Anyone have ESPN Insider here?

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Can someone with ESPN Insider please post this article about Why Pacquiao Cannot Lose on Saturday please?

http://insider.espn.go.com/sports/boxing/i...%3fid%3d4104180

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Pacman is definitely going to win that's why he can't lose ;)

The eye doesn't know where to settle. Bouncing from one wall to another, from one group to another, until it all merges in the kaleidoscopic blur of Manny Pacquiao's Los Angeles condominium. The swirl of humanity is exhausting to watch. Two men barbecue on the back deck; two more men clean and cook in the small kitchen; Manny's brother Bobby and several other guys play a game of darts on one of the three boards hanging on the wall; a masseuse rubs Manny's shoulders and hands as he sprawls on the couch; the Suns and Rockets are on the big screen; an enormous oil painting of Manny in the ring stares from the wall; two guys push shopping carts from the back deck to the front door, on their way outside to a car with a trunk full of groceries; Pacman the Jack Russell terrier weaves around everybody's feet; several men sit on the stairs getting on and off their cell phones so often it could pass for a PBS telethon.

Manny is the only stationary element of the room. His world revolves around him—boisterous, diligent, purposeful. Everybody else is in, out, singing, laughing, calling each other names. Manny's wife, Jinkee, returns from shopping. She sits down at the dining room table, and a bowl of fish soup appears in front of her, as if by magic.

There are 12 men, give or take, depending on the day, living in the two-bedroom condo with Pacquiao and Jinkee while the fighter works with trainer Freddie Roach at the Wild Card Boxing Club, 10 minutes down the road in Hollywood. It's a month from his May 2 bout with Ricky Hatton, and the only signs of traditional training-camp asceticism are three printed signs on the wall that read:

9:00 p.m. curfew strictly enforced

By Order of,

The Champ

There are two bunk beds cordoned off behind a curtain in a makeshift closet off the dining room. There are more bunks upstairs. Stragglers sleep on the couch or the floor. Their jobs vary. They work security or publicity. They help train. They handle chores. They do whatever it takes to remain on the inside with boxing's best pound-for-pound fighter and the most famous man in the Philippines.

Pacquiao, 30, has won titles in five different weight classes, from 112 to 135. His December domination of Oscar De La Hoya sent the Golden Boy into retirement and elevated Pacman from national icon to international draw. His style in the ring is relentlessness mixed with tirelessness. He is a huge puncher in a small body anchored by thick legs. In fighting the puggish, chin-leading Hatton for Ring magazine's 140-pound mythical (but coveted) title, Pacquiao will headline a marquee show for the first time.

Most boxers limit distractions. Pacquiao invites them in, orders them a plate of food and makes up a bed. "It is easier if you have friends around, laughing," he says. "Always there should be laughing."

There is much laughter, that's for sure. One source of merriment is the poster hanging near the dartboards. It announces the Manny Pacquiao Weight Loss Challenge. There are 56 names—everybody around Pacquiao—on the list, with each person's weight, and a decree: "Absolutely no cheating!" Manny has promised $3,000 to anyone who loses 10% of his body weight by the next weigh-in, 22 days away. The cheating edict is a nod to the last challenge, before the De La Hoya fight, when Pacquiao had to pass out nearly $80,000. Strength coach Alex Ariza won the grand prize, earning $10,000 on top of the $2,000 that he and everyone else who lost 10 pounds picked up. The competition was marred by allegations of Lasix and even liposuction. This time, there's talk of Manny's paying a local drug-testing company to ensure fairness.

Remember: This is just a month before a huge fight, one that guarantees Pacquiao $12 million. Organizing a weight-loss challenge, training four hours with Roach every afternoon, running in Griffith Park with Pacman every morning, overseeing the menagerie of the condo—this is the man's life.

And to think, he trains here to get away from it all.

Wild card boxing club sits on the second floor of a grimy, U-shape strip mall on Vine Street. The place is filled with up-and-comers and down-and-outers, and reeks of unventilated sweat. Mickey Rourke trained here. Four or five languages collide in the air. Roach closes the place down every afternoon so Pacquiao can work in peace.

While Pacquiao trains, Rob Peters stands watch on the concrete staircase out back. Tall and shambling, Peters is a local tough guy who wandered into Roach's gym years ago, cozied up to the trainer and became part of the Wild Card fabric. His title is Pacquiao's head of U.S. security (Peters' choice) or parking lot attendant (a description favored by other team members).

Whatever his title, Peters is busy. He shoos away a large group of Filipino men with cameras who are trying to catch a glimpse of Pacquiao shadowboxing. He answers the phone in the gym and tells ex-fighter Johnny Tapia that he'll relay his message. He stands outside the door to Pacquiao's lifting dungeon to make sure no secrets get out.

He always has time for a story, though. On his first drive through the Philippines with Manny, the head of Pacquiao's homeland security (25-year military vet Carlos Homo) handed him an M16 and told him to sit in the middle seat and hide his white face in case some of the Muslim guerrillas in Manny's hometown of General Santos City had kidnapping in mind. They went to the beach later, and Manny lifted his shirt to reveal a handgun in the waistband of his swim trunks.

Back home in GenSan, guards patrol the gate and perimeter of Pacquiao's 12,000-square-foot estate. Manny employs at least 30 full-time bodyguards for protection in a neighborhood in which nice homes mix with corrugated-roof shanties. Every morning, at least 20 people congregate outside his gate chanting, "Manny!" Some hold photos of children they say are sick or in the hospital. As promoter Bob Arum says, "The Philippines has a fabulous welfare system, and it's called Manny Pacquiao."

Pacquiao came from nothing. He moved to Manila at 13 to start boxing, and along the way he lived on the streets and sold the cigarettes he stole. He turned pro at 16 and fought the way he lived: hard, and with passion. Roach and Jinkee eventually convinced him to decrease the nightlife and increase the fight life.

Before his first of three fights with Erik Morales, the Wild Card was a free-for-all. The door was always open. Manny paid more attention to the crowd than to the training. Roach told Peters, "If he loses this fight, you're hired." Morales won, the doors closed, and Pacquiao hasn't lost since—including two straight wins against Morales.

Manny is a devout Catholic, living in Mindanao province, one of the centers of conflict between the government and Islamic separatists. He pays to send 250 Philippine students to school (elementary through college) each year. He recently purchased and donated 300 American-made hospital beds to needy organizations at home. Every year, on his birthday, he spends time passing out noodles, canned goods, 100-pound sacks of rice and money (250 pesos—roughly $5.25—per person). Last year he started at 5 a.m. and finished after 7 p.m. He realized after the banks had closed that he'd run out of money before he'd run out of people, so he reduced the amount to 100 pesos so everyone would get something. Many complained. But Manny either didn't notice or refused to acknowledge it. "The people where I live are not bad people, they are only poor," he says. "If I can help, it is my duty."

There's no comparable athlete in the United States, maybe the world. He has two current TV shows (Pinoy Records, Totoy Bato), has recorded hit songs ("This Fight Is for You" is the biggest) and owns a professional basketball team (the MP Warriors). The political turmoil and attendant dangers faced by his wife and four children prompted the military to issue an unusual decree: If Manny calls, the Philippine army will send a division to his compound to protect them.

His passion for his people led Pacquiao to run for a congressional seat in 2007. His opponent, Darlene Antonino-Custodio, ran espousing the dictum that Manny's true value to the country was as a boxer. She never demeaned his fitness for office; she just said it would be better for the country if he stayed in the ring. The people agreed: Pacquiao lost by 30%.

"Politics in the Philippines is business," Pacquiao says. "People run with the idea of helping the poor, but that changes with power and money."

An undeterred Pacquiao vows to run again in 2010. He's considered retiring by then, with one more bout (Floyd Mayweather Jr. perhaps?) after Hatton.

Pacquiao's workout on this day (15 rounds on the mitts, no breaks) concludes with a moment of silence. The gym has reopened, and anyone who can afford $50 a month or $5 a day is back. Pacquiao bows his head in the corner. Heavy bags swing listlessly. Ropes stop midjump. Even the sweat seems to pause. "Thank you," Peters bellows when Manny lifts his head from the corner.

Peters ushers the fighter and his entourage into a tunnellike staircase leading to the strip mall's parking lot. Peters stands at the bottom and motions, SWAT-style, as he assesses the scene. The destination is Nat's Thai Food restaurant, about 100 feet away, which closes for an hour every evening so Manny and his crew can eat undisturbed. "Okay," Peters says finally, waving his arm and pushing open the metal door. "Let's go."

When Pacquiao and Hatton lace up on May 2, the Philippines will stop. Manny's fights have brokered cease-fires between guerrillas and the military. Even the poorest of the poor will be able to watch on portable screens set up throughout cities.

When he returns, win or lose, they will camp outside his gate awaiting their share—their balato—of Pacquiao's good fortune. "His downfall will be his kindness," says adviser Michael Koncz. "He tries to please everyone, and he has this huge sense of responsibility for his people. There are people who take advantage of him, and I fear it's going to catch up to him."

Back at the overstuffed condo, that thought hangs in the convivial communal air. Is Pacquiao's generosity simply a case of civic responsibility? Is it a form of survivor's guilt, recompense for coming from so little and ending up with so much? "I know what they're feeling," he says. "I did not have food every day. Your heart is broken. My dream is for God to use me to help them, because what we have now is temporary. We can't take it to heaven with us."

There are so many questions. Does he worry that people are taking advantage of his generosity? He shakes his head several times before saying, "I am not afraid of that, no."

What happens if his income decreases but his people's needs do not? Pacquiao is quiet, almost somber. His friend Joe Ramos fills the silence. "Manny believes that is God's job," he says.

Pacquiao doesn't seem to hear. His eyes remain fixed on a spot somewhere up on the high ceiling. The Suns are finishing off the Rockets. The masseuse, still at work, stops grinding her thumbs between his shoulder blades.

The champ is quiet, still. All around him there is laughing.

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Thanks!!!

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Please post this one too!

http://insider.espn.go.com/sports/boxing/i...%3fid%3d4104180