By Albert Samaha

Columnist

Three months of hype.

Eight weeks of grueling training.

Two hours of pay per view build up.

All that for less than six minutes.

Six minutes of reverberating right hooks. Six minutes of pummeling combinations. Six minutes of blinding speed. Six minutes of dominance. Six minutes of overwhelming national pride. Six minutes of pure Pac Man.

When Manny Pacquiao’s explosive left hook sent Ricky Hatton’s limp carcass plummeting to the canvas for the third and final time…

I usually take pride in my ability to turn ideas into words, to transform abstract into concrete, to make the intangible tangible. For my first time as a writer, though, I do not think words can do justice  the eruption of euphoria I experienced when that left hook connected.

To understand how it felt you would have had to be there in that dormitory lounge. You would have had to see me shoot out of the couch and hit my head on the low hanging ceiling. You would have had to see my friends Chris and Eric excitedly jumping around while simultaneously trying to connect on ardent high-fives. You would have had to hear the thunderous shouts and unintelligible exclamations. You would have had to see the group embrace.

Thanks to youtube’s slow reaction to copyright laws I have watched the fight in its entirety at least a dozen times. Each time I get goosebumps just as I did the night of May 2nd. And I know I’m not the only one.

Does a culture of people live and die with the successes and failures of an individual the way Filipinos do with Manny Pacquiao? Maybe blacks with Joe Louis? Mexicans with Julio Cesar Chavez? Maybe the Israelites with David?

But unlike the aforementioned cultures, we Filipinos don’t really have much else to represent us. I mean we have Miami Heat coach Eric Spoelstra, former NFL quarterback Roman Gabriel, the Jabbawockeez, Dante Basco, Jasmine Trias, Patriots linebacker Tedy Bruschi, Vanessa Hudgens, Vanessa Minnilo and WWE superstar Bautista. I guess we can have Shannyn Sossamon, although she’s a host of other ethnicities in addition to Filipino. We rep the best pitcher in baseball, San Francisco Giants ace Tim Lincecum who is a quarter Filipino. Also, I’ll count Tim Tebow who was born in the Philippines, though doesn’t possess Pinoy blood. And I guess we can rep Jasmine Villegas, the girl that sang the US national anthem before the fight, now that the world has seen her skills. Oh and Albert Samaha, of course.

But Manny is our ace. Manny boxes. And nothing builds national pride like boxing. Boxing is more intimate than any other sport because it is so vicious. It is the most primal form of competition. Boxers put so much of their physical well-being on the line, and as a fan you can almost feel every punch. Boxers don’t represent a team, they represent where they came from. They drape flags and rep neighborhoods.

Boxing has always been king in the PI. From the era of Pancho Villa to the current era of Pac Man, Filipinos have loved the sport. It’s the only sport in which we have ever earned an Olympic medal. We’ve just never had a fighter great enough, or big enough for that matter, to show the world our passion for boxing. Well, a Filipino is the best fighter in the world right now. Ask any old Lolo from the province and he’ll tell you it’s about time.

Manny literally stops wars. The guerilla combat going on in the jungles of the Philippines ceased during the fight. Incredibly, the crime rate free fell as well. Can Manny be the solution to world peace? Forget framing Mr. Millenium, let’s just show Pacquiao fights!

Following Pac Man’s success has been all the more rewarding thanks to his evolution as a fighter.  It’s got to be on par with Edward Norton’s character in “American History X” in the pantheon of remarkable transformations. I rewatched Pacquiao’s first fight with Morales, his first one with Barrerra, and his most recent one with Marquez. I could not believe the progress Manny has made in such a short period of time, so late in his career. As recently as the Marquez fight, and most noticeably in his early fights on US soil, Manny was not much more than a brawler. He took two punches to give three. All he had was a left.  His jabs could be countered. His hooks left him open. Now, Manny is as polished a boxer as there is in the world. He’s potent with both hands. His quickness has made him untouchable. He can punch and duck at the same time. He picks his spots, knowing when to lay back and when to pounce. He saw Hatton’s attacks coming every time.

How has this amazing evolution occurred?

My cousin Jed put it perfectly when he said, “Freddie Roach will never in his life have to buy a beer in the Philippines.”

Now I know how Patriots fans feel when they look to the sidelines and see Belichek. Whenever I start to feel nervous before a Pacquiao fight, I just look in the corner and see Freddie. “It’s all good, Freddie will make sure Manny’s ready.” It is such a comfort knowing he’s in our corner. Remember in “24/7” when Freddie and Michael Moorer were sitting on the couch watching film on Hatton? Remember the comment Freddie made about Hatton being susceptible on his jabs? About how Manny can get in there with his right? Well, that’s exactly what happened in the fight. Manny knew what was coming because Freddie told him what was coming. And Manny listens. Manny doesn’t think he knows better. He does exactly what Freddie tells him to do. That’s why they’re such a great pair. Freddie has so much information to teach and all Manny wants to do is learn. And that’s why Manny destroyed Hatton worse than Karrine Staffans destroyed Big Tigger’s reputation.

For six minutes Manny Pacquiao systematically beat Ricky Hatton to a pulp. Hatton couldn’t touch him. The only thing the Hitman was hitting was the canvas. It was as one-sided as a fight this hyped could be. As soon as Manny connected with the jarring left jab-right hook combo early in the first, it was obvious Hatton began to panic. The look on his face as he sat in his corner between rounds was the same look Chris DiMarco had at the 2005 Master’s after Tiger Woods hit that ridiculous 30-foot made-for-a-Nike-commercial chip-in on 16. The “There’s no way I’m beating this guy” face.

By the way don’t you respect Oscar De La Hoya just a little more now after seeing the Hatton fight? Sure he was bigger and thus more able to absorb the punishment, but still, he did stay on his feet for eight rounds. It’s like how you appreciate that ex-girlfriend who only laughed at some of your jokes a little more after you experience dating a girl who didn’t understand your jokes at all. You figured the former just didn’t have that great a sense of humor and that the next girl would laugh at all your jokes, until you actually found somebody who legitimately didn’t have a sense of humor and didn’t laugh at any of your jokes. We though Oscar was washed up, and he probably was, yet he still managed to put up a better fight than Hatton.

Freddie Roach went 2-0 on Saturday. He also trained Bernabe Concepcion, a 21 year old Filipino featherweight who pushed his record to 29-1-1 during the undercard. Bernabe’s promise as a fighter reminds us that Manny won’t be around forever and we will eventually begin searching for the next Pacquiao the same way everybody tried to crown the next Jordan in the early 2000’s. Of course, the search will be futile. There will never be another Manny just like there will never be another Jordan. There will be LeBron, there will be Kobe, but never Jordan. Hopefully Manny’s success inspires a new generation of great Filipino fighters. Hopefully it brings more recognition to guys like Bernabe Concepcion. For now, though, we still have Pac Man.

A few weeks before the fight, Chris, Eric, and I made a pilgrimage to the Wildcard Gym in Hollywood to meet the man who so prominently adorns each of our bedroom walls. The gym was cozy and humble. Tattered pictures obstructed many of the windows. Training equipment cluttered the little empty floor space available. This was the room where that right hook was perfected, the room where Manny learned to duck while punching, the room where a fighter became a boxer. In the middle of the room, sitting in front of the ring and encircled by a barrage of handlers, Manny was quiet and respectful, generous to each fan that greeted him. The coat of sweat on the Champ’s forehead made it clear Freddie Roach had just put him through another grueling workout. Manny was ready to eat. His favorite Vietnamese restaurant was just next door. Yet Manny sat and greeted every fan at the gym. He knows how much he means to his people.

Mabuhay Manny.