Political Punch

In January 2006, memorably, after Pacquiao TKO'd super featherweight champ Erik Morales, more than 300 people sat outside his estate for three days. They refused to leave until they got balato—a share of monetary windfall, usually given to friends and relatives. "Manny had absolutely nothing growing up," Roach says, "but he still can't say no to anyone." He runs a charity, signs autographs and merrily hands out plastic baggies with money (about $4) and food (usually rice and sardines) to devotees. For him, balato is an almost daily responsibility.

There was an occasion, however, when the people did say no to their icon. In May 2007, Pacquiao lost a congressional election to incumbent Darlene Antonino-Custodio. Her campaign didn't denounce the celebrity for his education or political experience. (He had little of either.) Instead she insisted that given the chaos and corruption in the government, Pacquiao is more valuable to the republic in the ring. As she said in September, "Politics is naturally divisive. What he has achieved as a boxer—uniting the country—he can continue doing even when he retires."

In an athletically impoverished society, the rhetoric resonated. Even though Pacquiao pledged to the citizenry that he would reduce poverty and stop political infighting, the voters didn't want to distract him from boxing. In their view, meaningful reform would come from a leader wearing gloves.

PACQUIAO THE boxer is essentially the same as he ever was. The blond dye that once streaked his bangs is gone, but for all of Roach's refinements, Pac-Man's style still features feverish punches and constant motion. The southpaw lets out a yell with every punch (Boom!) and combination (Boomboomboom!). If he takes a hard shot, he'll bang his gloves together, stick his arms into the air and grin broadly.

With his kinetic energy Pacquiao has generated "heavyweight-level" pay-per-view ratings and is a huge attraction in Mexico. "The fans there respect him as a great fighter," says Ignacio (Nacho) Beristain, who trained Márquez and now works with De La Hoya. To do otherwise would constitute denial. Pacquiao made a name for himself in 2003 with a TKO of Mexican featherweight Marco Antonio Barrera. Since then Pacquiao has gone 9-1-1 and battled five world champions of Mexican heritage over three weight classes, earning the nickname the Mexecutioner.

Pacquiao loves standing toe-to-toe and hacking like a farmer with a machete, a perpetually blurry figure whose signature stratagem—straight right, straight right, straight left—is so overwhelming that it doesn't matter that his opponent knows what's coming. But the key isn't his wicked hand speed; he has the most powerful legs in boxing. "God's gift to me," Pacquiao calls them. When he first fought Márquez in 2004, Pacquiao darted in and out so often that the sheer friction bloodied the soles of his feet. Naturally he signed an endorsement deal with a socks manufacturer the next day.

IT'S AN early October afternoon in San Francisco, and in Pacquiao's suite on the seventh floor of the Ritz-Carlton, fire ordinances are on the verge of being violated. In town as part of a press tour, Pacquiao steps over one of his Filipino drivers, who has been sleeping on the floor next to the TV; meanwhile, another man is passed out near the doorway, one arm slung over his face.

Who are these folks? "It's a lot of people without titles," Roach says. "I once went around the room and kept asking, 'What does he do?' Nobody could tell me." In GenSan about 30 guys hang out at Pacquiao's mansion every day, playing darts and eating. One friend calls it "social welfare."

Out of a democratic instinct, Pacquiao has been known to take a turn sleeping on the floor. Joaquin Hagedorn Jr., the boyfriend of Pacquiao's sister-in-law, recalls walking into the champ's hotel room in Las Vegas this summer and finding him lying on a blanket. Pacquiao, Hagedorn says, "just didn't think to call for a roll-away."

In fact, the more time you spend with Pacquiao, the more he emerges as a sort of bizarro Mayweather: a polite, quietly unassuming man who not only doesn't talk trash but also picks it up. One night, amid revelry in his suite at the Ritz, he started to gather empty beer cans. Later, flying on a Falcon 900 jet, he used the bathroom faucet to fill an empty water bottle.