Floyd Mayweather Jr. sensed the bones in his cheeks crunched to the wicked hook; his shoulder roll was ineffective, the shoulders already sagged in pain. His opponent had been hitting him anywhere that was exposed. His shoulders were his defense shell and it had received countless agonizing blows, not merely feather taps, but quality artillery shocks. Several rounds back, there was a searing ache in the left board which he suspected was caused by that shoulder shaken loose from its socket. The right phalanx about to give, taking the bombardment of rapid thrashings. He swore that the numbness that intermittently set in felt good. Yet when the throbbing climbed again, it was hell. His battered eyes flinched a glance to the opponent that was standing, practically begging in surrender — the rival’s face almost unblemished from his unimposing battery. It was a nightmare having to see his countenance in front of you – exclusively! – for three minutes of every round!
Manny smiled; he waved his hands to urge him, provoke him to move forward. The gesture was almost hypnotic. Floyd Jr. stepped to the fore, not knowing why he did so. He was met by a left hammer-like blow. He lost his legs and the will to fight practically abandoned him.
Floyd wobbled down, a glove touched the canvass.
“One! Two! three! four!” the third man started counting while the Filipino took a neutral corner.
Before the ninth, Floyd was on his feet.
“Are you OK?” the referee asked.
Floyd nodded, not knowing why he did. It could have been the opportunity to stop this punishment. Perhaps it was the chanting of the crowd that insulted him to go on, “Manny! Manny! Manny!” nagging his brain pan, mixing with the continuous tinnitus that was caused by a wallop in the first round. Or perhaps it was his pride.
The bell sounded. It was so glorious like it was the bell from heaven’s gate. He’d have minute, a minute of rest.
“How do you feel champ!?” came a voice, which he could no longer recognize from whom and that could have been spoken from someone in his dream or from an enchanted well not far off. Floyd did not reply. He took a swig from a bottle that just magically popped in front of him.
“I’m good, Floyd Mayweather Jr. is good.” he lied. He lied again. As he is good at that.
“That was the eighth!” another blurted a reminder right on his ear. Floyd didn’t know how many grueling rounds had elapsed. It was like an eternity. The chanting was unending, increasing, insulting. The fuzzy faces that surrounded him gained clarity. It was his father that spoke. Floyd Senior repeated the question, “How do you feel champ!?”
“I don’t know; Floyd Mayweather Jr. swears nobody punches that hard. Dela Hoya’s punches were like grandma’s as compared to this *$%&*@!^% maniac! He’s loaded, right?”
“No, Li’l Floyd. I watched him gets wrapped.”
His corner lashed a new strategy, but the former pound for pound king was not hearing it anymore. It was so good to let his arms drop; the eight-ounce gloves were balls of lead that weight more than a ton each. He settled on the stool. He didn’t know that a round piece of wood would be this good. He would savor it until the bell… would have even bought the privilege a million dollars to extend it a minute more.
The dreaded bell sounded.
Floyd Mayweather Jr. answered the bell. Yes, it was his pride that was the string that kept him up. All he needed was a good blow of his own, maybe something that would start a flurry, get him a good one… a good one to start a chain of poundings that will pulp the brown warrior to submission, a blow, a single one…
…a miracle.
The puffy eyes, grotesquely half-closed, refused to even bravely stare on the approaching contender. If he was looking, it was out of focus from a glassy set that could have been a dead fish’s own. Li’l Floyd lifted his arms; the shoulders ached, burned with great pain that was so alien. Then they got numb. It felt good, so good!
The black fighter mustered all strength left for a go-for-broke collision; the shoulders seemed to be working right now. Manny Pacquiao was leering, getting closer. He’d wipe that smug grin and prove to the world that he was the greatest there is and the greatest that will ever be.
The Money Man dropped again his arms, an open invitation. The lead-heavy fists should work to his favor if he could swing it at the right time.
A step closer. The Asian superstar was biting on his bait.
An inch more…
Floyd Mayweather Jr. released a tremendous force.
To be continued…