I revelled as spectator in the decade of Sugar Ray Leonard, Roberto Duran, Marvelous Marvin Hagler, and Tomas Hearns, the reign of Muhammed Ali, the era of Mike Tyson. They were, for me, the glory days of boxing, the ultimate gladiator sport, mano a mano, never failing to provide for the testosterone needs of men.

Since then, there has been a lull, filled with mediocre servings of failed comebacks and no-name short-termers. In the fringes, there were are two fighters quietly journeying through the ranks, Pacquiao and Mayweather, bringing rejuvenating excitement to the sport, fashioning a new universe of boxing, each magnified by the other, heading on an unavoidable collision course—The Fight of the Century.

Mayweather and Pacquio—both fighters share gravitas in accolades: Floyd Mayweather Jr.—undefeated with a 48-0 record, a five-division world champion, five-division world champion, ten world titles, and lineal championships in four different weight classes; voted Fighter of the Year 1998 and 2007, considered by many as the best pound-for-pound boxer in the world, his legacy to be defined by a win, or irrevocably diminished by a loss; Manny Pacquiao—the first and only eight-division world champion, with ten world titles, the first to win lineal championship in four different weight classes, recognized at one time as Fighter of the Decade and Fighter of the Year, once rated as best pound-for-pound fighter, a loss a predictable cause for national depression, and a win certain to raise his stature from sacred cow to demigod.

Yes, sacred cow and demigod—of a country and a people who invested a pugilist unceasing and increasing adulation. In a country mired in chronic corruption and its people pining for change and desperately in need of heroes, Pacquiao provides temporary panacea for its ills and hopelessness. Ang bawat suntok ko, suntok nang bayan. Time stops during Pacquiao fights. Crime plummets to zero. The streets are as empty as Christmastime and Good Friday. He provides respite from the suffering and devastation wreaked by typhoons, for those moments, transporting the nation into a wonderland of collective pride, cheers and hope. Every win is celebrated with a parade, with politicians crowding around for photo-ops; every loss brings a short period of collective depression and emotional deflation, though always buoyed by the belief that the next fight will be redemptive.

It has been almost a decade and a half of the Pacquiao theater—56 fights, 38 knockouts, and yes, a few defeats that did nothing to diminish his journey to transcendence, as he climbed up the ranks where he had no business fighting, and winning, as the country showered him with more adulation. Somewhere, sometime in his improbable journey, he was invested the title Pambansang Kamao—the National Fist. And boys and girls, that's a title no country has ever bestowed on any boxer, living or dead.

In a country ruled by the rich, gentry, and oligarchs, Pacquiao, who rose from pauperdom, is its most famous citizen. In a country with an abounding passion for sports, he is the hero that elevates the national sports psyche from its malady of mediocrity. In a country obsessed with celebrities, he is celebrity-royale for whom doors are opened and red-carpets laid for whatever needs and persona he can imagine. The country has been held spellbound, catering to his insatiable—perhaps, megalomanic—ego needs. Perhaps, he knows it too well, orchestrating his cultural role as he journeyed from pauper to pugilist to icon to hero to sacred cow. Perhaps, along the way to stardom and power, or consequent to a concussive blow to the brain, he came to an epiphany of political what-ifs. Now, he talks unabashed: "I believe the biggest fight of my life is not boxing. . . but how to end poverty in my country." Some laugh at such utterances—sound bites from a delusional swollen ego. But, what if, indeed, his transcendence has imbued him with a political soul and vision?

What if, indeed, he has something to say, from deep down his Filipino soul. Alas, we don't really hear what's deep down from Pacquiao—we are not privy to that. His interviews in English have always lacked depth and content, replete with familiar, simplified, and unrevealing stammerings in English. What a wonder it could be if he would do an interview with an interpreter, talking from his Saragani anima—about the science of his boxing, his politics, his hopes and vision for his country. What will it reveal of the man?

While his rags to riches story find embrace and empathy from the masa, his lack of education obviously posed a hurdle for his future imperious aspirations. A high school dropout?—no problem. He got a GED high school diploma via an Alternative Learning System. In his quest for sheepskins of higher education, he was granted an Honorary Degree of Doctor of Humanities—a doctorate before a baccalaureate! Friend and supporter of President Arroyo, she bestowed upon him further embellishments for his wall of achievements: in 2006, the Order of Lakandula, an order of political and civic merit, with rank of "Champion for Life", and in 2009, the Order of Sikatuna, the national order of diplomatic merit. I wondered why he wasn't awarded the Order of Lapu-Lapu, the highest honor and title for devotion to Filipino martial art—the powers that be could have tweaked his boxing to fit into another honorary degree.

In 2010, he took oath of office as Congressman Pacquio, earning him the august title of "Honorable." He attempted a television presence with a situation comedy series Show Me Da Manny and a game show Manny Many Prizes which suffered mercy killings. On silver screen, he play Wapakman, a superhero battling a giant crab. He sings or tries to sing, but with two platinum albums he cannot imagine that the applause and standing ovations are part of the comedy of it.

In 2014, he joined the PBA as playing coach of Kia Motors, many believing rules were bent for him to assume that role and that he had no business playing professional basketball, and when a foreign player dared to criticize Pacquiao's basketball career as a "joke," the player was booted out of the league for his shameless denigration of a sacred cow.

Denigration? Does he really care? The story is told that when the wealthy denizens of that exclusive citadel thumbed their Forbes Park noses at him, he scooted off with hardly a whimper. Perhaps, he found consolation in his bible, and turned the other cheek, or from one of Matthew's beatitudes—Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. So, no problem. He found another mansion in another citadel of the rich, Beverly Hills, for $12.5 M, and throwing in 4 tickets for the Mayweather fight.

And there's Pacquiao the man, readily admitting to have fallen by the wayside from the hedonistic temptations of fame and fortune. He gave them all up, with nary an attempt of Clintonesque finger wagging denial: he gave up gambling and womanizing, sold his casino and cockfighting ring, and became a God-fearing, bible-toting Christian evangelical.

He is the jack of all trades. . . a mere master of one. And one might wonder what he could have been as a boxer if he focused all his energies on the art and science of his boxing. But then, it is difficult to imagine Pacquiao as just a boxer, without the theater that has delighted the masa and made his detractors groan: singer, politician, admitted gambler and womanizer, silver screen superhero, basketballer, TV host, and bible-toting and quoting evangelist.

The Pacquiao theater is a few weeks away from its milestone event: The Fight of the Century. The outcome will provide a defining epilogue to the careers of the two men. Everyone has been weighing in, and the science of prediction still has Mayweather (-210) as favored to win, Pacquiao a +70 underdog. Years ago I said, if and when the two fighters would ever meet, I would bet the farm on Mayweather. Looking at the tale of the tape, Mayweather, although he gives aways 2 years on age, has a 5" reach advantage, a 47-0 record, 26 KOs (55%). There is a much ballyhooed defense, with a rolling shoulder move, plus his impressive looking pack of abs and bursting deltoids, that puts the bejesus in betting against him. Pacquiao has serious numbers to match: 57 wins, 5 losses, 2 draws, 38 KOs (66%); plus, speed, precision, and fearless ferocity. Close to fight time, predictions still gravitate to Mayweather.

But let us not forget the intangibles.

Prayers. Yes, prayers. In the Philippines, priests and prelates will be imploring the faithful to pray for a Pacquiao victory. Most Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep or Diyos Alko'y Natutulog will have a P.S. to bless his fists—fists that he claims carries the weight of the nation with every strike. In the Bradley fight, many Filipinos believe it was the power of collective prayer that gave Pacquaio the victory. To boot, Pacquiao, the repentant sinner, has turned to a bible-toting evangelism—that should score high in any blessed scorecard. Mayweather, however, is also a Christian, praying before and after fights, thanking God for choosing him over his opponents, and attributing his 47-0 victories to his God-gifted talent. However, his religiosity is tainted by a criminal past. While millions will be on their knees in prayers for Pacquiao, I doubt Mayweather has prayer groups Hail Marying for him. Whose God will prevail? Whom will God favor? No brainer. Advantage: Pacquiao.

Another intangible. . . Mommy D. and hexing.

Whoa, Mommy D! How in heaven's name can you talk about Pacquiao without mention of Mommy D? She is the essential persona providing colorful in-between-fight tidbits to the Pacquiao theater, basking in her borrowed limelight, singing, dancing, and acting, with a love life to boot, in the backdrop of her son's fame and wealth. But come fight time, she clicks into prayer mode, dictating the crosses and religious icons to adorn Pacquiao's body and immediate surroundings. Then there's the Mommy D. hex! In the Bradley fight, she was caught—no, she didn't really care about being seen, it was all in full view, recorded and eventually going viral—doing a hex: rosary and libreto on her left hand, probably reading a pig-latin kulam—possibly: egsak, egmak, egol, hon (popularly used to increase punching power)—while the right hand's middle and index fingers were frantically and furiously delivering the hex, her eyes in a threatening squint. She claimed she was praying—that's bullocks—you don't need to read Ama Namin or Aba Ginoong Maria from a book. It was hexing, and there's nothing in the Mayweather camp to counter it. Advantage: Pacquiao.

Everyone but the Pope is weighing in on the outcome. Predictions abound with unending theories on how and why. Betting the farm on Mayweather continues to tempt, but the intangibles seriously favor Pacquiao. And if collective prayers do help, and if Mommy D. gets away with another ringside delivery of hexes, then Pacquio will emerge the victor.

Then he elevates from sacred cow to demigod.