Bedtime Stories

Dai ka nakakaturog kawasa
ngonyan may nanu'dan kang
bago ki tataramon, agom

Mapaturog ka pa man daw
kun bara-banggi sa ulunan mo
may minahinghing, siram

Dai ka na makakaturog naman
kun kadurog mo atyan
na banggi magkiblit, saro pa

Beautiful boxers

DURING the Pacquiao–Barrera match some years ago, from out of the blue, my junior student Carlo Timbol texted me exclaiming that Manny won over the Mexican. Perhaps he could not contain his elation that he must have texted more people including me.

I was touched by my student’s gesture—especially when I realized that Carlo, a minute character in his small stature and physique—who fairly looks like Manny Pacquiao—comes to identify and relate with his modern hero.

Indeed, after knocking out three Mexican boxers, and virtually every other boxer pitted against him, southpaw Pacman has come to symbolize the Filipino fighting spirit. Pacquiao’s successful feat does not only give hope to us but also clouds our real plight.

Through his impressive wins, we are swayed from the real plight of our lives, we become heroes with him—we forget that we live in [or belong to—whichever you choose] a sad republic, we tend to just go on further on.

In his consistently unfazed countenance in every bout, the Destroyer has gradually become everyman. His heroic deed is more than worth telling, for it has unified a divided nation; for many times, he has inspired the Filipino people to go on.

Even now, through the words “Manny Pacquiao,” I can relate to you as a fellow Filipino—despite our social differences engendered by so many isms around.

The General Santos southpaw who has come a long way from poor humble beginnings makes us turn the same way—and make sense of the words courage, determination, and heroism.

And whether or not Manny Pacquiao becomes a stale memory years from now—by then he has already become a household icon, someone whose life is worth emulating by anyone because it was fully lived—for it has had a purpose.

THOUGH Muhammad Ali is worthy of another article, at least here, we should say no other life of a superman could be more dramatic than his. Whenever he appears on television these days, we perennially realize how fates can be twisted, and how bluntly it hurts. His powerful punches against his contenders in the past are indeed nothing compared to the daily struggles he has now—having Parkinson’s disease.

Cassius Clay’s life story rather spells out that life is not a bed of roses—rather a path strewn with thorns—let it be added that we are to walk this path with nothing but our own feet. Nevertheless, whenever we see him shaking and trembling, we would be compelled to value our own strengths while [we are] in our prime. We would see how destiny could play with those who have lived their lives to the fullest. Or we would also realize how—if at all—you could not really waste your life by simply living it to the “fool”est. Just like Christopher Reeve whose life, Ali’s life is plainly irony.

MEANWHILE, talking of boxing as an achievement and later a jumping board for a career, we have the case of Mansueto “Onyok” Velasco. Velasco had his fifteen-minute fame when he clinched a silver medal in the 1996 Atlanta Olympics.

Onyok nearly clinched the country's first Olympic gold medal in the 1996 Atlanta Olympics when he slugged it out with Bulgarian Daniel Bojilov in the light-flyweight finals. Before this, Velasco was one of the three Filipino boxers who clinched gold medals in the 1994 Asian Games held in Hiroshima, Japan.

Even before his career eclipsed into becoming a comedian in some film flicks that feed the movie industry, the honor he won for the country had embedded his person in the sensibility of most Filipinos.

LUISITO Espinosa and Gerry Peñalosa are names I would hear when I was a student through the 90s. In times in the past, Espinosa “the Golden Boy” and Peñalosa dominated the national pages for their amazing fights, impressive boxing records, and perhaps wonderful careers. But now we can only wonder what exactly happened to them.

Lately, we must have heard some famous boxer who got into brawls and fistfights and similar troubles—had murky married life, or unsuccessful occupations and eventual pursuits. Whatever happened to them—famous or infamous—does not at all matter to them. For once in their lives, they became the people’s heroes. People feasted on their strength and claimed it their own.

Sad life, indeed, is the boxer’s life. Yet now, what matters is that for once in their lives, they must have fought and gained honor for every one of us. In each upper cut of left hook they landed on the opponent’s face, we were fighting with them, for they always carried our country’s name. Their valor is that of a soldier, and their wounds and bruises their virtual red badge of courage—the proofs of their resilience, their heroism.

Interestingly, though, in fiction, most boxers are made [and yet, because they are born].

Perhaps the “Rocky” movies that starred Sylvester Stallone also moved more hearts than any other human preoccupation. The biopic of Rocky Balboa—produced in installments—were another favorite in our clan—probably because the folks loved to see how the actor’s face is transformed from a dashing, debonair man into someone in a vegetative state.

Rocky’s famous blabbering dialogue would not fail to amaze anyone who has seen him in other movies like “Rambo,” “Cobra,” etc. Simply at the time if you did not know Sylvester Stallone in the eighties—you were definitely not in. The Rocky craze became a household philosophy. His dialogues became everybody’s line—his movies’ soundtracks became everyman’s anthems. What made Rocky famous? It must have been his charm and strength and the emotional weakness that he tried to counter. In the movies the boxer is depicted as vulnerable as well as resilient. The usual underdog rising to topple down the crowd’s favorite has never been fresh than in Rocky movies.

As a young boy in the eighties, I must have watched Jon Voight’s “The Champ” [1979] million times. Later on, I would know it is Franco Zeferelli’s masterpiece which is a remake of a 1931 classic.

The film zooms in on how an ex-boxer Bill Flynn redeems himself with his son whom he inspires despite the challenges he faced. The movie asks the viewer to sympathize with the boxer whose failed marriage with his wife renders some payoffs when the boy realizes that his father is his champion and no one else. The film experiments and presents the father-son chemistry as something desirable—since the bonding cannot at all be common, but something that is attainable through determination.

Our relatives must have owned their personal copy—that the movie had become a staple when there were no new tapes to show.

More interestingly, I must have watched it more than usual because it featured how the boxer was able to raise his son properly despite the tumultuous marriage. Talk of gender identification at a young age and family crisis.

Nevertheless, the people in our clan—from the aunties to uncles to brothers to siblings and cousins—must have seen the film more times than we could think of. As young children, my cousins and I even memorized the lines uttered by the son of who encouraged the boxer to keep up the fight despite that he was cheated both in the ring and in the ring of life.

The Oscar-winning character of Hillary Swank in Clint Eastwood’s “Million Dollar Baby” [2004] gives us a skewed picture of the boxer whose life turns around—because her own courage and determination allowed things to happen against her.

Maggie Fitzgerald’s eagerness to engage in the sports articulates the passion she sees in it [that is—sadly—predominated by males].

At first, Clint Eastwood’s Frankie Dunn, her trainer, is reluctant to take her on until he realizes they can jive together and realize for her the dream of becoming the boxer.

Later on, both realize that they share a commonality that will change their lives forever. Together they will bond and find each other the sense of family which they lost along the way. Eastwood’s opus clinched the Best Picture for Oscar in 2005.

It’s funny how the movie industry has—through the years—created wonderful works in the characters of boxers.

Boxing films are not a new genre. In fact, Marlon Brando’s Oscar-winning character in “On the Waterfront” [1954] in the 1950s and Robert de Niro’s boxer in “Raging Bull” in the 1970s further illustrate how the world of boxing—through its characters and their life stories—literally converts the boxing ring into the ring of life—the arena where people virtually are either scarred physically, or marred spiritually. Of course, the latter casualty is more irreparable—deadlier than the physical trauma suffered.

In the lives of all these pugilists—actual or contrived—nothing is more enlightening than the lessons they teach us—they whose lives afford us the chances to become aware of our own struggles and fights in this ring of life.