Jeepney drivers took the day off. The Land Transportation Office issued a strict memo: “Private vehicles are not allowed on city streets from 8 a.m. to 2 p.m.”
The malls opened at 3 p.m. Redemptorist and Sacred Heart, usually packed for the late morning mass, had plenty of room to spare. My brother Charlie, a late Sunday riser, was up early and watching TV, not from the comfort of his bed but at Tisoy’s.
Quinito Moras and Mark Garcia, huddled in Badgers, the resto-bar, digested pitchers of beer — at 10 in the morning.
PACKED.In SM City Cebu, thousands formed a queue at the entrance two hours prior to opening. Why? Sharon Cuneta in concert? Buy-one, take-one on all tissue paper? No, it wasn’t that; but something more unbelievable. Four cinemas. Over 1,000 seats per theater. Jam-packed. At eight in the morning!
What happened last Sunday?
I went to City Sports Club. Like SM, they offered a P300 ticket — but with free buffet breakfast. With my dad Bunny, father-in-law Jack Mendez and two other Rotarian buddies, doctors Ronnie Medalle and Ron Eullaran, we arrived at eight in the morning. Sharp. So did hundreds of others that rocked the ballroom and the Hama Bar, including Johnny Siao, Justin Uy, Bernard Loh, Jack Huang, John and Myrla Lim, Dr. Glenn Chua, Jun Angeles, Raymond Kokseng, Enrick Rama, Nilo To, Tom Academia, Vivian Ginete, and Gerry Malixi.
What happened last Sunday?
There was a coronation. An awarding. On the front of the gold trophy, it read… “Manny Pacquiao. The greatest Filipino athlete. Ever.”
There lived many. Very many. Gabriel Elorde and Pancho Villa. Paeng Nepomuceno. Felicisimo Ampon. Robert Jaworski and Ramon Fernandez. Bata Reyes. Eugene Torre. Many. There lived, back in 1996, Mansueto Velasco. Had Onyok pocketed the gold in the Atlanta Olympics, he’d be considered as the best. But he fell short.
Pacman fell short. He did. Ten months ago, he fought Erik Morales, danced with him for 12 rounds — and lost. This Part II, Pacman was unstoppable.
Among all things said, I liked what trainer Freddie Roach said last Saturday. “If we don’t win this fight,” he said. “It’s just because we can’t.” No excuses.
What made Pacman win? There are many answers. No more Murad Muhammad, no more bleeding right eye, and this time, he wore his preferred gloves, Reyes.
You can say he was focused, not even celebrating Christmas and New Year’s and his birthday. You can say he sought revenge. But here’s what mattered most: the 5-foot-6 ? Pacman body. It was in unbelievable shape. Though I didn’t see it on TV, I was told of his eight-mile climb up the Los Angeles hills. He sprinted from start to finish.
In the mountains. After, he was struck with a wooden stick in his arms, chest and stomach. Hurt? What word is that?
SOUR. During the fight, as each round progressed, you could see Morales’ face turn sour and weary. His nose enlarged. His cheeks turned from pinkish to bloody red. Not Pacman. From the first till the 10th round, his legs sprung like chicken. He danced like a boy thrown firecrackers on his feet. He could have fought on and on, and, if the fight had no time limit, he would have lasted until Round 25.
It’s now Tuesday. The Fords and the jeepneys and the Hondas are back, Ayala is open at 10, and the SM Cinemas are NOT open at eight. As the song by Sybil goes, it’s “Back to life, back to reality.” But for you and me and the 81 million
Filipinos, when we’re asked in the year 2020, “What happened last Sunday?” this we can remember.
We saw the greatest Filipino athlete. Ever.
There lived many. But only one Manny.
