THE MIDAS TOUCH

Amongst the boats berthed in the same haven as CYLESTA is one christened MIDAS TOUCH. It is, predictably, an ostentatious motor cruiser. I can only assume that the owners have not read much classical mythology. I smile each time I see it.

It has come to my mind this weekend, alongside the Fight of the Century, a much longed for welterweight contest between Manny Pacquiao and the world's highest paid sportsman, Floyd Mayweather Jr.

My son, George, who knows a thing or two about the ways of the ring, predicted a Mayweather victory on points, the fight going the whole twelve round distance. Manny is a front foot southpaw, with a direct, aggressive, attacking style. All heart, and a lot of energy. Skill of course, too. Floyd is a cold, adaptive slippery boxer, a supreme technician, clinical in his reading of his opponents' style, and as much concerned to stay away from punishment as to give it out.

I had my money on Manny, which was as much an act of reverent hope, than of cold prediction. I lost my money.

The fight went much as George had predicted. As a spectacle, it was disappointing,  and if I'd paid the extortionate pay per view, I'd have felt let down. Mind you, I didn't see the undercard, where, perhaps, spectator value was delivered. Floyd skipped off Manny, who advanced constantly across the centre of the ring, only to find that the fighter he thought he had on the ropes was a ghost, his slippery brown body melting away to one side or the other in a master class of slipping and feinting. Throughout the entire first ten rounds, as far as I could see, Floyd used an armoury of punches which consisted only of two. A left jab, some inches longer than Pacquiao's, deployed with no apparent energy greater than was needed to keep the Filipino tornado at bay. Sometimes the jab was more a wave than a punch. A gentle patting of the air before Manny's nose. The other weapon was the right cross, used like an occasional detergent to clear a stain. Unless you looked very closely, you couldn't fathom how Floyd was scoring, and how Manny wasn't. But Floyd's jabs landed. Manny's energetic combos largely missed their target. Gradually, jab by jab, Floyd at first stayed on terms, then pulled ahead against a wearied Pacquiao.

For ten rounds, Floyd was backed up against the ropes, dancing away from shots around the edge of the ring. But there was no dope a rope end to this. The careful eking out of effort extended even into rounds eleven and twelve, by which time even the supremely fit Manny was sagging. So consummately professional was this, that before the final round, there was even a brotherly hug between the two. Floyd's detachment killed Manny's passion dead. Neutered it. Used it.

The two men and their differences made for a fascinating contest. A fascination that, if not equally felt during the fight, raised passions before and after it. For they are opposites, not only in their fighting styles, but in their characters.

Manny is a hero. He has a plurality to his interests, and a generosity and levity which make him endearing. In an interview before the fight, he told his fans not to worry, but to relax. After all, he said, it's me in the ring, not you. He smiles readily. He is himself very relaxed. Though wealthy, powerful and influential, he uses his influence as a lawmaker, politician and philanthropist within his homeland. Coming from very humble beginnings, he has made good, and, if we are to believe the image, does good.

Floyd, on the other hand, has made something else of himself. He has enormous wealth, but, as far as we know, closely protected for his own flamboyant materialistic use. He has some ninety cars, amongst them a predictable stable of Ferraris, Bugattis and Rollers. He has coined Money as his nickname. He has made a huge business by being a bling villain. He backs this with an unfriendly public image, and a credible, though minor league, criminal CV. Even his choice of crime, wife beating, seems calculated to attract odium.

This is where boxing meets Hollywood. In this territory, one needs to tread with extreme care. Are we to believe either of the images displayed in front of us, or are they both crafted with care by image makers keen to simplify narratives down to good and evil. Manny and Floyd would not be the first boxers given this kind of makeover. Boxers, often not notoriously smart young men, are moulded by very smart impresarios. It's an old story.

But in Manny's case, there is an endemic innocence which really does help you believe in him. A clear and sparkling directness to his eyes, which attracts and holds you. And there is a bank of evidence that he transcends boxing, and uses it for good, much as Ali did. Indeed, there's an argument for Manny as The Greatest. Like Ali, not purely because of his remarkable achievements within the ring.

Floyd won. But did he? Doubt remains on the richness of Floyd's life. He has the money, the medals, the belts, and an empire of associated bling. But is that all there is to it? Is his quest, in contrast to Manny's, purely a multi storey edifice of ego? An empty building? I can't help but imagine Floyd in his 22,000 square feet mansion, all alone, in his silly oversized bling baseball hat. Alone.

Even if I am as suckered into simplicity, as Manny was suckered by his own attacking style in the ring, I cannot help but reflect on what messages for humanity this fight has. Is it that endeavour is glorified solely by the bling it buys? Is money or winning really everything? Or, as I'd want to believe, is money a kind of trivia, with other values the true measures of a life well lived, a winning beyond winning?

I see MIDAS TOUCH, inevitably painted on the stern of the boat in gold. Again, I greet it with a wry smile. And a little sadness.