With a flurry of camera strobes and berserk punches, Manny Pacquiao—gray temples, muscles no longer what they once were—has stunned the boxing world with a comeback-for-the-ages. Sparing his creaky frame, the graciousness of wearing gloves again may not be kind to it, but it is the exact remedy that the sport so badly requires to cleanse itself of taint and doldrums. Leave him to box, and not fool around in politics, sing in concerts, or parade on the basketball court—boxers’ canvas is his altar, and there he is fitted to stay.
Something poignant in a man’s going back to where he started as a hero. This is the squared circle where a small-town nobody was battered into a world icon. But time, that merciless referee, keeps on ticking. A return at mid-forties is not only a gamble—it’s a disregard for all that biology dictates. And yet, here he is, taking blows instead of voting legislation into being, doing what he does best as the sport wracks itself for sincerity. It’s a world in which it seems like most fights are tainted by lucrative choices, hype, pomp, and mysterious match-fixing plots that Pacquiao’s comeback could be boxing’s final raw punch.
The sport requires him more now, not so much his name, but his heart. Those were the days of true rivalries and clean fights; now, too many fighters are sidestepping legitimate opponents or padding records like a politician padding his resume. Pacquiao, with all his shortcomings, never took the easy route. He climbed through divisions like a madman, leaving his blood in every fight, not only his gloves. His comeback will not cure all that ails boxing, but it is a pleasant reminder of what true grit is. And grit, as opposed to talent, does not get worse with age—it gets better.
We had all gritted our teeth through him dabbling in politics, music, and basketball—all forays more humiliating than the previous one. Politics left him infuriatingly over his head. In music, out of tune. On the canvas, bless his heart, he was almost like a mascot who would not remain on the bench. None of those coliseums unraveled his magic. They only suppressed the legend. But with boxing, all of his jabs, even at his ripe age, still resound like poetry in motion. Filipinos do not just respect him there—they believe in him. That faith shatters when he is at the podium of the Senate or gripping the microphone.
And it’s not just us who feel this way. Globally, Pacquiao is respected not for his speeches or soundtracks, but for being that rare fighter who unified belts without unifying bullshit. He fought giants with no excuses. He absorbed losses like a man, never blaming judges or injuries. That humility, that warrior spirit—that’s what elevated him from athlete to legend. His return, if questionable in terms of his medical fitness, reintroduces at least a touch of that innocence to a sport that’s become reliant on flash but lost some of its flair.
They’re right to be concerned about his health. He’s not 25 anymore. His punches have more bite now, and the comeback gets harder. But something must also be said about a man who knows who he is and what turns him on. Some languish at their best. Pacquiao, interestingly, flourishes in combat. Let us not pretend that this has to do with titles or finances. This is about dignity. The boxer is reclaiming his soul from a string of misadventures and providing fans—namely those that were let down by the recent circus acts of pugilism—a reason to return once more.
Naturally, his return won’t rewrite the sport’s problematic scripts overnight. But it will refocus attention away from celebrity matches and YouTuber fight clubs and onto actual matches. It will set the conversation back onto footwork and endurance, not odds and trending politicking. More significant is that it might remind young brawlers that greatness is not everything about going viral. It’s about fighting twelve rounds when your legs are as weak as noodles and your lungs are burning. Pacquiao’s is not a tale of stardom. It’s about staying true to one’s calling at all costs.
Let him fight. Not for always—just long enough for the fire to go out. He doesn’t have to prove anything anymore. But if getting back in the ring brings order to the sport, reassurance to his people, and closure to his own legend, then ring the bell. Just please, no more records, no more Senate hearings, and for goodness’ sake, no more half-court baskets. Leave the other rings in the past—this was the only one that ever fit.