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I’ve grown up on boxing. My grandfather got me into the sport at a young age and I’ve been engulfed in it ever since. I did not know or understand the legend of Julio Cesar Chavez, but I did know that I had to hate Oscar De La Hoya because he beat him. I knew that Mike Tyson was overrated and as soon as someone who could box came along, his balloon would be deflated; enter Buster Douglas.
Mohammed Ali is the greatest because he transcended boxing. Prince Naseem Hamed was a “clown” but you do not want to get hit by the guy. These are just some of the things that I learned while watching boxing with my grandfather. Boxing was my life. It made me happy.
A short while ago, I was faced with personal hardships that left me in a state of depression and confusion. While the sport was trying to embrace me once again with open arms, I was in no mood to watch boxing, let alone write about it. Mayweather outclassed a lesser opponent again? The heavyweight division still had no undisputed champion? That’s fine, but what else was new?
All I knew was that I was in a slump and I needed something to pull me out. Little did I know that the thing in question would be the very thing I was trying to keep away from.
While sitting in my room watching tapes of vintage fights, I got a phone call. A buddy of mine was stopping by with drinks and a copy of the epic third fight between Erik Morales and Manny Pacquiao. I read the websites and knew that Pacquiao had won via a third round knockout. He won so convincingly in fact, he knocked down the iron-chinned Mexican three times in route to the victory. I read of the Filipino phenom, a storm across the Pacific, prepped to take the boxing world from the hands of a fading Oscar De La Hoya.
As I watched the fight unfold for the very first time, all the problems in my life seemed to take a back seat. For those three rounds I found myself doing something I had not done in a while, smiling. Not only just smiling though, cheering and hollering. Standing and applauding. Then it all came back to me. Boxing was my life. It made me happy.
Maybe Pacquiao is not the best technical fighter out there. Hell, he might even lose his next fight or the fight after that, but who cares? The man fights with an unmatched intensity and heart that could only be respected by true fans of the sport.
The Filipino southpaw had revived my love for the sport, something that the pound-for-pound best or walking hall-of-famers failed to do. Even if he is not boxing’s savior, for those three rounds, he was mine.
