"I'm so happy," David Diaz told Manny Pacquiao
After the fight, Pacquiao returned to his dressing room and embraced a throng of admirers (Denzel Washington among them).
There was a group prayer.
Manny signed his ring stool, various fight-night credentials, and other memorabilia.
A member of Team Pacquiao handed him a cell phone and announced, “It’s David Diaz.”
“Hello, my friend,” Pacquiao said, beginning the conversation.
“I’m so happy,” Diaz told him. “On all the advertisements for the fight, they’ve been showing me on television, lying face down on the canvas. Now they’ve got a better knockout to show.”
Pacquiao laughed. “Thank you, brother.”
The conversation ended. Manny laughed again and gleefully threw a straight left hand in slow motion into the air. “BOOM! Good-bye.”
In his mind, the punch that sent Ricky Hatton into unconsciousness was the equivalent of a 500-foot home run into the bleachers; not an act of violence.
Freddie Roach sat in a chair opposite the rubdown table, surveying the scene. One suspected that he felt a little like Phil Jackson felt after coaching Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls to yet another NBA championship.
“Manny makes me look good,” the trainer said. “He’s such a pleasure to work with. He was good when I got him and I knew there was room for improvement. But you wonder, ‘How good can he really be? Will he listen?’ Because a lot of guys get to the level Manny was at eight years ago and think they know everything. But Manny works hard. He listens. He keeps getting better and better. I know I have something to do with it. But really, the credit belongs to Manny.”
Freddie smiled. “You know; you work on something in the gym again and again, and you hope you see some of it on fight night. And tonight . . .” Roach shook his head in wonder. “Whenever Manny fights now, you see the things you worked on the gym being executed perfectly, right in front of you.”
“Floyd told everyone that he had the better fighter,” someone offered. “So I guess that makes you the better trainer.”
Freddie laughed. “No; I had the better fighter. Besides; trainers are overrated. We can guide our fighters in the right direction, but it’s up to them to carry out the game plan. Manny makes me look good. I’m not the best trainer in the world. I just have the best fighter.”
In the far corner of the room, several members of Team Pacquiao had rewritten the lyrics to London Bridge is Falling Down and were singing:
Ricky Hatton’s falling down
Falling down
Falling down
Ricky Hatton’s falling down
We love Manny
Pacquiao thrust his left hand into the air again and once again proclaimed, “BOOM! Good-bye.” Then he began singing to the tune of Winter Wonderland (known in boxing circles as Walking in a Hatton Wonderland).
There’s no more Ricky Hatton
No more
Ricky Hatton
A reporter from a Filipino radio station reached toward him with a tape recorder in hand.
“No tape; please,” Manny told him. “Ricky Hatton is a good fighter and my friend. I only want to show respect to him.”
So . . .
What is one to make of Pacquiao-Hatton?
by Thomas Hauser
There was a group prayer.
Manny signed his ring stool, various fight-night credentials, and other memorabilia.
A member of Team Pacquiao handed him a cell phone and announced, “It’s David Diaz.”
“Hello, my friend,” Pacquiao said, beginning the conversation.
“I’m so happy,” Diaz told him. “On all the advertisements for the fight, they’ve been showing me on television, lying face down on the canvas. Now they’ve got a better knockout to show.”
Pacquiao laughed. “Thank you, brother.”
The conversation ended. Manny laughed again and gleefully threw a straight left hand in slow motion into the air. “BOOM! Good-bye.”
In his mind, the punch that sent Ricky Hatton into unconsciousness was the equivalent of a 500-foot home run into the bleachers; not an act of violence.
Freddie Roach sat in a chair opposite the rubdown table, surveying the scene. One suspected that he felt a little like Phil Jackson felt after coaching Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls to yet another NBA championship.
“Manny makes me look good,” the trainer said. “He’s such a pleasure to work with. He was good when I got him and I knew there was room for improvement. But you wonder, ‘How good can he really be? Will he listen?’ Because a lot of guys get to the level Manny was at eight years ago and think they know everything. But Manny works hard. He listens. He keeps getting better and better. I know I have something to do with it. But really, the credit belongs to Manny.”
Freddie smiled. “You know; you work on something in the gym again and again, and you hope you see some of it on fight night. And tonight . . .” Roach shook his head in wonder. “Whenever Manny fights now, you see the things you worked on the gym being executed perfectly, right in front of you.”
“Floyd told everyone that he had the better fighter,” someone offered. “So I guess that makes you the better trainer.”
Freddie laughed. “No; I had the better fighter. Besides; trainers are overrated. We can guide our fighters in the right direction, but it’s up to them to carry out the game plan. Manny makes me look good. I’m not the best trainer in the world. I just have the best fighter.”
In the far corner of the room, several members of Team Pacquiao had rewritten the lyrics to London Bridge is Falling Down and were singing:
Ricky Hatton’s falling down
Falling down
Falling down
Ricky Hatton’s falling down
We love Manny
Pacquiao thrust his left hand into the air again and once again proclaimed, “BOOM! Good-bye.” Then he began singing to the tune of Winter Wonderland (known in boxing circles as Walking in a Hatton Wonderland).
There’s no more Ricky Hatton
No more
Ricky Hatton
A reporter from a Filipino radio station reached toward him with a tape recorder in hand.
“No tape; please,” Manny told him. “Ricky Hatton is a good fighter and my friend. I only want to show respect to him.”
So . . .
What is one to make of Pacquiao-Hatton?
by Thomas Hauser
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