I WAS in Mexico when Manny Pacquiao fought Erik Morales for the second time. I had gone there on a month-long vacation so I could be with my mother who is now married to a 70-year-old El Mariachi who can pass for my great-granddad.
My mom and Papa Alejandro live in the medieval town of Pastrana, 25 miles southeast of the city of Guadalajara. Pastrana is much older than Pandan town in Antique province, where I come from, just as Mexico is a hundred or more years older than the Philippines.
Mexicans are a happy people, very much like Filipinos. There are national holidays and fiestas being celebrated almost every month of the year and every other day is some saint’s feast day. But when Pacquiao defeated Morales, Mexicans mourned and sang dirges all day. Apparently, even Grammy Award winner Jon Secada could not bring luck to “El Terrible.”
On the day of the fight, I decided to go to a cheap local cantina named Casa Comeda, where Pastrana’s “tambay” [idlers] hang out every Print this story Send this story Write the editor Reprint this article View other stories
day to brighten up their monotonous lives with poorly made but strong sangria. Instead of tortillas and chili cons, the menu for the day was the rematch between Pacman and El Terrible. I knew that I would be the only Filipino around and this thought was bound to inhibit me from cheering for our champion as much as I wanted. But I also knew that if Pacman would win, I would be the only one rejoicing there. And then I would be the Pacquiao of the pueblo.
The scene at the restaurant was typically Mexican, except for the 21-year-old lad from the Philippines. There, a small crowd of mostly old men had gathered and their eyes glued to the TV set. But instead of football, they were all watching a boxing match.
Filipinos and Mexicans share the same passion for boxing. No wonder Pacman counts three great Mexican boxers among the fighters he has beaten. He has stood in the way of Mexico’s dream of ruling his weight division.
Mexico is just a little more progressive than the Philippines economically. Going to their provinces and towns is like going to a Latin American version of the Philippines. You see little kids playing in the streets all day until their skin turns brown. Many boys in both countries see boxing as their way out of poverty.
In many Philippine provinces, boys learn to box at a very early age because they think fighting is the surest way to earn some money-even big money. Their bodies hardened from working in the farm or the sea, they are quickly prepared for the boxing ring.
In our town in Antique, every boy looks forward to the town fiesta because by tradition that is when an amateur boxing tournament is held. For a hundred pesos or two, little boys are willing to risk getting black eyes or having their lips busted. The one who comes out the winner of the tournament is hailed as a champion throughout the year. At a very young age, boys learn that success can be attained through fighting.
Fighting in the ring is every young man’s rite of passage to manhood in our town. Anyone who has never worn a boxing glove must be gay, and no father wants a sissy for a son. That is why when they have their fill of cockfights, fathers love to see their boys fight each other in the backyard, even just for the heck of it.
My dad fought with liver cancer and lost. He last saw me wearing boxing gloves when I was in 2nd grade and a kid who was a year younger beat me. For a long time, I could not understand why my father treated me as if I were worthless after that defeat. But now I understand. He suffered more than I did, with all the ribbing he got. A son no matter how much he has detached himself from his father remains a part of him.
That defeat marked me as a loser. I didn’t excel in high school. I finished college, but not before failing in three subjects. And now I am lost in a sea of hopefuls looking for jobs in the big city. I am a failure and my failure to land a job brought me to Mexico with the faint hope that after a vacation maybe my luck would change.
My mother is a better fighter. Look at her: she even ventured into Mexico to find another husband.
As I entered Casa Comeda, I immediately felt as if I myself were entering the ring. I could sense strange eyes peering at me with great curiosity, if not disdain. Watching Pacquiao on TV together with Mexicans who were cheering for Morales made me feel like a loser all over again. I was not the strongest kid; I was not the smartest student. I was just a young man unsure of his destiny. I was not the “bida” [hero]. Everyone was cheering for my opponent since all those around me were sure I could never win.
The first rounds made me shake with worry. Sweat quickly covered my body. However, from the sixth round until the knockout round, my voice could be heard all over Mexico. I did not care if I was not from the place. All I cared about was that I had won the battle after suffering many defeats. I was Pacman. I was the man. And I wanted to rush to my father and tell him I had won at last.
The Philippines was conquered by Spain once, Pacquiao was beaten by Morales once, and me, I had been beaten several times. “The Battle Part 2” was sweet revenge.
My father taught me that life is a boxing ring. You have your strongest punches to knock out failure. And just like in boxing, you have to have rhythm. You should know how, where and when to punch and how to dodge or parry life’s blows.
But one thing my father did not teach me-and the thing I learned from “The Battle Part 2”-is that the most critical fight is the fight for revenge. The real fighter is the fighter who has been knocked out at least once, and picks himself up to fight again and win.
Arden Rod Condez, 21, is a graduate in Broadcast Communication/Literature of the University Philippines Visayas in Miagao, Iloilo.
