The Final Score: GQ Writer discovers Pacquiao is Greatness surrounded by Madness

I felt Andrew Corsello’s exasperation. Corsello quickly realized Manny Pacquiao wasn’t Bill Bradley. Yet Corsello, hoping to unearth enough sentences to form an ode, still tried to extract quotes from the pound for pound king. As Corsello found out, asking Pacquiao to explain his power is like begging Da Vinci to write a 10-point manual on how to achieve artistic genius.

Pacquiao’s legendary posse made Corsello’s task even more excruciating. We try to look past the ruckus but we can’t. We the writers, journalists, pundits attempt to peel the layers. We end up overwhelmed by Manny’s context. It’s crazy. Like the craziness of Pacquiao’s trunks which displays more advertisements than the entire stretch of Edsa, it drives us bonkers. As such, let’s just call his entourage Manny’s personal quirk; something that makes Pacquiao unique, maybe even admirable. You must be dense not to find the cacophony around Pacquiao a little insane. The way one man gets as close to perfection amidst the lunacy borders on the supernatural. Bingo! And now we know, and Corsello knows, what Pacquiao opponents go through. How Manny’s speed drove De La Hoya up the wall. How Manny’s power from his pocket-sized frame sent Hatton into a parallel universe. But Corsello wasn’t writing about Oscar or Ricky. He wanted to profile Pacman. Expectedly, he got little out of Pacquiao’s lips. Since the ringmaster refused to open up, Corsello simply let the circus tell the story. There’s greatness within the madness. We know that by heart. Most of what Corsello wrote we knew already. The GQ piece “The Biggest Little Man in the World", however, wasn’t penned for us. It is for Pacquiao novices; fans that now follow boxing because of Pacquiao, fans that follow sports, for that matter, because of Pacman. To them, the entourage comes as a shock. To us, it’s all part of the package. I watch a replay of the Pacquiao-Hatton fight on Solar TV as I write this column. I hear the melodic soccer-style chants on television. The Brits at the MGM Grand thought they had Manny all figured out. Let a chorus of Hatton hymns boost Ricky’s spirit and destroy this little Filipino bloke’s confidence. As soon as Pacquiao’s fists did the talking, the chants not only subsided, they disappeared as if someone pressed mute on the clicker. I’ve watched this bout more than five times, yet I still react after Pacquiao unloads the last punch of the night. I wish Pacquiao’s hands, arms and feet could talk. I wish there was a way to verbalize the physical and psychological terror opponents must endure. Like Corsello, Hatton heard a murmur. It was just notches better than a whisper; like a voice from another world. It softly said, “Good night." Then, Hatton heard silence. Then, he sensed madness. Then, he felt greatness, but not his. All validated by a horrific thud on the canvas. I could identify with Corsello’s frustration upon reading the GQ article. We all felt Hatton’s shock as he dropped like a pencil on a yellow pad. Guys like Oscar, Ricky, Miguel, moments before the reckoning, hear nothing, feel nothing, see nothing. Then the runaway train smashes into the living room and people suddenly compare Pacquiao with Muhammad Ali. Quotes are just a string of words, you know. Now GQ knows that Manny says little, but does it all. - Mico Halili, GMANews.TV