Manny Pacquiao, the former boxing champion and Filipino politician, leans deep into the back booth of Nat Thai Food, a steamy little restaurant near his gym in Hollywood, and yawns. It’s the first day of training camp. He’s been up all night, having just flown in from Manila—and having just announced that after four years in retirement, and a failed bid to return to the Filipino Senate, he’s coming back to the ring on July 19, in Las Vegas.
He’s a heavy underdog. At 46, the tips of his hair now touched with gray, he’s signed on to face Mario Barrios, a reigning welterweight champion from San Antonio. There won’t be any tune-up fights, or enough time to train properly. A boxer needs time to condition, to cut weight, to spar. Preparing for a 12-round title bout usually takes three months. But Pacquiao has around seven weeks. His strength-and-conditioning coach was only recently hired, and around Nat’s, members of his team are now dozing off, battling jet lag. Behind sunglasses, his wife, Jinkee, has her eyes closed, her head tilted back.
No missteps. No accidents. No distractions. To arrive in Vegas in peak condition, everything has to go right for Pacquiao.
Then the front door jingles open. In walks Emmanuel “Jimuel” Pacquiao Jr., Manny’s oldest son. He’s in gym shorts and a loose T-shirt and holding the hand of his new girlfriend, Carolina Pimentel. She floats into the place in a green summer dress, her nails and lips lacquered candy apple red. They weave through the cramped tables, the air thick with lemongrass and garlic, and slide into the booth across from Manny and Jinkee.
“Dad,” he says, “I want to turn pro.” Under the table, his leg is firing like a piston as he nervously awaits the response. Pimentel squeezes his hand, their fingers locked tight.
Now awake, Jinkee drops her face in her hands.
“No,” she says, as if about to cry. She looks at Jimuel. He’s 24, and all peach fuzz. Soft cheeks, baby face.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Manny asks. He raises his eyebrows and blinks, his eyes flashing wide like headlights. “You want to follow in my footsteps?”
The food arrives—plates of saucy pepper steak, wonton soup, steaming bowls of fried rice. From the kitchen comes the hiss of woks. As Manny considers his son’s request, I wonder if he recalls the restaurant he worked in when he first started boxing. He was raised in General Santos City, a fishing port in the southern Philippines. His family was so poor that he ran away after his father ate the family dog to survive. At 14, Manny and Eugene Barutag, a close friend, stowed away on a boat bound for Manila to chase careers as boxers, hoping to send the prize money home.
In Manila, Manny lived like a street urchin, sleeping in cardboard boxes, hustling for work and training alongside Barutag. In 1995, during one of their early outings, Barutag struggled in the middle rounds of his match, took some vicious shots, and collapsed in his corner. Manny carried him out of the ring in his arms, racing to find medical attention. There wasn’t any. Barutag was unconscious and not responsive. He died in Manny’s arms. They were 16.
Vowing to fight in his memory, Manny went on to win that night—and kept winning. He won titles in eight weight classes and nearly $575 million in prize money. According to the website Sportico, he ranks 23rd on the all-time athlete-earnings list, just behind Alex Rodriguez and ahead of Rory McIlroy and Peyton Manning. He also spent years in Filipino politics, first as a congressman, then as a senator, and ran for president in 2020.
In the shadow of his father’s epic rise to fame, Jimuel was groomed to be…anything but a boxer. Raised in the family compound—complete with pet deer, an indoor basketball court, and the keys to sports cars for his birthday—he left home a few years ago to strike out on his own. He landed in Los Angeles, now attends community college, and studies business management. On the side, he’s become, like his dad, an aspiring boxer.
Jimuel started strong—seven amateur wins—but then lost four straight. He stepped away from the sport but returned this spring and won a bout.
I saw your last fight,” Manny tells Jimuel as everyone settles. “You grew a lot. But there’s more you need to do.”
Manny has taken punches from the best—Cotto, Morales, De La Hoya, Mayweather. In 2012, he was knocked out cold by a Juan Manuel Márquez counter right and rushed to the hospital. Why should his son suffer that same fate?
“I don’t approve,” Manny tells his son. But then again, what choice does Manny have? Deny Jimuel and risk resentment? If Jimuel is determined to fight, then maybe the best thing to do is to get involved, be a part of his camp, and protect him. “OK, I’ll download the secrets of boxing to you.”
Manny turns to Sean Gibbons, his matchmaker, sitting at the next table. “Can you find an opponent who doesn’t have a lot of pro fights?” Manny asks him.
The idea is set: Manny’s son’s pro debut and his own comeback on July 19, on the same card in Las Vegas. “The advantage is, you carry my name,” Manny says. “You can name your price.”
Jimuel smiles and nods along.
“Don’t dream in advance,” Manny warns. “First four rounds, then six.”
Under the table, Pimentel’s hand covers Jimuel’s like a blanket.
“How long does it take to go from 4 rounds to 12?” she asks Manny, perhaps wondering how much time it will take for Jimuel to advance in the pro ranks, starting as a novice and growing to take on title contenders.
“It depends,” Manny says. “On your stamina and your performance.”
Jinkee looks pale. She’s not ready for this. Manny also looks uneasy. The place grows quiet, awkwardly silent. Nobody knows what to say. Manny flashes his eyes wide again and laughs, breaking the silence.
“To live long, you have to laugh every day,” he says, offering another piece of advice. “When you laugh, you’re exercising your heart.”
On the way back to Manny’s hotel, Gibbons, the matchmaker, is anxious. Manny’s focus has to be on beating Barrios—not on Jimuel winning or losing. If Manny triumphs, it could lead to one more big fight, one last payday, and a moment that could trigger another presidential run. But now, it all seems in jeopardy. Manny training alongside his son, fighting on the same night, under the same lights, and stepping into the ring after his son’s bout. How could everything manage to go right?
Gibbons shakes his head. Sometimes the biggest mistake a fighter makes isn’t in the ring. It’s letting someone else step into it.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t happen,” Gibbons says. “Let’s hope the opponent doesn’t show up. Or gets diarrhea. Or fails the medical.”•
Geoffrey Gray is a New York Times bestselling author, longtime investigative reporter, and the current founder and publisher of True Mastery, which specializes in adventure tales and interactive, real-life games. Known for his eclectic range of subjects and gonzo spirit, Gray started his writing career covering boxing for the New York Times and later specialized in unsolved crime, travel, food writing, and more as a contributing editor at New York magazine. He has also produced two feature documentary films, Patrolman P. and GORED, the latter of which premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival and debuted on Netflix. He is the co-creator of 9 Arches, an adventure card game, lives (most of the time) in the colonial highlands outside Mexico City, and once drove an ice cream truck.
