The Final Score: Pacquiao wins by unanimous redefinition

He can’t be that fast. He certainly wasn’t that fast on DVD. Where is he? Is he on my left? Is he on my right? Wait you mean my right or your right? Is he behind me now? Poom! Poom! Poom! Ouch! Ooooh that stings. Keep your fists up! Try to pin him down! Where is he? Oyy Pacman I see you now. Stay still. Just stay where I can see you. Poof. Wait, where did he go? Poom! Poom! Poom! Ouch! Ding. Ding. Ding. Where’s my corner? Damn, that little hombre is fast!

First, opponents are shocked with the speed. Then, they’re hypnotized by the dance. In the end, Manny Pacquiao’s power is almost irrelevant. Once they’re mesmerized by the magic show, it’s done. And all Antonio Margarito could do at such a moment is wonder; wonder how a boxer wearing seven belts can blitz from left to right faster than a heartbeat, wonder how a champion who has won it all stays this competitive, wonder how he can cage an opponent he can’t see, wonder if he’ll survive 12 rounds with a raging 5’6" inferno. I could be more objective if it was a closer, more balanced fight. If the bout wasn’t so one-sided, I wouldn’t have to fight off the urge to use superlatives, wouldn’t have to liken Pacquiao to a Stan Lee super-being and wouldn’t have to search the futile search for a comparable foe. I could, then, be more of a journalist, less of a fan. Also, Margarito’s eye-sockets would stay intact. Pacquiao’s fans were scared of Margarito at the start. With a facial expression only bad guys in westerns can own, he was the prototype “kontrabida". He was visibly bigger. He appeared fearsome. He seemed ruthless. Yet ironically, his size, coupled with Pacquiao’s compassion, saved him from total annihilation. Upon reaching later rounds, Pacquiao and most of his fans wanted the fight to mercifully end. Fans look up at the largest big-screen on the planet (the video walls inside Cowboys Stadium are as big as basketball courts) and are awed. Margarito thinks he has Pacquiao trapped. He swings and misses, again and again, all in painful slow-motion. Pacquiao avoids trouble by split seconds. Whiz. Whiz. Whiz. Out of a jam and safely in open space, Pacquiao is ready to dance anew. The man who fights with eight belts and, seemingly, eight fists is terror in the flesh. Even an opponent left with a half-a-good-eye can see it in high-definition. After all, when Pacquiao fights, he redefines boxing the way he redefines an opponents’ facial features. A beast doesn’t have to be 5’10". A star doesn’t have to look like Brad Pitt. A congressman can actually inspire. John Wayne doesn’t have to walk into the saloon in a cowboy hat and leather boots. Bob Arum knows how to strengthen a myth. Pacquiao knows how to magnify his legend. Destroy without having to destroy. Kill without needing to overkill. Such is the new meaning of dominance. -- GMANews.TV