?s boxing. Don?t trust anyone. The last judge. Pacquiao wins. The roof is brought down. Stars are in the heavens. All is right in the world. There is a new champion and Manny Pacquiao is his name.
