By: Conrado de Quiros
Philippine Daily Inquirer
The comments that followed Tim Dahlberg’s article on the
Pacquiao-Bradley fight in Yahoo Sports spoke of the incredulity of the
public. This came out immediately after the fight so the reactions were
raw and spontaneous. And honest. Except for one or two who lauded the
decision, the rest were furious.
From Sean: “Well, that’s the last boxing match for me. Death of
boxing.” From David Love: “Absolute last for me, rest of my life. Screw
them.” From Sam: “My fart is better than the judges’ decision.” From
Randy: “Boycott the rematch!” From Thomas: “Boxing is a joke of a sport.
Corruption is worse in boxing than in our government.”
Dahlberg’s article itself began with this sarcastic line: “Timothy
Bradley promised to shock, though the biggest shock in his fight with
Manny Pacquiao came from the judges’ scorecards.”
I saw the fight in Toronto, in a pizza place cum bar toward midnight
last Saturday, and there was a good crowd there, half of them Filipinos.
My reaction to the decision was closest to the guy who said, “Screw
them,” though I had a more common and vulgar word than “screw” in mind.
Some things lend themselves to expletives, and expletives were what came
rushing through my mind, and mouth, when the decision was read.
But before that, I was stunned. My mind blanked, the world dissolved
in unreality, everything seemed as distant as the moon. That Pacquiao
should only have a two-point edge over Bradley in the scorecard of the
judge who voted for him, I was shocked. That the second judge would
actually have Bradley ahead of Pacquiao, I was zonked. That the third
judge would actually agree with him and give Bradley the win, that was
when I felt the gates of hell open, darkness filled the earth, the world
turned upside down. And that was when I shouted, if only in my mind,
“F–k you!”
The Filipinos, who burst into a spontaneous roar every time Pacquiao
sent a flurry of blows into Bradley’s face and body, to the amusement of
the customers that hovered in the wings, though many of them were
caught in the heat of the fight too, were stunned to disbelieving
silence. Though they would hiss and curse as they filed their way out.
Even the non-Filipinos were disgusted by the decision and made their
sympathies known to the Filipino crowd.
This was by no means close. This was by no means near. This was by no
means contested. This was lopsided. This was a mugging. I had thought
earlier that Pacquiao would need nothing less than a knockout to get
back to his lofty perch after he fell to the same ground the rest of us
mortals lived with his fight with Juan Manuel Marquez. But this was the
next best thing to it. Pacquiao fought masterfully, choosing his spots,
toying with Bradley like a cat does with a mouse before deciding to make
dinner out of him. The announcers themselves, such as I could hear them
over the din, confirmed the fact.
I was with the guys from Ryan Cayabyab’s musical troupe and the only
thing we were betting on after the first three rounds was what round
Bradley would fall. He seemed on the verge of it a couple of times. Only
his stamina or fortitude or heart kept him standing. That was
impressive too, the fact that he did not go down, the fact that he
fought on, though I wondered how he would be feeling at the end of the
fight. Maybe not as agonizingly as Ricky Hatton and Miguel Cotto and
Antonio Margarito whose faces bore traces of the war they had been in
and had ended up in hospitals afterward. But not much better.
I was prepared to laud Bradley. To say that it wasn’t Pacquiao’s
undiminished skills that had made the fight exciting, or last to the
bitter end, it was Bradley’s unimaginable capacity to take punishment.
Until the decision was read. Until that mind-boggling, brain-addling,
reality-altering proclamation that he had won the fight was made.
Pacquiao himself showed grace in his (manufactured) defeat, appearing
in the post-game ring interview, though he could very well have snubbed
it and the world would have understood, and saying wryly those were the
rules of the game, the judges decided things, and that was their
decision. He could have added such as their decision had anything to do
with rules, such as their decision had anything to do with sanity. But
he refrained from doing so, managing at least to snatch from that loss a
moral victory of sorts. He may be gaining in his battles in life what
he has been losing of late in his battles in the ring.
In the end, this fight was lopsided—against Pacquiao. This fight was a
mugging—of Pacquiao. But Bradley did not account for the lopsidedness,
Bradley did not account for the mugging. The judges did. Pacquiao
stepped into that ring with more than Bradley to fight. He stepped into
the ring with organized crime to fight. Oh, yes, that was organized
crime plain as day. To say that that fight was rigged is to say that
this country’s 2004 elections were rigged. You could smell the stench of
that corruption from Las Vegas to Las Palmas. As one Filipino put it,
na-Comelec si Pacquiao.
The media have been calling the decision controversial. It is about
as controversial as the proposition that Zaldy Ampatuan is a mass
murderer. There is nothing controversial about it. This was barefaced
cheating. This was plain-as-day-highway robbery. This was in-your-face
shoving the dirty finger and saying “F–k you.” In the face not just of
us Filipinos but of boxing itself, in the face of those who elevated the
game from savageness to human striving, from primitiveness to art. Like
every Filipino and fans of boxing everywhere, I feel sore and raw and
angry. It is the feeling of having just had the Akyat Bahay Gang go
every square inch through my home. It is the feeling of being screwed.
It is the feeling of being f–ked.
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