In the years since the negotiations between the two fighters' camps first broke down, the accomplished Pacquiao suffered a split decision points loss to Timothy Bradley (which was avenged), then a devastating sixth-round knockout against the brilliant Mexican Juan Manuel Marquez in their fourth meeting.
That's right. Pacquiao willingly got in the ring with a guy good enough to beat him four times. No padded resume there.
For all the mudslinging and counter-slinging going back and forth over the years, many of the causal fans look at this as a black & white (or Filipino beige) case of the cocky villain versus the true warrior.
In the good television shows and movies, it is the hero who eventually emerges victorious.
Not tomorrow.
I love to watch "Pacman" fight - his battles with fellow greats Oscar De La Hoya and Ricky Hatton were classics, even more impressive than Mayweather's defensive (although admittedly artistic in nature) wins over the same opponents.
But even though he is two years the younger, it would appear clear that father time has let slip a few more jabs in Pacquiao's direction, leaving the undeniably gifted Mayweather - boxing's greatest counterpuncher and deflector of blows - right in the driver's seat tomorrow. Just as he wanted.
I would love to see the good guy take the crown after 12 rounds of brutal ballet, but the mechanics of human ability and allocation of current skill sets would suggest my desires will stay in the realm of Hollywood scripts. Where they belong.
SPEAKING of pugilism, have you ever wondered what two blokes who have spent 10 rounds turning each others' faces into pulp will chat about in the dressing room afterwards?
A few minutes after they went the distance in a brutal war in the main event of Flava Rise of the Fallen last weekend, Waikato farmer Andrew "the Junkyard Dog" Robinson entered Wanganui-born Robert "the Butcher" Berridge's changing area with a bottle of beer in each hand.
"You drink?" Robinson asked, his right eye starting to swell as he stood above the sweating Berridge with two rivets of blood running down his right cheek.
"No ... aw, yeah," Berridge reconsidered, as he recognised his competitive nature could take a break for a moment to share a drink with a worthy foe, despite the disappointment with his points victory instead of a knockout still lingering.
Wanganui Chronicle did not get close enough to see what they were consuming, but let's use artistic licence and say it was Waikato Draught.
And so it was, with one leaning forward on his knees and the other resting his back on the wall, both staring straight ahead at some distant point, that Berridge and Robinson proceeded to dissect their war.
"You're a meathead," said the Butcher.
"Takes one to know one," replied Junkyard Dog as he tilted his bottle.
Berridge asked Robinson his plans - the farmer has a fight scheduled in Victoria in October, but there's the matter of running his property because apparently the current farmhands weren't cutting the mustard.
Robinson apologises for a couple of low blows which Berridge genially waves away with a shake of his head. No worries.
"Saw your last fight, that was a nice uppercut," Robinson offers.
"I was trying to get you with it," Berridge counters.
"I know," Robinson parries.
Something tells me we are less likely to have such civility in the aftermath of tomorrow's bout.
