Pride

Manny Pacquiao won by unanimous decision and I betted on Barrera to win 12 rounds, so I lost.  

Well, at least my prediction is lost… err, wrong. Whatever.  I don’t gamble as much with my money anymore. Not after being burned too much since I always bet on the underdog and unlike in the movies, the underdog always gets slaughtered. And unlike in the movies, I never learn. That is, until recently.

I wasn’t alone in the forecast as most experts thought that if the fight went the distance, Barrera, with his wiliness and dirty tactics, would win over the Pacman on points. Well, Pacquiao won but Barrera didn't lose.

I consider myself a student of the sport, because apart from basketball, it’s the only sport I play. Well, used to anyway. I’m too good looking to let somebody bash my face now, ehem.

Anyway, being with the family I’m in, it’s natural that I get drawn to contact sports like boxing, basketball, rugby, and badminton. Hehe, okay, I’m kidding, not badminton. Jeez! Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention.

I was crazy about boxing in elementary and high school. I did not play professional or even amateur boxing, mind you, because I’m too lazy and undisciplined for that. This is boxing/streetfight/free-for-all where you throw two boys with gloves bigger than their heads in a circle while the spectators served as a ring.

There are several advantages to this concept:

    1.) it takes the edge of pesky little boys who otherwise might have scuttled around endlessly until their energies run out ;

    2.)   it settles conflicts quickly, that is, with their fists;

    3.)    it addresses the question of who pisses farther, and;

    4.)    it makes for better entertainment than watching soaps.

And just to be clear, boxing or even a downright brawl doesn’t hurt as much as you’d think. In fact, it doesn’t hurt at all. You get a sense of this punch landing on your face and your head snapping back but that’s just about it. Adrenaline mutes the pain, I think; unless you get kicked in your balls because no amount of adrenaline could kill that pain. No siree!

Of course when the match is over, prepare to experience pain on muscles you didn’t even know existed. It’s also interesting to note that punching somebody in the face, though exhilarating, is very tiresome and dangerous, too. One time, I broke my hand from boxing. I guess his face was just too hard or my hands were just too soft and delicate, like a ballerina’s.

To train, we fashioned a punching bag out of sawmill dust (bagaso sa bisaya) into an empty sack of rice, tied the end and hung it on a hook. To prevent cuts from the sharp fabric of the sack, we strip our shirts and wrap them around our hands. I watched my kuya spending hours on the punching bag while I held it for him. When he was done, we traded places.  

I remember one time, during one of his matches, when he knocked somebody silly with a right hook. My father always told us that my kuya had a nasty hook. I, on the other hand, was quick. In boxing parlance, he was a brawler while I was a boxer and the difference is my kuya will knock you out while I will bore you to death by dancing and prancing around, and once I sense you getting sleepy, Wham! I pounce. You’re too sleepy to either get up or to continue. Victory for me, baby! Now, who’s your daddy, bitch!?!

There was no rhyme or reason to our matches. Unlike in organized boxing where the scales and managers dictate the match-ups. Regardless of his weight and circumstance, you fight because somebody challenged you, period. There were also our ever thoughtful uncles who dipped their hands into who’s fighting who. They pit their sons or nephews against you for the simple reason that they hate your guts. Who cares if their sons and nephews are bigger and older than me? I wasn’t about to dishonor my father by refusing a direct challenge.

It’s that shitty pride that got me a bloody mouth and a nasty mouse on my cheeks in the end. But it’s all good considering the alternative: being known as a coward. I think my father knew my motivations, too.

I remember one bout where I was overmatched. He was bigger than me, older than me, and he played amateur boxing, for Yoda’s sake! We played three rounds at two minutes per round. Three minutes might seem long for premature ejaculators, but if you’re getting pummeled, three minutes is an eternity. I knew I said boxing doesn’t hurt but hammers do, and it felt like being hit by one when his punches connected. I knew I could never hurt his granite face so I repeatedly dug into his ribs after watching him fold two days earlier from a wayward punch that cuffed a funny nerve underneath his left rib.  

The referee whistled. End of round.

I sat to my corner and my father whispered as I wipe the blood from my lips: Kapoy ka na. Unsa man undang na (You’re tired. You want to stop now)?

I was surprised he knew. It was a ruse, you see. I always claim fatigue when I knew I was overmatched. I wasn’t considered a thinking boxer for nothing and besides, I wasn’t about to destroy my pretty face for something I could not win. So when my father asked me that, it wasn’t out of compassion. It was a direct challenge and I don’t back away from any dare.

So I continued and got beat up some more for three more agonizing minutes. Afterwards, I walked towards my beaming father with a smirk on my face. He was triumphant but I didn’t lose. Just like with Barrera, he lost to Pacquiao but everybody was expecting him to go down in six rounds and he proved the experts wrong. With his Mexican pride, that proved to be most important after sensing that he had no hope of winning the bout.   

You see, not every beating is a defeat.