By: Iris P. Concepcion
As Mr. PACMAN blew the heads off his opponent yesterday, I was having lunch with old friends over shrimps and fish concoctions that were a huge delight to the palate and taste buds. The vicinity was quiet as it was historic.
I was getting my blow-by-blow account of the ring from a friend-texter who had the most salacious comments about the fight. Like: "A true gentleman at heart, Pacman could have knocked down his opponent but he still showed mercy and spared him the kick."
I was asking for a t.v. set but the waiter just smiled at me. I was mouthing the text messages loudly and everyone would go "Oh, how many rounds again?"
It was a great experience. Getting your tummy and mind and mouth filled up by talk and food and some music that is as parody as the height of Mt. Everest. The creme de la creme was when the final blow was given.
The hubby's party host spoke, thus: "Tell him to come over for lunch. Pacquiao already beat Margarito."
Before everyone can make bogus calls that the huger, bigger and buffer opponent is ahead, some angel from heaven just delivered that cold, hard, sweet fact as that: straightforward as it should be.
What makes Pacman great?
I shall tell you what. He surrounds himself with people who are genuinely tough. They are well-rounded, direct, never limelight conscious. They are quite difficult to get duped. They are products of the hood, having seen grime, dirt and all. I mean, from the ground. They can hit on all fronts. I mean, you want them to belt out songs? They too, can do that. They are genuinely talented without having to get refurbished by photoshops and techno maneuverings.
And they are truly the best finishers. They are the only people I know who allow their opponents to take center stage, mic and all. After which, they throw away books with stories so beautiful that I get to intone out loud and boom, whack, zing, everything is snuffed.
I went out from that place full and fulfilled. I need to buy something from a drugstore and I took a pee there. They had a Laban sign and it was cool. I felt safe and at home.
I hung out with two buddies after.
Our friend-driver said: "Let us visit the church, show our respect."
There was a wedding, the Black Nazarene on the door, getting his space in his glassed, coffin-like resting place.
And I saw a van with some beloved moment's face. The village was serene as it was filled with yellows and greens and extremely forthright people. No senseless hollering and shouting here (products of misplaced creativity).
"Coffee?" the buddy said.
We headed to the Dome where the open air was more splendid than the indoor set-up. We devoured the free taste samplings of potatoes (patatas) that I highly recommend to everyone. From the Korean barbeque outlet.
Margarito is a wuzz, period. All talk, no punch. His handlers have big mouths, exchanging buff for substance. I have heard some of these guys talk bitterly, ahead of their bragging "we are heftier" claims. Whenever I hear these things, I'd know something good is coming. Like a big blow on the face smash. I was proven right in my silence.
Pacman, on the other hand, is the Eight Wonder Of The World. 8 crowns under his belt in his entire career. That is a difficult task to even compete with.
Then, we talked about electromuscular and bone ailments (this buddy is an Israelian-trained medical practitioner). He said that he had cured athletes who had been injured by sports activities like ski sloping or rock climbing. He spoke of bandages. I ate my snow cone that he paid for in glee. He said that only Pacman remains uninjured. He gave me his calling card.
We talked about building roads, economics, donations, school improvements, entertainment, videoke singing and snowmen.
He asked: "Is that just power?"
I answered: " If you show them how to do things better and you actually do it, that is the only best revenge, ever."
He nodded.
Pacman wins because he reaches that destination, always, with class.
Just like this monkish, hair-patched buddy of mine.