by: José A Maldonado, MFA
With ticket in hand, you approach a stately building with an immense façade, displaying age in a dignified manner. The marquee, with lights flashing in a hypnotizing rhythm, calls all fans forward, like moths to a flame. On this night, two names are featured prominently upon it: PACQUIAO – BRADLEY. As you get closer you notice the patina on the door handles. A few of the tiles in the entranceway have yet to be replaced, but what is more alarming is the water damage on the ceiling, which, as you walk by, you believe should be patched up and soon. You try to ignore all of this, however, as you make your way to the lobby. The man who takes your ticket is sinister in a way you can’t put your finger on. Something in the way he smiles reminds you of Don King. Or maybe even Bob Arum.
In the hallway you walk by encased posters of battles past. Sullivan, Tunney, Robinson, and Dempsey. The men who helped build this theatre are all present, their eyes seeming to follow you from behind the glass. Sneaking in a few bites of popcorn (some of the kernels are stale) as you head toward your seat, you’re surprised to see how many people have shown up, especially since you can recall nights when there was hardly a soul here. You settle in to the once plush cushion of your seat and wait for the curtain to be raised. Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the “Theatre of the Unexpected”.
Larry Merchant gave boxing this nickname over a decade ago, and the sport has lived up to it quite well. Last second knockouts, incredible comebacks, even steroid use have only served to add to this legacy of instability. And now this…
In an age when boxing fans have become most pessimistic, in which the “money fighter” will always beat the better fighter. One of the sport’s brightest stars has been slighted by the very system that helped place him in his own constellation. This weekend, we saw the “Fighting Pride of the Philippines”, Manny Pacquiao, utterly dominate a hungry, in his prime,
Timothy Bradley. Leading up to the fight everyone was saying that “the Desert Storm” needed a knockout, citing Juan Manuel Márquez’ three failed attempts as evidence that Manny simply cannot be beat on the scorecards. He generated too much money. Bob Arum protected him by putting him in the ring with either old, smaller, or weight drained fighters. Plus there’s that carrot that is the Mayweather-Pacquiao fight that must be preserved because, hey, you never know.
Leading up to the fight, Bradley insisted that there would be a rematch in November. Pacquiao and his camp said all the right things amidst a whirlwind of distractions (politics, gambling, gay marriage, problems in his own marriage et al). The majority of casual fans had never seen Bradley fight, but what the heck, this is “Pac Man” we’re talking about, so they watched the 24/7 episodes. They listened to the interviews, and they were wooed into buying a ticket and entering the theatre.
In the first round it seemed Bradley’s movement would bother Manny and his oft-mentioned tight calves. He landed some good combinations that went virtually ignored by the Roman chorus played by pay per view’s commentators. Pacquiao landed three good punches that brought the crowd to its feet. It seemed to be an overreaction to some decent, but not overwhelming punches. But this was only a preview of what was to come.
Rounds 2 through 10, were a reminder of why Pacquiao will go down as one of the best of his generation, and some will argue, of all time. His timing was impeccable. He landed at an alarming rate, nearly two times that of Bradley. By the middle of the fight, we no longer had a contest, just a soon to be formerly undefeated world champ who had all of his will taken by a superior fighter. In the late rounds, Bradley was just looking to survive by throwing punches, without meaning it. He was going through the motions, subdued by Manny’s speed and power. Pacquiao, seemingly satisfied with his handiwork, no longer pursued his victim as steadfastly (Bradley’s fans will point to this as Pac’s downfall), perhaps saving his energy for the next showing. The first two minutes of the final rounds, he moved around the ring, knowing full well that Bradley could not (would not) take advantage of his lack of aggression. Manny used the third minute to make sure the rounds were his, as if to remind Bradley, the fans, and the judges who this fight belonged to, and he had no intentions of giving it away.
At the final bell, Timothy Bradley’s corner lifted him so that he could wave to the crowd. A few cheered, but Bradley’s face said it all… He was defeated. Pacquiao smiled with his team in his corner… Another day at the office. Another victory, or, as his shirt proclaimed, “Victory 55.” But it didn’t come. What we got instead was 115-113 twice, for a fighter who had barely won three rounds out of twelve, if that. The now ex-champ was stunned, as was the man declared the new champion, but what could they say? They’ve been spectators at this theatre too, so they knew what lines to give. “I have to watch the tape.” “It was the judges’ call”. You know the lines too, I’m sure. What comes next will no doubt be the sequel. The smitten hero looking to regain his crown. The evil villain, who came and robbed us blind. Some people will come back to the theatre. Some won’t.
The actors on the screen train hard for their roles, sacrificing their bodies, minds, and even their youth, in an effort to both entertain, and be remembered. Poor performances, unfortunately, often go rewarded, while the real victors are cast aside. We, meanwhile, continue to sit in the dark, staring forward and awaiting the next show, while those who go unseen, the men in the projector room behind us, continue to dictate what we watch and how it all transpires. If only we all turned around for just a second. If only the blinding light from the projector allowed us to see who chooses the reels. If only we had Dorothy and Toto to help us pull the curtain so that we could see the real wizard.
Now that the lights have turned on, you notice that most people have left. You vow to never come back to this rotten theatre. The boos and hisses have subsided. The film on the reel has been snatched away from the projector, leaving a blank screen. You turn back but the tiny room behind you is empty. In this theatre you can simply stay and await the next show, if you choose. Whether you stay, is up to you, of course, but although there is unlimited seating, you’ll find that coming back will prove quite difficult. Maybe you’ll stay to see if these wrongs can be fixed. Or perhaps you’ll leave, because the entire show itself seems fixed. Whichever you choose, I can’t blame you. I understand. As for me, I’m stuck here. Like it or not, I’ve given too much blood, sweat, and tears to ever leave this theatre. I even tried to hammer a few feeble nails of my own. I don’t know who’s back there in that projector room. Maybe I don’t want to know. If I ever find out, I’ll tell you; that is, if you decide to stay. If you do leave, I’ll try to save your seat, but that comes with no guarantees. Make sure you turn off the lights on your way out, and if anyone asks, tell them I’m waiting for the next show. Oh, and please leave the popcorn.
José A Maldonado is senior staff writer at punchrate.com
