ONE-TWO PUNCH

Their throats were as raw as their heroes' faces would soon be.

They bellowed like drunks at last call, even in a city where such an unhappy ending never happens.

To say that the over-enthused, over-caffeinated, over-adrenalized, over-everything throng of unswayable Manny Pacquiao and Rocky Hatton partisans were an animated bunch at a sold-out MGM Grand Garden arena on Saturday night would be like calling The Beatles a rock band or Gandhi a pretty good dude: such a description would certainly ring true, but it would fail to encapsulate the frothing-at-the-mouth fervor that defined this event.

It wasn't just two impossibly fit brawlers with abdomen muscles that looked as if they were sculpted from fine wood who traded blows on this night. It was warring cultures. It was national bragging rights on the line. And what could matter more than that?

One Manny Pacquiao supporter summed up his appeal in one word: "Pride," said Martin Gonzalez from Manila, shortly before the fight. "We don't have a lot of that in the world."

You got a sense of all the emotions on the line at the Friday weigh-in for the mega bout, where the crowd came with flags draped on their shoulders, beers in both hands, hearts in throats.

They were awesome in their brew-soaked bravado. The British fans came dressed as superheroes, Elvis, boy scouts and sheiks (still don't get those last two).

They merged into one deafeningly loud percussive instrument, pounding on drums, pumping their fists in unison, courting laryngitis with their boisterous bellows.

The Filipino contingent didn't quite match their English counterparts in numbers, but they were a vocal lot nonetheless. Many of them clutched small children, as if they were there to witness something historic and wanted their kids to be present.

At one point in his life, Manny Pacquiao lived in a cardboard shack, and to see him come so far is a source of intense pride for his rabid Pinoy following.

By the time the fight rolled around, everyone was ready to explode like a punctured keg.

"There's only o-o-o-n-e Ricky Hat-ton!" thousands chanted until the ground rumbled like tectonic plates colliding.

One reason passions were so inflamed on Saturday night is that the fighters -- and by extension, the fan bases they represent -- have so much in common. Both Hatton and Pacquiao are approachable, men-of-the-people types who are beloved for their blue-collar bonafides.

"He's one of us," said Carl St. Pierre from Manchester, England, Hatton's hometown.

This was this third time Pierre had traveled to Vegas to see Hatton, and he wore a British flag on his back.

"We can go and have a drink with him at the pub. For real."

All the prefight excitement aside, it turned out to be an anticlimactic match, with Pacquiao knocking Hatton out in the second round.

Pacquiao's fans were elated, literally dancing in the aisles and leaping in the air for joy.

"Too strong, too fast," bellowed Jed Saribay, from Honolulu, gripping a Philippines flag.

"He is not just fighting for himself; he's fighting for a nation," added Pat Pacolba, also from Honolulu, sporting a big smile.

The Hatton die-hards were predictably more sullen, staring in disbelief as their fighter lay sprawled out on his back on the canvas.

"I'm blown away," said Mark Dunlop, from Edinburgh, Scotland. "We expected more from him."

"He left himself exposed," said Stuart Kirk, from London.

But as the Hatton die-hards left the arena, they weren't all crying in their beers.

"Ah well," one Hatton fan was heard sighing as he left the arena. "At least we got to go to Vegas."

Contact reporter Jason Bracelin at jbracelin@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0476.