Pacquiao VS Hatton: A Semi-Insider Story

The main lobby at the MGM Grand looks like a ballroom saloon. People from different races, ages, backgrounds are walking and blending in a mix of fortune-bound and sinful fun.

This place is unique. All that you hear falls short to the real thing. You can find a large variety of characters, almost like the cantina scene from Star Wars.

You could see “Sugar” Shane Mosley in a bar with a beautiful lady and a bunch of bodyguards. On the other side, there was Jorge “El Travieso” Arce, whom I asked if I could take a picture with him.

He answered, “Simon, carnal!” He is a kind man, indeed.  Near the arena, Floyd Mayweather Sr. was delivering smiles and good wishes to the crowd, completely unaware of the dark clouds on the horizon.

Inside the arena, most of the fun started with the British fans. It was like a rock concert: chants falling from the stands in a beautiful harmony. At one point they started to sing “God Save the Queen.” All of the Filipino fans tried to respond with a big chorus of “Manny, Manny!” but, being honest, we didn’t even came close.

The fights went slowly, with just a few exciting moments provided by Humberto “La Zorrita” Soto and Matt Korobov. The other part of the event was boring as hell—at least for me.

Erislandy Lara and that kid from Brooklyn (the fact that I forgot his name shows you how boring he was) really disappointed.

The moment of truth arrived. The lights were shut down and the British began to sing again, “There’s only one Ricky Hatton, one Ricky Hatton.” And there he went, with the support of hundreds of fans, all singing together. For the span of a second, I wished that Ricky could win.

Then, it was Pacquiao’s turn. Suddenly, there he was: almost like a messiah, with those fans gathering around him. They were taking pictures, flashlights illuminating the whole scene, hugs, hand shakes, and more photos.

A very horrible song started to play and the mini beast appeared: humble, but confident. He stepped into the ring and kneeled on his corner, and then he started praying.

Tom Jones and his Filipino counterpart sang the national anthems and a few minutes later, the two men stood alone in front of each other.

What happened next was impressive, even for those who expected that kind of outcome. Nothing prepared us for what we saw: so much power, so much superiority. Pacquiao was dominating.

Later that night, I was rolling down the Strip, and I couldn’t take that picture out of my mind. I saw a British kid with the red and white flag over his shoulders, walking with his head down.

Poor Ricky, poor fans.

But thinking about it, he couldn’t help it. It was too much.

Just like a pocket storm, indeed.