NO WIN SITUATION
SHORTLY after one o’clock on the afternoon of April 10, 2014, Manny Pacquiao concluded a series of satellite interviews that were conducted in Section 118 of the MGM Grand Garden Arena in Las Vegas. The interviews were designed to promote his April 12 rematch against Tim Bradley, and everything had gone according to plan. After the interviews ended, Pacquiao was leaving the makeshift set when a voice from across the arena shouted out loud and clear: “Manny, we love you. Manny, we love you. Manny! Manny!”
Pacquiao turned to acknowledge the fan, one of many who follow him wherever he goes. Then his face broke into a broad smile. The man shouting was Tim Bradley.
Manny waved. Tim waved back. In two days, they would try to beat each other senseless in a boxing ring. But for the moment, there was fondness between them.
Pacquiao’s saga is well known. In an era of phony championship belts and unremitting hype, he has been a great fighter and a true peoples’ champion.
Unlike Pacquiao, Bradley hasn’t had to make his way through a mob of adoring fans each time he steps onto the street. But the more time that people spend with Tim, they more they like him.
Bradley is a man you’d let babysit for your children. He’s devoted to his wife, Monica, and has a smile that lights up a room when he enters. There are no allegations of domestic violence, no conspicuous spending. The thought of Tim blowing twenty thousand dollars in a strip club is ludicrous. When he takes his children to school in the morning, it’s not a designed photo op for television cameras.
“I try to be the best person I can be,”
