The telltale signs of Pacquiao-Mayweather fight stush are getting dreary by the minute. If the ?Fight or No Fight? is scaled to see whether it will happen or not, the answer is left to chance.
Serendipity might be the best word, the arrow dancing a directionless waltz. The economics are well-documented but it?s obvious that the $40 million dangled in front of both the fighters? faces are nada. They both seem to think they have enough to carry them through the rest of their lifetimes: Mayweather being a future recording mogul and Pacquiao in the incipient stage of his ambition to be the only 7-division world boxing champion cum President of the Philippines.
The public will be left with nothing.
This is an unfair equation if we look at the holistic panorama of generosity. Does the public deserve the respect? Or has it ceased to be?
And of course, there are fight brokers ? the de la Hoyas and Arums of boxing in whose elbows are consistently bent sideways and fingers permanently cut off by the yakuzas of boxing. They do not give us hints themselves. It?s funny because the sports writers are bolder and clearer in their message while Arum and Schaeffer are like muffled drums. This polarity (sports writers and promoters) has widened its gap and the chasm between their agreements or disagreements are quite obvious. The funnel of message delivered to the public is a big question mark, instead of an emphatic exclamation point. At this point it is dot-dot-dot (?) and another dot-dot-dot as the days march when what the public needs is a simple full stop (that is, one dot).
If we look at the angle from the fans? vermillion expectations, the spectacle is skewed obviously away from the adoring public?s clamor.
If the drug procedure is ticked, the amount of money ticked, the venue ticked and November 2010 ticked, why let the public salivate the way Pavlov?s dogs were? This has become a joke. Amusingly, it is rubbed on our noses and we let it because that?s the way we want the boxing industry treats us. At times, the foreboding testament that boxing is dead is primarily because of this kind of snobbery. I can glean Pinocchio?s nose growing longer every time Arum or Schaeffer faces the camera to promote the hitherto unconfirmed fight. The simple answer to 1 + 1 has morphed to an equation of pi?s and differentials.
My golly, we?re not aliens in here waiting to be accepted to ?their world?; we are the public who pays for what we think deserves every penny drawn from our own daily battles of sweat and blood. We may not possess the prowess of either boxer, but we are the vox populi pinballed at the mercy of crass commercialism made god by boxing. Our fault lies not in wanting the fight so much; it is letting the boxing illuminati control our whims and satiate their pockets first before the public is given its due.
Let it be known that this folly can gamely boomerang to those who do not think that being dead serious is both a virtue and a curse. The joke may not be on us.
