While Pacquiao fights, contestants chomp on Champs

Is it sacrilege to compare Manny Pacquiao’s recent fight with Jollibee’s first-ever Champ burger eating contest? Pacquiao and Jollibee are, after all, two of the Philippines’ most hallowed and celebrated exports. Both began as underdogs: Manny Pacquiao, a poor child from General Santos City, Mindanao; Jollibee, a small ice cream shop in Cubao, Manila. Both fought hard and rose, over the decades, to international acclaim. For Pacquiao’s bout against Juan Miguel Marquez, the stadium in Las Vegas was filled with music, a cheering ringside crowd, loud hosts, and the sweaty anticipation of a violent, international, impactful dance between two men. The Jollibee in Trinoma on Friday of the same week was also filled with music and a cheering crowd. The hosts were Jollibee corporate employees managing the hungry anticipation of over a dozen men. The competitors were prepped to face down their own foes: enormous Champ burgers. When Pacquiao was presented in Las Vegas, half the audience cheered. When his challenger Marquez was presented, the other half of the audience cheered. Both men hopped and danced, flexing their hardened muscles, showing their strength, prepping for their battle. When piles of Champ burgers were presented in Trinoma, together with one enormous, tabletop-sized Champ burger to honor the occasion, the whole audience cheered. Then the Jollibee hopped and danced. The Jollibee was agile. The Jollibee had undeniable moves. When the boxing match began, I was reminded of how infrequently I watch boxing, because I was fascinated and slightly horrified. I’d forgotten, somehow, that boxing’s violence is real. Here, in front of millions, two undeniably agile, powerful grown men were doing their best to hurt each other in specific, incapacitating ways. Eyebrows splitting. Bruises round and rising. Fatigue invading dropped shoulders. The referee muscling in to break up another clenched hug. When the Jollibee contestants began eating, I was fascinated and slightly horrified again. Because this was not eating, per se; this was vacuuming, or inhaling, throat and stomach taking the place of lungs. The hosts of the contest informed us helpfully that glasses of water had been placed next to each contestant, “in case of vomit.” Each man was shadowed by a referee holding two flags. After shoving a Champ and all of its contents into his mouth, each man was required to open his mouth and show his tongue. If there was any trace of masticated Champ burger left, the ref denied the contestant the win. In the dark movie theater in Malate where the match was broadcast live, the fight began to feel more like Mass; everyone leaned forward, hands clasped, crying out once in a while when Pacquiao advanced. There was something weary and uncertain about Pacquiao. There was something stronger about Marquez. It was my first time watching Pacquiao from Manila, and I dreaded seeing him lose, so I leaned forward, too, after the final round, when he pressed his head in his corner and went to his knees for his post-fight prayer. I thought about all the Filipino hopes he carried on his shoulders when his trainer rubbed his bare, prayerful back. When contestants in the Jollibee eating contest sat to eat their Champs, they made the sign of the cross, too, hoping for their own victory. When they stuck their tongues out to show their own referees that they were finished—if they didn’t quit entirely—they sagged forward with relief, then swayed, clutching their chests and stomachs. When he was announced as reigning champion, and the victory belt was passed to him, Pacquiao was roundly booed by Marquez’s fans in Las Vegas. Later, even his fellow citizens would spend the week arguing whether or not it was a win he truly deserved; their former underdog, compact, musclebound source of international pride, now disputed, complicated champion. But at the moment of Pacquiao’s announced win, the audience members in Malate jumped to their feet and cried “Thanks God! Thank you God!” At the heart of the dispute around Manny Pacquiao was real, patriotic affection. It was an affection cut through with a kind of confusion and disappointment at times, perhaps, but at its heart was forgiveness, and a loving sense that no matter what, Pacquiao belonged to his people. The winner of the Jollibee eating contest was easier to determine, since a representative from BPI confirmed his official time. At 23 seconds, a stocky fellow in his mid-twenties named Abeja Samuel was the winner, and ultimate Champ-devourer. No spectator could dispute that. He grinningly accepted his winnings: a 5,000-peso gift certificate to Jollibee. I asked Samuel how he felt about winning, and he couldn’t answer me right away; like Manny on his knees at the end of his bout in the ring, Samuel was a little overwhelmed by his own effort. A few days later, I’ll read that Jollibee’s net income declined in the first nine months of this year. It’s not something I knew then, in the midst of the dancing Jollibee, the celebratory music, and the belly-full victor before me posing for photographs with red-shirted Jollibee corporate representatives. But I wonder now, after the Champ contest, what the dropped sales mean to Filipinos on an individual level. Does the fallen income represent an expression of disappointment toward their beloved brand? Abeja Samuel’s answer was uncomplicated. His love for Jollibee brooks no sales numbers or conditions. He claimed he did not train at all for the Champ burger eating competition. But he does eat at Jollibee twice or more a week, as he has all his life. His order is the two-piece Chickenjoy, with extra rice. He is as loyal to the Bee as Filipinos are to Pacquiao. “This is where my family eats all the time,” he finally said. “This is my childhood!" Abeja grinned again, clutching his paper victory belt that said “Champ.” – HS, GMA News