YOU couldn’t have seen the new champion for bodyguards. Six big guys, all built like brick statues, and on Manny Pacquiao’s pay-roll as insurance against gangland thugs and kidnappers.
For this was Manila, where an entire city, crime bosses included, took the day off to watch gunslinger Pacquiao feast on the great Barrera like he was a bag of tortilla chips.
Anybody who beat Jimmy Wilde had to be special, and, as a boy, I believed every word critics said about Pancho Villa.
The flyweight named after Mexico’s famous bandit was the best of all Filipinos, an explosive, two-fisted little warrior who whipped Wilde in seven rounds before 40,000 frenzied New Yorkers. Villa was only 22 at the time, and sadly never lived to Pacquiao’s age.
He had three teeth removed by a dentist, partied for a week on wine and women, and died a few days later from a throat infection.
