No Contest

Sunday. Day of the Pacquiao-Diaz fight. I wake slowly, reluctantly. My eyelids are glued together with encrusted motes and it takes a while before my lashes untangle themselves.

Woog is already awake. As is his habit on days when school is out, he is up from bed before the sun. Class days, I have to shake him awake for what seems like hours. I can hear him in the next room, noisily slamming his Megablocs structures on the floor. Tsk.


Eli is beginning to wake, as well. He is somewhere below, clinging to my left leg like a gecko, murmuring sleepily.


Atch suddenly drapes himself all over me. Apparently his anticipation of this day has turned his testosterone on full-throttle. It seems he finds the need to unburden some of his excitement lest he explode all over the tv screen even before the fight begins.


As expected, Eli, our reliable romance radar, senses something is amiss in his world. He begins to scold in unintelligible consonants and climbs in between his father and me, right heel snagging Atch's nose upon descent.


To distract him, Atch turns the ringtone function of his cellphone on and gives it to the baby, who predictably grabs it and holds it up to his ear. But only until Atch discretely rolls me down to Eli's bed, which results in Eli hurling the phone at his father. It bounces hard on the floor, narrowly missing his head.


My husband sighs. "I'll change him and bring him down to Yaya..." he begins.


"We'll be late for Mass, Atch," I interrupt, glancing at the clock, "maybe later?"


"But I'll be watching Pacquiao." He protests.


Ah, yes. Pacquiao. I hate you Manny Pacquiao.


"Pacquiao or me, Atch."


"Aifee!" He squawks.


In the car on the way to church, the radio is on full-blast, not playing the Amy Winehouse or Enya the kids have been enjoying of late, but strident sports commentators making absurd predictions on the fight.


I learn later that it is a historical joust for the Pacman who is making his debut bout in the lightweight division, a weight class higher-up his usual featherweight. But Eli is looking puzzled. He cannot dance to the radio announcers' quacking voices. Blackmark number two against Manny Pacquiao.


Somewhere in this benighted Pacquiao-loving city (no, blast him...world), my officemate, R. will have left his two toddlers in the care of his harried wife while he hies himself over to somewhere called Otso-Otso where they serve lunch and a live telecast of the fight, all for two hundred pesos. Meanwhile, F. will be squeezing in for free with hundreds of other fans at the Bay Center, never mind his wife and three lovely daughters.


Back home, I look at my husband expectantly, but Atch gulps down his lunch and hurries to the tv. I know I ought to physically fight for his attention (like maybe grab some cojones and squeeze really hard), but all hope is lost when he throws absently over his shoulder: "give Eli a bath and go take your siestas, Aif, okay?"


No contest. No contest at all.

Pacquiao versus Aifee

End Note: Pacquiao won. Round 9 knockout. Atch is ecstatic. The Pacman is now officially the Lightweight Champion of the World.


Bugger.