By Bart Barry-
Saturday at MGM Grand in the first retirement match of his career and second rematch with California’s Timothy Bradley, Filipino welterweight Manny Pacquiao decisioned roundly Bradley by three fair scores of 116-110, an odd-looking tally representing both a Pacquiao pulldown in round 7 and a knuckleball knockdown in the ninth. The deserving man won. Little more can be said for the fare.
An emotional sendoff it was not. It was a luggery, a strained thing, an effort to aggrandize hoarse as Teddy Atlas’ voice. Too, there was promoter Bob Arum seated beside Jerry Jones, owner of the stadium where Pacquiao fought Joshua Clottey and Antonio Margarito in 2010, as if to put the lie squarely to the halfassery of promoting the match in front of them like Pacquiao’s last – or was Jones onhand to offer Arum his venue for Lomachenko-Walters?
Pacquiao fought Bradley the way he had for their 24 rounds that preceded Saturday’s belligerence: as a congressman vote-counter campaigning for a win. There was naught of the mania Pacquiao showed Erik Morales, naught of the rage he flashed at Juan Manuel Marquez. It was a politically correct effort by Pacquiao, sanitized, sportsmanlike, humane. Right down to the requisite spar-with-me-bro glove kisses at the open of each round.
Bradley wanted to win the right way more than he wanted to win, seeing chances to lead with his head as he so often did on his way to the majors and banishing the thought quickly as it arrived. Manny and Timmy are great buddies! They fought like it, too, much to the chagrin of the comparatively small number of us born-every-minute folks who purchased their fight.
Trainer Teddy Atlas convinced Bradley during their camp what the promotion somehow convinced the rest of us: Finding and blitzing a heavybag like Brandon Rios prepared a man for counterpunching Pacquiao. The only men who succeeded in counterpunching Pacquiao in his career, though, were the two master counterpunchers of the era, Marquez and Floyd Mayweather. Bradley, a volume puncher athletic enough to counterpunch b-level guys, was not going to win a match in which he was outworked anymore than Pacquiao had a chance of outsmarting Mayweather 11 months ago.
There was a spot in the first rounds of the match in which Bradley clearly knew Pacquiao was about to jab him, prepped himself to parry or slip, and got smitten anyway. When something that discouraging happens to a professional athlete his trainer can feed a third of MGM Grand with five loaves and two fish between rounds and it ain’t going to matter. Atlas spent a commentary career watching Pacquiao on video like the rest of us, no doubt thinking all the while if only he could teach someone with great reflexes to see Pacquiao’s triggers and tells the way Atlas did, historians would wear Atlas’ name on their lips for a generation. He got that guy with Bradley, and it mattered nothing at all.
Bradley’s best chance with Pacquiao was his first chance; Bradley was the wildcard in that fight, rhythmically unpredictable, flexibly awkward. It was a match in which either guy might have sprained an ankle careening past the other, and it just happened to be Bradley who did. Ever since then Pacquiao has been everything Bradley is – only much more so.
By the sixth round Saturday what became apparent was this: Only Marquez among all men who matched themselves against Pacquiao had the balls to see Pacquiao’s jabfeint-hopback-jabpounce and step directly into it, manifesting a faith in his physical genius that said, “One of us goes to sleep right now, and I don’t much care which.” Bradley saw Pacquiao’s signature move and tried to jab it or retreat from it or absorb and counter it. But not once in 108 minutes of standing across from Pacquiao did Bradley sellout the right hand Marquez-style. Wherever go one’s memories of Pacquiao, then, should follow Marquez – the two matched wonderfully and gave us so very much in their four fights.
Asked for Pacquiao’s legacy my thoughts go immediately here: 6-2-1 (3 KOs). That is Pacquiao’s record against prime versions of Marco Antonio Barrera, Erik Morales and Juan Manuel Marquez. There is nothing any prizefighter has done in the last 25 years that is so impressive as that. No handicapping, no trickeration, no legerdemain, no bullshit: Pacquiao fought three first-ballot guys nine times. And most of that happened before SportsCenter even knew the Filipino’s name.
Pacquiao leaves the game, if he does, having amortized most of that goodwill, yes – despite what those whose salaries now rely primarily on Pacquiao revenue tell us during telecasts. Some of us have enriched him for woeful garbage like his matches with Shane Mosley, Brandon Rios and Chris Algieri. So be it. Historians will not either forgive Pacquiao’s effort against Mayweather with its submissive lack of urgency, even while they concede things might have been different before Floyd orchestrated a five-year delay (we will not forget how close they came to signing contracts in December 2009).
When Pacquiao’s matches happened against Oscar De La Hoya and Ricky Hatton and Miguel Cotto, I cared very little. I care less now. The way Pacquiao unmanned Barrera, though, 2 1/2 years after Barrera undressed Naseem Hamed and 15 months after Barrera decisioned Erik Morales, the way Pacquiao made Morales make heroic choices to beat him 11 years ago, the way Pacquiao swarmed Marquez in 2008 till both men were covered in blood – those images form Pacquiao’s legacy for me.
Before his charge’s third fight with Pacquiao, Mexican trainer Nacho Beristain – actually the sort of mentor Teddy Atlas tells everyone Atlas is – described Pacquiao as “a wildcat.” A better image of the prime Pacquiao is not yet unearthed: Beaming maniacally round his mouthguard, banging his gloves together, blood on his trunks and gloves and beard, beseeching madness and violence from other men before slashing their faces open with weirdly angled punches thrown at the wrong moments of an unknowable beat . . .
Bart Barry can be reached via Twitter @bartbarry
