The Night Manny Pacquiao KO’ed Ricky Hatton

I do not have the terminology to discuss boxing knowledgeably, so I will defer to Patrick Rosal.

My friends, boxing is brutal, but it is interesting when it becomes an exercise in national pride. This is what I was doing Saturday night, apparently exercising my national pride, whupping it up with a room full of family and friends, thanks to my parents and Pay Per View (afterward we did karaoke). I was offline all day, so I hadn’t yet heard about Manong Al’s passing.

I also must refer back to my Pacquiao/De La Hoya poem, because that poem’s images replayed themselves, vivid and crystal: Martin Nievera signing “Lupang Hinirang,” the Philippine National Anthem, as the camera gives us aerial view above the MGM Grand Hotel and the nighttime Las Vegas strip, all lights and bling. Here, I am thinking, how crazy is this visual, The Strip lit up like we aren’t in an energy crisis or a recession, before the can o’ whupass is opened, with “Lupang Hinirang, / Duyan ka ng magiting, / Sa manlulupig, / ‘Di ka pasisiil…” Maybe not crazy. Maybe ironic.

Then a mere five minutes and 59 seconds later, as Hatton is flung out on the floor of the boxing ring, limp, unresponsive, sweating, as I am wondering if this poor man would ever get up and walk again, Pacquiao knelt down at the boxing ring’s corner post, almost penitent, after which he was hoisted up on his kababayans’ shoulders, rosaried, victorious.

Two rounds. The knockout punch looked like it would make Hatton’s jaw fly into the next room.

I must say; there is something sadistic about deriving satisfaction watching one man pummel another senseless. So what do you call it when a Filipino derives satisfaction watching another Filipino pummeling a white man senseless?

Back to Pat’s blog post about Pacquiao’s feet, about artful use of limited space, and also, to Pacquiao’s trainer, who tells us of Hatton’s predictability, inflexibility, inability to adjust and revise. There has got to be something about poetics and po-biz here.

Also, Hatton, his get-up (fringe, sequins, Union Jack on his ass), his entourage looked a little too flashy for a guy to get KO’ed in two rounds. There has got to be something about poetics and po-biz here.

Another poem is bound to happen, and hopefully soon, though it’s been an intense weekend. And I think the first poem might actually belong in this current “For the City that Nearly Broke Me” series.