AN excerpt from Pacific Storm, a work in progress:
Pacquiao had originally planned to dig in and pummel Morales’ body starting in the eighth round of the rematch.
That bitter offensive however had to be launched ahead after Pacquiao landed a big left punch to the rib cage of the Mexican midway in the sixth round. Morales, hit hard close to the end of this round, was saved from falling after he was accidentally cradled by the referee when the bell sounded.
“I felt something inside there crack (‘Parang me nabali’),” Pacquiao recalled.
Morales did not just sink and give up after taking more blows to the body in the succeeding rounds.
While a knockout, described by Norman Mailer as the failure of communication between the mind and the body, usually comes in a snap, the disintegration and eventual stoppage of Morales came in slow, painful installment.
Pacquiao himself did not jump in like a raging bull to complete the execution.
The knockout came close to the end of the 10th round but, contrary to what had been prescribed, the fall of the Mexican did not result from a cut in link between mind and body.
Morales fell because he failed to stoically stand up to pain.
No, this should not mean Morales had suffered from lack of courage.
He was brave enough to take the brick-hard shots, but not steady enough to survive the supreme test.
The bitter defeat, despite the slow impact, must’ve felt like death.
If not, why would Morales swear much later, after the third fight against Pacquiao was announced, that he would be willing to die just to get back at the gallant Filipino warrior?
It was a matter of pride among Mexicans, a tested, battle-scarred people so enamored with their heroes, like revolutionary Emiliano Zapata who continued to be revered as deathless and unconquerable — “Can you kill the mountain? Can you kill the river? Can you kill the wind? Can you kill the stars?”
Morales aches to redeem his character.
Unfortunately, he will have to search hard for a school somewhere among poor kids exposed to undefinable hunger in all their waking hours.
This is the same school where Pacquiao had learned to roll with the punches, rise from a series of falls and stay on his feet through thick and thin, where he was exposed to the killing tests of character that brought out the so-called fire in the belly.
There’s also this story of how Pacquiao, in his early fights in Manila, would go without food, very thirsty, after heavy workouts in the gym. One keen-eyed broadcaster swears Pacquiao, despite his aching, empty stomach, would not be caught tagging along or hanging around when friends or teammates moved out to eat.
Not a coin in his pocket, but Pacquiao strictly stuck to himself, staying away lest somebody took pity and offered to buy him a free snack. He would not squander his quiet dignity. He would not allow people to label him what’s called in the vernacular a “patay gutom” or shameless parasite.
That early, Pacquiao was keenly charting the geography of pain, perfecting a nameless antidote to the disease called a slow knockout.
