MaKe MoNeY TaLkS OnLiNe

By William Dettloff

All right, I confess: I’ve never been a big fan of Manny Pacquiao. I’ve frequently asked myself, as you no doubt are right now, why the hell not, you jackass? What’s not to like?

There are many reasons to dislike a fighter: He fights bums, he doesn’t fight often enough, he’s a jerk, he’s dull, he wears a mullet, he signed a contract with Murad Muhammad, he’s too damned wealthy, he’s a religious zealot, a hypocrite, or a lousy interview, he digs NASCAR, he’s a crybaby, or his wife/baby mama is too hot.

None of that applies to Pacquiao (except, on occasion, the mullet—worn Filipino style).

There are more: He’s all mouth and no balls, he’s all connections and no heart, he’s too skinny or too good looking, too chubby to be as good as he is or too much of what you wish you were. He’s overrated. He’s too talented or not talented enough, too educated, too in love with chickens or refers to himself in the third person, too much of an arm-puncher, too damned white, or has weird body hair.

Still not Pacquiao.

He’s too smug or not confident enough, too tormented or too placid. He gets injured too easily. He’s a slick southpaw or he has no defense, he has a glass chin or is dead from the neck up. He beat your favorite fighter. His voice is too high. He just looks evil. It comes too easy for him. He's awkward.

He doesn’t care enough about the sport to get himself into decent shape or he’s a cheating, old school disrespecting steroid user (or both), has too many tattoos, or is an “athlete” who couldn’t make it in other sports and fell into boxing as a last resort. He wears hair extensions. He drives an IROC Z.

The list goes on.

Pacquiao fits none of these descriptions. In fact, he’s everything I like in a fighter: He’s a puncher, and if you didn’t know that prior to seeing him pole-ax David Diaz Saturday night, you knew it after.

He fights anybody. Juan Manuel Marquez and Marco Antonio Barrera twice each, Erik Morales three times, for cripes sake. He fights through blood, knockdowns, weird “glove related” losses, and with the hopes of an entire nation riding on his hairless, tattoo-free back.

He’s humble. He’s soft-spoken. He doesn’t rely on shtick. He doesn’t gloat or boast or do somersaults in the ring or pull out of fights claiming spastic colon. No sequin trunks. No crying to the referee. No 17 baby mamas, no mansions in foreclosure (not yet, anyway), no steroid scandals, no sermons, no string of close, suspicious decision wins. No bull. All fighter.

All that and yet, I was near giddy watching Jorge Solis take the early rounds from him in their match in April 2007, and felt deflated when Pacquiao stormed back to stop him. I’ve never rooted for him the way I have others. Not even against Diaz.

I don’t get it either. It might be that I have no patience for perfection.

Some random observations from last week:

There might not be a funnier knockout all year than Tye Fields’ first-round collapse against the well-worn Monte Barrett. If it’s any consolation for Bob Arum, we all knew it was coming sooner or later.

If Kendall Holt fights Ricardo Torres in their rematch the way he “fought” Ben Tackie, two things will happen: Holt will win a decision, and I will fall asleep by the fifth round.

So Ruslan Chagaev is injured again. Who does he think he is, Vitali Klitschko?

I’m glad Joe Calzaghe is pushing forward with a fight against Roy Jones, because it’s an interesting fight, but let’s get this out of the way before the promotional push starts: Jones isn’t half the fighter he was 10 years ago. We all know that going into it, right?