LOS ANGELES, California — The thick air inside the Wild Card gym seemed to groan as Manny Pacquiao ripped through it with sharp, flashing punches, again and again, his eyes sparkling wild like those of a cornered tiger.
“That’s power from GenSan, tuna capital of the Philippines,” blurted the bearded Pacquiao from middle ring, before moving to the corner for a sip of water.
He smiled a naughty, knowing smile then resumed punishing the air.
No need anymore to announce how strong and good Pacquiao had felt.
Aglow in sweat, the rock-hard abdominal muscles would say it all.
Pacquiao could indeed be in the fiercest, finest form of his fighting career.
* * *
But, then, is this actually the finest season to be here? It’s thick-jacket weather here, and don’t forget the hood, please.
The bag ladies, grimy winos, beatniks and assorted vagrants shrink and recoil in the gray chill along Vine Street in Hollywood.
A swig of cheap gin, a borrowed cigarette, or any warm old thing would help. Even homeless, loveless souls have to log some sleep.
At the corner of La Mirada, they have slashed and pulled down the sentimental black-and-white James Dean mural outside the car shop from where the legendary movieland rebel bought and drove his red Porsche to death on the highway in 1955.
The column of the great Jim Murray, may he rest in peace, has ceased appearing in the Los Angeles Times.
Arriving at the Tom Bradley Airport, the visitor, cold, is re-assured by the warm scent of brewing coffee and cinnamon rolls toasting in the oven.
But, looking closer again, the visitor groped for the LA he had always returned to and learned to adore.
Sorry now, but an unredeemable treasure — a childhood lullaby, a mother’s warm, loving smile — has been lost forever in the wintry cold.
* * *
OK, Pacquiao may indeed be one of the finest things ever to return to LA.
But is this the right time and the right place for him to be here?
The price, the fight purse to be exact, may be right. He’s being paid $2 million to fight Mexican Erik Morales again.
But on Friday night, at the veranda of his second-floor flat off Hollywood’s Sunset Boulevard, Pacquiao was musing on how to please his countless friends and admirers.
First, he has already set aside $40,000 for tickets to be distributed to those who had placed early requests.
Add to that the list of those whom he had to provide plane tickets for, from Manila to here and back. The request lists continue to grow, day after day, as The Battle nears.
Pacquiao swore he wanted to put all these problems and other assorted hassles behind him, if just for the moment.
* * *
Problems, problems.
But nothing compares to the impending tempest which he encounters in Las Vegas, some six hours by car from here, next Saturday (Sunday morning in Manila).
Pacquiao has indeed trained hardest for this battle of battles.
But how does he offset the built-in technical superiority of Morales, who had tamed and conquered him the way a matador would a raging bull, in their first clash last March?
He should have enough rest, advises martial arts master Shakespeare Chan.
How? “Ask him to look up to the sky, as far as he can see, don’t think about the fight.”
Friday, there was a bright big moon up there as Pacquiao mused on the veranda.
Fine. But Saturday night, there were thick clouds hovering. No moon, and not a single star up there, either.
Tell him some jokes, make him relax, send him to sleep, Chan repeats.
Sorry, it’s goodbye forever to the world’s most loving mother, who sang the sweetest lullaby here.
* * *
(This column was originally written for yesterday’s issue of the Inquirer.)
