The Entertainment Capital of the World. Sin City. Fight Town. Las Vegas. My second visit to the United States of America, and the first as an understanding, developed adult. It was also my first experience of a professional boxing match. To say It was everything I could have possibly hoped for is a gross understatement. For a boxing aficionado, Las Vegas is the focal point, the holy grail of pugilistic stadia. The perfect place for lovers of the sport to assemble in awe-inspiring anticipation. To raucously celebrate your fighter’s win in the immediate aftermath of a bout. Or to bury the agonizing defeat temporarily beneath the many vices on offer within the hedonistic jewel of the forgiving Nevada desert.
My two friends and I flew over with the highest of expectations. Being some of the most ardent boxing lovers around, we possessed tickets for the fight, and were possibly the most excitable passengers on the whole airplane. As a huge Erik Morales fan, for the duration of the flight my head was filled with winning outcomes, hoping that those in the mercurial Mexican’s favor would be played out. As a person who incorporates logic in any assessment though, discounting Pacquiao’s chances was impossible. Here is a prime, fast, powerful, massively-idolized wrecking machine, determined to finish the trilogy in the destructive, devastating nature for which he has become known.
But has there been a more resolutely searing flame in boxing than the one that has burnt within Erik Morales for the last decade? Sipping on the free beverages and shooting the breeze with fellow passengers, the three of us talked, and talked, and talked until we could speak no more, until our throats were dry and we had exhausted every eventuality that the forthcoming bout may bring. Ninety percent of my thought process was focused on the fight in two day?s time, everything else that we were about to enjoy in the wonderfully wicked town of Las Vegas, a distinct afterthought.
Picking up our tickets from the UNLV box office just after noon on the Friday, there was little over 32 hours until ?The Grand Finale? was scheduled to begin. The guy at the booth advised that the weigh-in was about to start in the Cox Pavillion right next door at 2 P.M. Off we headed like a group of hysterical schoolchildren to the local toy shop, encountering three more English-originating Morales fans outside. Gauging their opinions, they felt much the same way- let’s see how the two fighters look on the scales and make a more informed decision from there. After all, has there been a much more vital factor, a much more discussed issue in the build up to a superfight in recent years than Morales’ weight?
The weigh-in itself was a quite unbelievable thing to behold in terms of raw passion. The doors parted and in we rushed, scrabbling for precious space at the front of the public gallery. We filled the arena with our expectant emotion as well as our presence, hungry for a glimpse of either of the two super featherweight warriors. HBO’s ?Unofficial Ringside Scorer? Harold Lederman, the eccentric Jorge Arce and Bob Arum all came within the magnetic range of the crowd, posing for pictures and offering handshakes, but when the two combatants for the following night finally came into view, the place became a hotbed of anticipation. After taking turns on the scales bathed in the light of a hundred flashing bulbs, both weighed 129lb- the fight was on, now more than ever. The Mexican fans at the penultimate meeting were wild to say the least- Morales was clearly not lacking in support for the fight of his life the following evening. Arce was the main cheerleader, whipping up a storm in the middle of the Cox Pavillion.
Pacquiao looked a ripped monster and in the much better shape. Not looking the most healthy he had ever been, Morales at least made the weight and a number of hearts had concurrently skipped a beat for a second or two. To quote the great Marvin Hagler: ”If you open my head up, I probably still have a boxing glove for a brain.? Never more had I personally concurred with that statement than after the tumultuous event I had just experienced. We left the weigh-in in a feverish state, wishing the next 24 hours away. It was all I could think and talk about for the remainder of the day. Mustering any other train of thought was an exercise in futility.
The night of the fight, and we arrived just before the Omar Nino Romero/Brian Viloria rematch. Souvenirs were selling like hotcakes, and the banter was flying thick and fast between the sets of supporters. We joined up with the English that we had met the previous day, and they were decked in expensive suits, their attire reflecting the expensive cost of their excellently positioned seats. The eventful Romero/Viloria fight and then the surprising Ricardo Torres/Mike Arnaoutis decision set up the main event perfectly. Rapidly taking our seats in the packed stands amongst the mixed Filipino and Mexican die-hards, a chorus of friendly boos accompanied the respective national anthems and the white-hot stage was perfectly set. I have attended many a soccer match in my time, but never before have I experienced such a rowdy, fervent maelstrom of atmospheric pride.
Michael Buffer did his thing, and the bell sounded. Although I was 80+ feet from the ring, I could see everything perfectly and thankfully the big screen assistance was not necessary. Nine minutes of flurried, fiery fist-flinging was all the bang we could have expected for our bucks, and as soon as it had started, the fight was over. Despite promising moments for Morales, he was simply overwhelmed by the power, velocity and sheer volume of Pacquiao’s onslaught. His balance was non-existent, each time he threw or was caught by a hard punch from Pacquiao he looked like toppling over. The third knockdown was accompanied with a discouraged look, a resigned wink, and shake of his head towards his father. He could carry on no more and the most accomplished Mexican career since Julio Cesar Chavez was curtailed by a devastating defeat within three rounds, the result a calamity for his followers.
Nothing can be taken away from Pacquiao. He was the best he had ever been that night, capitalizing on everything he could, unflinchingly pounding Morales to the head and abdomen with relentless accuracy. His movement and signature speed were honed to a fine point. He had a brilliant right hand and he had also become the counter-puncher between the two. Make no mistake?Pacquiao had proved that he was now the better fighter, a monster at the weight and arguably the best Pound for Pound pugilist on the planet.
The Filipinos in the crowd were ecstatic, and rightly so. Their idol had rammed home his point like a rusty blade. The banter and speculation was over, pride and raucous celebrations remained. Angry Mexicans were throwing beer bottles toward the ring immediately following the referee waving his arms over Morales, others were staring with astonished disbelief, a mass of silent rage and astonishment at the brevity of proceedings. The huge screens above the ring were showing Morales’ surrender over and over, a final twist of the knife. How can their hero, a man who thrived on the bloodletting which he was so often a part of and the challenge of facing adversity, go out in such a fashion? After all the preparation, was this the end of it? A nine minute capitulation against a rival such as Pacquiao, whom he had fought to the death twice before?
In humble retrospect, no Mexican should feel ashamed of Morales. Since their first meeting, he and his opponent have gradually switched positions on the super featherweight ladder, and Pacquiao has the look of absolute supremacy at his weight, something which Erik once embodied. Morales can sleep well in the knowledge that it is improbable than any man at 130lb could last the distance with the Philipine star, who is, for my money, the most exciting fighter in the sport since Mike Tyson. Yes, he can be beaten, and yes, he still has some technical flaws which his foes could maybe exploit, but he now has a huge right had to go with that trademark left. He is a monster in the division, and, as Tyson himself once said: ?Everyone has a gameplan until they get hit!?
We watched as Larry Merchant stepped between the ropes to do his thing, crossing our fingers that Erik would do the right thing and announce his retirement. I found out later that he had stopped just short of doing that, but all the signs pointed toward the exit and the subsequent twilight years of the rest of his life. For Pacquiao, however, one big question had been answered, but a mountain of others remained. What next for him? Who can Golden Boy arrange as his next opponent? Who would want to face after that performance? And in the post-fight press conference, yet another spanner was tossed into the business works when Bob Arum announced a spanking new four-year deal, conflicting with his existing GBP contract. Let’s just hope all of these bureaucratic idiosyncrasies don’t hamper his already stellar ascent.
Everyone who remained in the arena shared a sense of unspoken wonder at what we had just witnessed. The conclusion of one of the great trilogies in boxing history, a meeting of two of the greatest ?Little Guys? of their generation. The passing of the torch between two warriors. Something to rank alongside Muhammad Ali-Joe Frazier, Riddick Bowe-Evander Holyfield, Arturo Gatti-Micky Ward and Erik Morales-Marco Antonio Barrera as one of the great trilogies in boxing history. Probably the last fight in the US for the Tijuana star. A prime Manny Pacquiao in his absolute element. My camera clicked and whirred, hoping to capture just a small part of that moment, something to reminisce and savor for the rest of my days whilst disappointed Mexicans exhausted the exits.
Once outside, the Filipino celebrations continued en masse, the shouting and chanting reaching a feverish pitch. People jumping in front of cameras, looking for a few seconds of exposure, not a green, white and red flag to be found in the immediate vicinity. We headed off, looking for a taxi, for some sort of aesthetic amusement to suspend the pain of defeat. We spoke of the brilliance of Pacquiao, the painful sight of Morales on the seat of his pants, and what came next for both fighters. Finding solace in one of the many clubs on offer on the strip, for the night at least the result could be forgotten, only to return the following day like the aching hangover that would accompany it.
My appetite for attending live prizefighting on such a large scale was satisfied, for now. We could hardly have picked a more prospectively exciting, violent fight to attend, and although it was short in length, it was the quality, not the quantity of the action that was so sublime. The experience as whole was one that I will be repeating over, and over, and over. The memory of the spectacle that we all encountered on those breathtaking two days is something that will remain with me forever, no doubt becoming the subject of countless future conversations and enduring, vivid thoughts of standout travels past.
