HOME is the hero.
What’s he supposed to do now that he’s back?
If I were Manny Pacquiao, I’ll lie low. No public appearances. N’yet. Just sleep, eat, sleep, eat. Romp with my two sons. Watch movies on DVDs at home. Walk within the confines of home, in the backyard, for exercise. Get as much rest as possible.
You deserve it, Manny. You deserve everything. You’ve done so much sacrifice for the country already.
We will not mind it if you refuse to sign autographs.
We will not take it against you if you lock the doors.
Avoid parties.
Avoid hangers-on.
No billiards yet, please.
No cockfights yet, please.
We will still smile even if you don’t smile back at us.
We will understand. We must understand.
Although you won, it was obvious you fought a difficult fight.
We saw your fists that you had bared right after the fight.
Gosh, your left knuckles were so swollen from the punishment you had inflicted on Erik Morales they looked like huge root crops minutes after the brawl.
Even your right knuckles weren’t spared either. They appeared like bunches of oversized grapes.
We all saw it: You used both hands to throw bombs nonstop at Morales.
We heard it: You said when you were terribly pummeling Morales, the nation’s hopes, dreams, were on those punches that Sunday morning (Saturday evening in Las Vegas).
You succeeded, brilliantly inflicting on Morales his first knockout in 52 fights. You did it so masterfully in the 10th, when you decked Morales twice with a rain of blows reminiscent of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. The referee couldn’t do anything but to stop the carnage with 27 ticks left in the round.
Gosh, it all looked so easy for you, but we know it really wasn’t a piece of cake. No, it wasn’t the so-called walk in the park.
You also absorbed some of the Mexican’s best shots. You endured them all in the name of bravery, before the altar of national, patriotic, pride.
You toiled hard to achieve the dream of a nation torn and divided by fractious elements, chief of them, shame on them, are the main squatters at the Palace.
You worked harder than the usual preparing for the fight.
You sacrificed not seeing your beautiful wife, Jinkee, last Christmas.
You sacrificed not being with Jinkee and the kids on your birthday last Dec. 17.
Even overseas calls from your loved ones, including your dear mother, Dionesia, were mostly prohibited as they had been treated as distractions.
In this return match, the only one person that preoccupied your mind was Morales, who beat you on points the first time you met on March 19, 2005.
We know you couldn’t afford to be defeated again in The Battle II. Another loss to Morales would consign you to the pits and it would be terribly hard for you to climb back to the mainstream again.
So, you ignored loud whispers of your foe’s 5-inch reach advantage, using unrelenting body bombs this time to weaken the foundations of the breadbasket.
Wow, we all saw it!
You would lead with a right to the body, and next follow that up with blinding lefts tattooing Morales’ face like a paintbrush doing graffiti on a subway wall.
You were the best listener in this fight, so good a listener Freddie Roach, your American trainer, was overly profuse in praise.
“I taught him everything I know on how to beat Morales, and thank God, he listened,” said Roach, your trainer since 2001. “Pacquiao should be chiefly credited with the win. For, once I released him from the corner, it was him who was in charge altogether.”
With you back in town, you are now out of Roach’s reach—at least momentarily.
Savor every moment of it, however fleeting.
Grab back your life, however fleeting.
And because you are our hero, we will gladly help you rediscover it.
But first, let’s provide you with some space.
Next, we will protect you from the assaulting pack of wolves, blood hounds all, a.k.a. politicians.
A barricade would be more like it.
