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Erik Morales: The End of an EraBy James MacDonald November 19th, 2006 All Boxing Articles
I watched one half of what inspired me to write about this sport walk down the aisle in the ill-fated pursuit of his prime. As was the case 10 months prior, I felt nervous, only this time it was more akin to a heightened feeling of anxiety. There is something in Erik Morales and Marco Antonio Barrera that represents something not even my compatriots Scott Harrison and Alex Arthur can aspire to. I have always been a boxing fan, but ever since my dad sat me down to watch their unyieldingly compelling, see-sawing war in 2000, Morales and Barrera have been situated comfortably in the V.I.P. area of my heart. While both Morales and Pacquiao prepared to engage, I was acutely aware of my feelings as I sat with clenched fists and the first signs of tears etched across my face. I wasn’t in tears, but my sincerity in willing Morales to win could conceivably have reduced me to a mad-eyed football hooligan, rabidly cheering my team to glory. Instead, I contained my emotions and attempted to ease my nerves by convincing myself that it is just a sport, one which I haven’t felt suitably passionate enough to write about in almost a year. So much for self-reassurance. Finally, they lock horns. Morales is tentative, Pacquiao the infectious bundle of energy one has come to take for granted. Already I can see Pacman has the measure of Erik. “No, no, Erik’s just finding his feet and taking a look at him, James,” I reaffirm to myself. Finally, Morales erupts with a vintage flurry that has the Filipino momentarily off balance. I mutter under my breath, through gritted teeth, “Go on, Morales”. The young heir apparent is more consistent in his offence, however, and he takes the round. They come out for the second, Morales this time more willing to trade. They go back and forth, each having success, yet it’s clear to see who carries the greater power, Morales regularly being knocked off balance from the weight of Manny’s shots. Suddenly, another fusillade from my boy registers as Pacquiao veers back towards the ropes. “That’s more like it,” I think, just before Erik drops to a knee, almost cutting me off in my train of thought. “That was a slip surely?” I am reassured as Larry Merchant begins to drone on about a phantom right hand that couldn’t possibly have landed. I know it have been a right, since the punch wasn’t possible in relation to where Manny was. Erik isn’t complaining, though. A replay confirms a left hook landing to the temple, moments after Erik trudges back to his corner, already showing signs of wear at the end of round two. They come out for the third and Pacquiao’s punches might as well be hitting the volume button on my anxiety remote. By this point, I just want Morales to survive until the twelfth, despite the occasional flurry of resistance from the once great Mexican. I want his pride intact, pride shattered the last time these two met. Pacquiao is relentless, though, and his incessant barrage of power shots yields another knockdown. There is no doubt this time. Erik is hurt and will struggle to see out the round. Yet he resists, if only for a minute. Just as was the case seconds prior, Pac scores another knockdown, a carbon copy of the one previous. This time, in a moment reminiscent of Arguello-Prior II, Morales sits, knees raised, looking at his corner with a dejected shake of the head. It’s all over, in more than one sense. I sit after the fight for a good three to four minutes with a dejected look mirroring that of Morales’ minutes prior. One thing is for sure, this article cannot do my feelings towards Erik Morales justice, nor the hurt which I shared in watching him have to concede the fight in a manner unfitting of a man who will go down as one of the all time greats. Time to hang “em up, Erik. Related Boxing Articles...
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