Manny Pacquiao has been elected to boxing’s Hall of Fame. And the sun will rise in the East.

There was never a doubt. The only question was when he would stop fighting and become eligible. On June 8, in Canastota, N.Y., Pacquiao will be honored by a sport that never knew what a hit it had when it allowed him into a ring 26 years ago. Before he finally got out and announced his retirement, he had competed from 108 pounds — when he was a street urchin in the Philippines trying to scrape together money for food for his family — to 154 pounds. He won titles in eight weight classes. Nobody else has done that.

He is 46 now, still 5-foot 5-inches, still close to fighting weight and still a lefty fireplug. He finished with a pro record of 62-8-2, including 39 knockouts. As an amateur, he went 60-4. That’s a lot of hitting, and a lot of getting hit. Yet as recently as a year ago, he was trying to drum up a match against Mario Barrios, a decent fighter. That the fight never happened might be proof that God is a boxing fan.

For those of us observing all this over the years, enough was enough in July 2019 when, at age 40, Pacquiao took on a younger, stronger Keith Thurman and won the World Boxing Assn. super welterweight title. Ballet dancers don’t last till they are 40, much less somebody getting hit in the head for more than two decades.

Manny Pacquiao, right, throws a punch at Keith Thurman during their welterweight fight in Las Vegas in July 2019.

(John Locher / Associated Press)

The Thurman fight was under the bright lights of the MGM Grand Garden Arena in Las Vegas, where Pacquiao had made his boxing home. At various times there, he had caught the Brit Ricky Hatton with one of the prettiest KO punches ever, had effectively ended Oscar de la Hoya’s Golden Boy career, had fought a lucrative trilogy with Tim Bradley, had been knocked out so convincingly by Juan Manuel Marquez that many at ringside thought he was dead and had lost to Floyd Mayweather Jr. in the largest-grossing fight in history.

The Mayweather-Pacquiao fight on May 2, 2015, sold 4.6 million pay-per-views, sold 10,000 tickets at $10 each for the weigh-in (men standing in their underwear on a scale), attracted $100 million in legal Vegas wagers and forced the partial closure of the private-plane area of McCarran airport because of all the celebrity traffic.

In Pacquiao’s fight against Thurman, he connected with a body punch that sent Thurman to the canvas. Thurman said later that that body punch had been so lethal that he had to take out his mouthguard so he could breathe again. Pacquiao knocked Thurman down again later, then Thurman overcame whatever empathy he had for the elderly and made it a great fight. But Pacquiao had gotten too far ahead and won with a split decision.

In Pacquiao’s dressing room area afterward, well-wishers and boxing groupies made it crowded and chaotic, even more than usual. It was almost as if his handlers knew that this was it, that a wonderful career was ending on a wonderful note, so let’s let everybody in. But Pacquiao, trying to look celebratory while actually looking exhausted and depleted, was a cautionary tale for any 40-year-old exchanging a thousand punches in 45 minutes with somebody about half his age.

By then, Pacquiao had become a Philippine senator, one of only 24, and the ambitious post-fight plan had been to get him showered and immediately on a plane back to the Philippines so he could attend a state of the union speech.

Fortunately, medical personnel, taking a quick look at him, intervened and the trip home was delayed.

The Thurman fight should have been the end. Pacquiao had become the oldest-ever world welterweight champion. The revered and aging champion had strutted his stuff against a talented youngster. He could go out on a high and smile broadly as he waved good-by.

He could have, but he didn’t.

WBC lightweight champion Manny Pacquiao, right, punches Oscar De La Hoya during their welterweight bout in Las Vegas in December 2008.

(Mark J. Terrill / Associated Press)

With boxers, common sense seldom prevails. The macho overrules the logic. More than a decade had passed since Pacquiao actually needed more boxing paydays. It wasn’t the money, he always said. What it was, he never clearly articulated.

His last official fight was in August 2021, against somebody named Yordenis Ugás, which he lost. The perfect exit time would have been after the Thurman fight, but in the long run, it didn’t matter. The legacy of Manny Pacquiao had been well established.

Interestingly, Pacquiao wasn’t even the best boxer of his time. That was Mayweather. But Pacquiao had style and substance and a swagger that was somewhat more confidently good-natured than cocky. Mayweather came off like a punk, but really wasn’t one. Pacquiao came off like the guy next door and pretty much was that.

In his usually victorious post-fight returns to the Philippines and his home of General Santos City, he would be greeted by hundreds of people. Some were just groupies, most were there for handouts — food, money.

In May 2010, Pacquiao was running for a Philippine congressional seat. His first try at this was three years earlier and he had lost. The lesson: a great lefty uppercut and 30 days of campaigning won’t get you enough votes in election-crazed Philippines. So, he was back again for a second try, working harder, spending more time on the campaign trail. He had allowed several reporters, even the Asian bureau chief of the Wall Street Journal, to come along for the ride.

And what a ride it was.

Long caravans jerked along narrow roads, with Pacquiao in the front in a bullet-proof car and his election team and the several reporters in their own rented cars strung out behind, dodging chickens and meandering bike-riders. Disaster was around every corner and none occurred.

Manny Pacquiao delivers a speech during a session of the Philippine Senate in August 2016.

(Bullit Marquez / Associated Press)

When he arrived, life in whatever town he had stopped, also stopped. The crowds gathered in the park, the children scurried to the front and sat, cross-legged, staring up in awe at him. And he never disappointed. He knew seven different dialects and knew which one suited this area. He spoke with fire in his eyes, often fists clenched for emphasis, not injury. The reporters were seated on the main stage and understood nary a word of his speech, although the Wall Street Journal guy faked it by writing stuff down.

As election day approached, Pacquiao’s home in General Santos City was a beehive. When he traveled to the U.S. for fights, his entourage probably approached 30, and all of them stayed in a huge house he owned close to his training site, Freddie Roach’s Wild Card Gym, near Hollywood and Vine. Visiting that home meant stepping over sleeping bodies to find a quiet place to talk. That’s the way Pacquiao liked it. These weren’t groupies or hangers-on, they were friends. Likely they still are.

In the days preceding the election in the Philippines, Pacquiao often sat at a large dining table in his house, surrounded by reporters and with his daughter, Queen Elizabeth — whose birth in the U.S. was planned so she would be an American citizen — on his lap. Despite all the political pressure on him, he was a host with a desire to please.

He owned a huge cock-fighting farm, acres and acres of birds, and a visit was arranged for those interested. Many were not, citing objections to animal cruelty, but those who went saw the fields of birds and even watched a real cock fight, with two birds, equipped with razors, slashing at each other in a fighting ring surrounded by bleachers. Afterward, drinks were served and then dinner, where it appeared likely that part of the main course was the losing bird.

When Pacquiao won the election this time, with the crucial precinct result popping up onto a screen in the wee hours of the morning, he was surrounded by reporters and helpers and the smile was bigger than any of his post-fight, boxing-ring victory emotional displays. Maybe a win over Mayweather would have topped that, but we will never know.

After that victorious late-night congressional election moment, Paquiao went on to become one of 24 sitting senators in the Philippines and ran for president of the country in 2022. He got more than 3 million votes, but finished third. The winner was Bongbong Marcos, son of former president Ferdinand Marcos and mom Imelda, she of the world’s largest shoe collection.

Manny Pacquiao celebrates after defeating Brandon Rios in a WBO welterweight title fight in Macao in November 2013.

(Vincent Yu / Associated Press)

Pacquiao’s return to the U.S. in June for the Hall of Fame festivities will be one of the few times he has made the lengthy trip without a fight hanging over him, without the need to answer weeks of questions about how he feels and what he thinks of his opponent. This time, he can travel, relax and see old friends again, such as longtime trainer Freddie Roach, longtime promoter Bob Arum and longtime publicist Fred Sternburg. Fittingly, all three are already in the Hall of Fame.

Pacquiao has said he will bring his family, which in Pacquiao’s way of thinking is about 75 people. Look for a big chartered jet. Expect lots of smiles and hugs and stories of the good old days, some of which, embellished or not, Sternberg will turn into news releases.

Also, don’t be surprised to hear stories about Pacquiao pondering yet another fight, even though Roach, Arum and Sternburg will be there to immediately talk him out of it. Well, maybe not Sternburg.