The Climb: Pacman vs. Floyd

By Herman M. Lagon

Fifty wins. Zero losses. Put those numbers beside Floyd Mayweather Jr.’s name and, for many boxing fans, there is not much left to argue about. Fifty fights, 50 victories. Clean. Perfect. Manny Pacquiao’s record is nowhere near as tidy. He lost. He drew. He got knocked out. And yes, when he and Mayweather finally met in 2015, Floyd won by unanimous decision. That happened. But I have never been fully convinced that the cleanest record automatically tells us who had the more remarkable career.

With Manny, I keep coming back to where he started. He entered professional boxing at around 106 pounds. He won his first world title at flyweight and, years later, somehow found himself fighting for a junior middleweight championship. In between, he became the only boxer to win world championships in eight weight divisions. Read that quickly and it sounds like another statistic. Sit with it for a while and it becomes a little crazy.

A few pounds in boxing are not like a few extra pounds after Christmas and New Year. They matter. Move up and the other fellow may be taller, stronger, harder to hurt, and considerably more unpleasant when his fist lands on your face. Your speed may still be there, but your punches may no longer bother him. Worse, his punches may bother you much more. Pacquiao kept entering divisions where people wondered, Manny, indi bala sobra na? Maybe this time he had finally gone too far.

Then he would fight.

Marco Antonio Barrera. Erik Morales. Juan Manuel Márquez. Oscar De La Hoya. Ricky Hatton. Miguel Cotto. Antonio Margarito. The names alone tell much of the story. Against De La Hoya, Pacquiao looked too small on paper. He battered him until De La Hoya’s corner stopped the fight after eight rounds. Hatton was supposed to bring the strength of a natural junior welterweight. Manny knocked him out in the second. Cotto was bigger and more powerful at welterweight. Manny stopped him in the 12th. Then came Margarito, taller and naturally much heavier. Pacquiao beat him over 12 rounds and completed his eight-division achievement. His career kept asking the same question — surely this is too much? — and for an astonishing stretch, Manny kept answering no.

There is another interesting detail. Pacquiao and Mayweather shared several opponents, and Manny sometimes dealt with them more brutally. Mayweather beat De La Hoya by split decision; Pacquiao overwhelmed him. Floyd stopped Hatton in the 10th; Manny needed two rounds. Pacquiao stopped Cotto, while Mayweather later beat him by decision. That does not prove Manny was the better boxer. Boxing does not work that neatly. Age, weight, timing, and styles matter. And when Manny and Floyd actually fought each other, Floyd won. There is no point pretending otherwise.

Mayweather deserves his flowers, too. He was not simply some fellow running around protecting a zero. He was a five-division champion and an extraordinary defensive boxer. His timing, footwork, intelligence, and ability to adjust were beautiful to watch if you appreciated that kind of boxing — and probably maddening if you were cheering for the man trying to hit him. Pacquiao discovered that firsthand in 2015. Mayweather solved him that night.

Still, one fight answers who won that fight. It does not necessarily settle whose career achievement was harder to reproduce.

That is where Manny’s losses begin to look different to me. He lost to Morales and came back to beat him twice. Márquez knocked him unconscious in one of those moments Filipino boxing fans would probably rather delete from memory. Manny returned anyway. Long after people had begun wondering whether age had finally collected its dues, he beat Keith Thurman at 40. His career was never spotless. There were bruises all over it. Maybe that is part of why so many Filipinos connected with him. We know something about getting knocked down and reporting for work again on Monday.

Oddly enough, thinking about Manny brings me to Miley Cyrus. Yes, Miley. Her 2009 song “The Climb” obviously has nothing to do with boxing, but its central idea feels surprisingly at home here. We can become so fixated on the summit that we forget to look at the road going up. Manny’s road began around 106 pounds. Then came another division, another champion, another bigger body standing across the ring, and another round of people saying this might finally be too much. Sometimes it was. He stumbled. He lost. Once, he fell frighteningly hard. Then he climbed again.

And that is what makes eight divisions so difficult to imagine anyone repeating. A future fighter would have to become world-class while still very small, then grow through division after division without losing the speed, power, stamina, chin, and skill that made him special. He would need the right body, the right opponents, the right opportunities, a long career, and probably the stubbornness to keep saying yes when common sense begins suggesting no. Mayweather has 50-0 and the victory over Manny. Pacquiao has something different: a career that almost should not have been physically possible.

So give Floyd his 50-0. It is magnificent. Give him that night in 2015, too. He earned it. I just do not think those numbers end the conversation. Mayweather showed us how long a great boxer could remain unbeaten. Pacquiao showed us how far a great boxer could travel.

Perhaps that is why, between the perfect record and the imperfect journey, Manny’s career stays with me more.

Miley may have said it best without ever knowing she was talking about a skinny kid from General Santos.

It was the climb.