“It’s a bout without a knockout.”
Manny Pacquiao, who once left opponents gasping for air, has taken on a new challenge: knocking out corruption in the Philippines. The only problem? Corruption’s laughing so hard, it’s hard to hit.
Pacquiao’s political punches seem to land everywhere except where it matters, while corruption keeps bouncing back, smiling like it knows something we don’t—probably because it does. And while the boxer-turned-senator gets winded from all the swinging, corruption isn’t even breaking a sweat.
The image of Manny Pacquiao taking on corruption is like watching a heavyweight champ try his hand at chess: it’s amusing, heartwarming even, but the pieces are still scattered across the board. After losing his presidential bid in 2022, Pacquiao is now reapplying for his old job as a senator, swearing to continue his crusade against the scourge of corruption—a fight that, much like one of his later career bouts, might go the full 12 rounds without a decisive finish.
As a boxer, Pacquiao is a household name—a living legend. Who could forget that knockout of Ricky Hatton? But when he trades gloves for government papers, the story shifts. While in the Senate from 2016 to 2022, Pacquiao did what any boxer-turned-politician might do: he launched a few corruption investigations. Yet, instead of delivering knockout blows to corrupt officials, most of his punches whiffed through the air, with allegations dismissed as “lacking evidence”—the political equivalent of a judge telling Pacquiao, “Nice try, champ.”
When Pacquiao says corruption is a “cancer,” he isn’t wrong—just like he wasn’t wrong when he tried to defeat Floyd Mayweather with good intentions. However, being right doesn’t mean you know what you’re doing. His anti-corruption spiel sounds fantastic in campaign speeches—everyone loves a good cancer metaphor—but it hasn’t quite translated into action.
Perhaps the problem is that corruption doesn’t tremble in fear of a left hook. Pacquiao accused several government agencies of mishandling billions in pandemic aid, but much like a sparring partner holding up the pads, those accusations didn’t result in any meaningful damage. Sure, the Bureau of Immigration got a few tough questions, and some officials broke into a sweat, but at the end of the day, corruption in the Philippines is still bobbing and weaving, while Pacquiao is left shaking his head at the referee.
Let’s be honest: as a legislator, Pacquiao makes a great boxer. He’s good at showing up, making noise, and walking away with a smile, but passing legislation? That’s a whole different sport. His legislative record is as patchy as his late-career footwork. In fact, he was once ranked as one of the Senate’s top absentees. Perhaps it was because he was busy training for a fight—because nothing says “public servant” like skipping out on your job to make millions throwing punches.
But who cares about technicalities like “attendance”? Manny Pacquiao doesn’t need to read laws—he just needs to fight for the people, right? Sure, let’s ignore the fact that his investigations into corruption didn’t exactly send anyone to prison. Pacquiao’s approach is less about legal precision and more about landing political haymakers in front of cameras, but with no law prohibiting political dynasties, maybe that’s all we should expect from the man who once fought Antonio Margarito with a broken hand. After all, his son is running for office too—because if there’s one thing Pacquiao understands, it’s how to throw a family affair into the ring.
(continued this week)
