Jimuel Pacquiao, the eldest son of eight-division world champion Manny Pacquiao, has finally opened up about the fear, admiration, and the overwhelming pressure of growing up next to a living boxing legend.

In a rare and emotional interview, the 23-year-old prospect revealed that watching his father train used to genuinely terrify him. “People see the smile, the speed, the glory,” Jimuel said, “but they never saw what I saw at 4 a.m. when the whole house was asleep.”

The young Pacquiao remembers standing silently in the doorway of their private gym in General Santos City, barely ten years old, watching his father unleash combinations on the heavy bag with such violence that the chains rattled like thunder. “It wasn’t normal punching,” he recalled.

“It was like Dad wanted to murder the bag. Every hook, every uppercut carried real anger. I was scared he would turn around and see me there.”

Many fans believe Manny Pacquiao has always been the cheerful, God-fearing warrior who dances in the ring with a smile. Jimuel paints a different picture of the mornings. “He would scream at the bag in Bisaya, cursing it, telling it to hit back. Sweat poured like rain.

Sometimes blood from his knuckles splattered on the floor. That version of my father felt unstoppable and, honestly, a little terrifying.”

Yet that same brutality became the greatest blessing of Jimuel’s life. “After the fear came fascination,” he admitted. “I couldn’t stay away. I started sneaking into the gym earlier and earlier just to watch.

The power, the rhythm, the refusal to quit even when his hands were bleeding; it was hypnotic.” The young boy who once hid behind the door slowly stepped inside and asked for gloves.

Manny never treated his son differently from any other fighter in the camp. “He yelled at me harder than at the sparring partners,” Jimuel laughed through tears. “If I dropped my hands, he stopped the session and made me run ten kilometers. If I complained, he added five more.

He said, ‘You carry my name, you carry my pain too. No shortcuts.’”

That unforgiving discipline forged Jimuel into one of the most promising amateur boxers in the Philippines today. With an undefeated record in the amateur ranks and several national gold medals already hanging in the Pacquiao mansion, the young lion is preparing for his professional debut in 2026.

“Every time I feel tired in training, I remember the sound of those chains at 4 a.m.,” he said. “If Dad could destroy himself for greatness, I can at least try.”

The relationship between father and son has evolved dramatically over the years. Where there was once fear, there is now deep respect and friendship. Manny now sits ringside at every one of Jimuel’s bouts, no longer the screaming coach but the proud father holding back tears.

“He still corrects my footwork after fights,” Jimuel smiled, “but now he whispers it, like he’s afraid to break the moment.”

One particular memory still brings chills to Jimuel whenever he talks about it. During preparations for Manny’s 2015 mega-fight against Floyd Mayweather, the training camp was moved to Los Angeles. Twelve-year-old Jimuel flew in for a weekend visit. At 5 a.m.

he found his father shadowboxing in the dark, only the street lights outside illuminating his silhouette. “He didn’t know I was watching,” Jimuel whispered. “For twenty minutes he fought an invisible enemy with everything he had. When he finally stopped, he fell to his knees and prayed.

That’s when I understood: the monster in the gym and the man who kneels to God are the same person.”

That revelation changed everything. Jimuel no longer saw violence when his father trained; he saw sacrifice. “Every brutal session was an offering,” he explained. “Every drop of blood on the canvas was for us, for Mom, for the Philippines. How could I be afraid of love that strong?”

Now, when Jimuel hits the mitts with his own trainers, he channels that same intensity. Sparring partners have started calling him “Little Monster” behind his back, half in jest, half in genuine concern. “I take it as a compliment,” he shrugged.

“If carrying even one percent of my father’s fire makes people nervous, then I’m doing something right.”

The Pacquiao legacy is no longer just about Manny’s eight world titles or his journey from poverty to global icon. It has become a continuing story. Jimuel understands the weight on his shoulders better than anyone. “People expect me to be the next Manny Pacquiao,” he said quietly.

“But I don’t want to be the next him. I want to be the first me, built from the same pain, the same faith, the same 4 a.m. madness.”

As he prepares for the biggest year of his career, Jimuel still wakes up at 4 a.m., just like his father did. The heavy bag in the family gym still swings on the same rusty chains.

But now it’s Jimuel throwing the murderous hooks, Jimuel screaming at the bag in Bisaya, Jimuel leaving blood on the canvas. Somewhere in the shadows, Manny watches silently, smiling the same smile he wore when the roles were reversed.

“I used to be terrified of my father in that gym,” Jimuel concluded, voice breaking. “Now the bag should be terrified of me. Thank you, Dad, for the fear. It was the greatest gift you ever gave me.”

The torch hasn’t been passed yet; Manny Pacquiao at 46 still talks about possible comeback fights. But whenever that final bell rings for the legend, the world already knows where to look next.

A new Pacquiao is rising, forged in the same fire that once made a little boy tremble in the doorway. And this time, the monster in the gym has his father’s eyes.