MAN UP

It is early morning here in the coastal town where I live. I savor the warm morning breeze that caress my bare arms as I jog to the little chapel on the hill. I know Father Al would be waiting for me at the doorstep to show me the trees that I would prune in exchange for a good breakfast. When you ate nothing but sweet potatoes and corn meal with soysauce or boiled vegetables with fish sauce all your life because there was nothing else, the breakfast at Father Al's church is a king's feast.

Mama tells me and my bed-ridden sister that life had not always been like this for us. It started to take a downward turn when Papa left us for another woman. Mama had to wash clothes for other families in the village to put food on the table. That is why she wants me to become a priest so I could pray to God to bring Papa back home. But Father Al had advised me against doing something I had no heart or mind for.

I have always dreamed of becoming a boxer like Manny Pacquiao who comes from the same country I do. Father Al is supportive of my ambition. He would jog around the village with me when days were sunny and he was not busy. I know that he knows I am not a very bright boy. A white-collar job or a university degree would not fit me. That is why perhaps he tries to find odd jobs for me at the church so that I could at least have a decent meal and be strong for my chosen field of endeavor.

"But, of course, your mother shouldn't know that you have other plans than become a priest," he warns me. "I will be leaving this place and go to Manila where I would be an assistant priest at Quiapo church," he volunteers to me one Sunday after we jog. "Would you like to come along? I can easily recommend you to my good friend who owns a gym there. You will be scientifically trained to become a boxer."

"Yes, Father Al! I want to go to Manila with you and meet your friend!" I squeal, and then quickly retract my word when I realize that Mama would be furious at me when she gets wind of our plan. So Father Al decides to accompany me home and explain to Mama how good and advantagious the plan could be. But Mama would not be moved. And so Father Al goes to Manila alone, leaving me behind to eat more sweet potatoes and cornmeal the rest of my life.

I wouldn't know how Papa came to know about Father Al's plan to bring me to Manila with him. But he surprised us with a visit one afternoon and discussed the plan thoroughly with us.

"Please bear in mind that Victor, here is not exactly a bright boy," he explains. "A college degree is out of the question for him. There is no money for that and a scholarship is an imposibility."

Suddenly, Jessica squeals from the bedroom. "Papa? Is Kuya Victor going to be a champion like Manny Pacquiao?"

Papa reaches for his daughter, ruffles her scraggly hair and confirms without a doubt, "Yes, Jessica, Kuya Victor is going to be a boxing champion like Manny Pacquiao or even greater."

At that, Mama beams and nods in affirmation. "Okay, I surrender. Since everyone here is of the same mind and I am the only one in opposition, I might as well give my blessing."

Papa gives a whistle and in comes Father Al. Everyone is surprised except Papa, who, we learn later, had connived all along with the priest. And that is not all there is to that story. Realizing his sin and confessing it to Father Al, Papa has decided to come back home.

"Manila, here I come! Make way for your champion!" I, Victor Miles shout excitedly from the window of the taxi we are riding.

"Ha ha ha!"Papa laughs, glad he has decided to come back home to his family and be witness to his son's triumphal entry to the city where dreams are made.

Father Al is likewise in jubilant spirits. The taxi driver couldn't help joining in the fun. "Yes!" he shouts, "I am driving a champion boxer!"

Papa gives him a pat on the back. "Remember the name, my friend, "Victor Miles! The world's next greatest champion the Philippines ever produced!"

Father Al, Papa and I = the formidable trio = alight at Quiapo Church. The Parish priest welcomes us with open arms. After a sumptous meal at Hong Ning Restaurant across Quezon Boulevard, Father Al brings me and Papa to his friend's gym.

The gym owner is a short, stocky gentleman in his early fifties with receding hairline and a congenial booming laughter. They call him Papa Jack. I like him instantly. And we hit it off pretty snugly.

"You shall train with me immediately," Papa Jack tells me

I, Victor Miles, the future champion, is only too glad and excited to oblige.

Arrangements for my board and lodging are drawn. But Father Al says, my training is free. That is a steal.

Morning ritual includes jogging around the block for 5 laps. Later on, I will be jogging for 10 and gradually increase by five. I think that is easy enough and I do not complain. This is just the start of the fulfillment of my childhood dream. I am thankful to God and to Father Al for everything that is happening for me. I have not expected this.

My meals are completely different from our meals back home and are always served on time on a long table shared by twelve athletes at a time..

Drinking liquor and smoking is a big no no for the athletes. That is not difficult for me to comply with since I did not drink or smoke anyway. Athletes are not allowed to stay up late at night. Athletes should sleep eight to ten hours. Well noted by me.

Ring standards are different for every athlete. Papa Jack will personally train me. From the start Papa Jack has taken a keen interest in me because, he reveals, he sees a strong potential for the boy from the South.

Papa Jack and I develop a secret code that would either spell my success or failure. It is called EGG. E is for elude, meaning to elude the enemy's blows as much as possible. First G is for Glide or dance around the enemy to tire him while he punches and not connect. "Take to the eagle," Papa Jack tells me. "Did you know that the crow is the only bird that dares to peck at an eagle? Yes, the crow sits on the eagle's back and bites its neck. However, the eagle does not respond nor fight with the crow. It simply opens its wings and begins to rise higher in the heavens. The higher the flight the harder it is for the crow to breathe and then falls due to lack of oxygen.

In like manner, don't try to respond to your oponent's short jabs but see to it that he does not connect. Tire him, take him higher to the heavens until he falls due to lack of oxygen. You understand what I am trying to tell you, Victor? Stay true to your name. Okay?And then, when the enemy is too tired, it is time to give him the last G for Gas. We call it coup de grace - a final blow or shot to kill the wounded person or animal. Of course you don't go out there and kill your opponent. You know what I mean?"

I nod my head to indicate I understand exactly what he means.

"Father Alexander tells me your staple food in the province is corn meal. Did you know that the cornmeal toughens the bones and strengthens the muscles? I wouldn't however say sweet potatoes are excellent food. One of its side effects is that the person farts more often and louder than someone who does not eat them. But then, it may yet be an advantage to you. While you are up in the ring or in the heavens like the eagle, you could pass gas to the enemy and he would be so overwhelmed by the foul odor he just feels faint and loses his strength to fight. Your fart would be so offensive, this could be the coup de grace."

After months that stretched into years, Papa Jack confirms I am ripe for the harvest, so to speak. And because Filipinos are naturally inclined to sensationalism, the occassion becomes the most hyped up event of the year in Philippine boxing. Media played up stories like "Who will prove more superior? The poor boy from down South or the bright boy from up North?" "Cornmeal Vs. Rice" Bets are cast. Tickets are sold out months before the event.

And just like every human being would feel the first time he faces a colossal phenomenon looming in the horizon, I develop cold feet and am about ready to give up. I sign myself with the cross. "Lord help me!" I pray.

The Philippine National Anthem is sang by a popular actress whose name I cannot recall . I feel butterflies in my stomach. The southerner contingent in the crowd are cheering and applauding me. What an uplifting feeling!

I hear the opponent's national anthem being sung in the background, I feel like running away. A negative question crosses my mind, "Can I even survive just 5 of the twelve rounds?"

Just then I hear the announcer's voice booming. "In the red corner weighing 145 pounds is Victor Miles of Mindanao wearing..." I don't hear the rest of what he is saying. The roar from the crowd is just deafening. The bell rings.

Round 1

The crow, like Papa Jack has anticipated is eager to peck at me but I duck and elude his effort. He takes another jab at me, I elude him again. That seems to irrritate him and he is angry. I can almost feel his wrath. I duck and duck until he loses his stamina. End of Round 1

After three rounds, the crow decides to ride my back. I give him a free ride to heaven as he bites my neck. I hear Papa Jack call EGG! from the audience. Some spectators SSSHHUSH him and he stops. But I continue to rise higher and higher into the heavens, not letting up until the end of the 5th round.

Round 6

The crow comes raging at me like a ferocious bull. I meet him halfway with a left to the jaw and he staggers down the canvass. Cheers from the crowd rise to a crescendo of boos and ang galing and rah rahs. Slowly picking himself up, the crow cocks his head, flashes his hands in front of his face down to his chin - ala Pacquiao - trying to intimidate me. Papa Jack shouts GAS! I unload a right to the enemy's chin that sends him spinning around, spraying sweat and saliva into the first-row spectators. The enemy falls to the canvass with a big thud.

The referee counts and when he reaches nine, the enemy gets on his knees and tries to hit me. But he falls to the canvass flat on his face with his hands flayed on his sides like a tired old dog. I climb up the ropes and Papa Jack climbs into the ring I get down the ropes and the referee raises my hand, declares victory by knockout. Papa Jack lifts me up bodily. This is all so overwhelming, I can't believe it is happening to me. It is a dream-come-true. A reward for all the sacrifice, hard work, studying and learning everything there was to learn.

The aftermath is even more dizzying than the victory itself, In less than an hour my status changes from complete unknown to instant celebrity. I receive invitations to endorse products, invitations to parties, and women crawling all over me.

Reporters would hound me. They wanted to know how I would spend my prize money. "I am going to have my sister seen by a specialist about her polio," I answer.

"Ahhhh," they heave admiring sighs. "How thoughtful, how compassionate."

Someone wanted to find out my definition of success. I answer, "Success is no accident. It is hard work, perseverance, studying, learning, sacrifice and most of all, love of what you are doing or learning to do," I recite, eliciting appreciative nods and pats on my back from the media people.

Papa Jack steps in and says, "Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, but our new champ must rest now. If you have further questions, you can can reach him through his website at...".and he gives his own website address for I have none at the moment.

Meanwhile back at the house by the sea where even women and children had to dig their own cisterns to be able to drink potable water, Jessica jubilantly predicts her brother's fate. "My brother is living true to his name, Mama! .. Victor. Winner. Conqueror King of the Ring.. Today the Philippines, Tomorrow the world!"