DETROIT, Mich. – One of racing’s true pioneers will compete this summer at the Chevrolet Detroit Grand Prix presented by Lear and she will appear in Detroit this weekend at one of the Motor City’s annual automotive celebrations.

Lyn St. James, recognized as one of the top 100 female athletes of the century by Sports Illustrated, will race in the Historic Trans-Am Series events during Grand Prix weekend on Belle Isle. The former IndyCar Series driver will race the classic 1969 University of Pittsburgh Chevrolet Camaro in the Historic Trans-Am Series event at Belle Isle. The series, which features the original cars that raced in the golden era of Trans-Am competition in the late 1960s and early 70s, will host races on both Saturday and Sunday during the Grand Prix race weekend.

St. James will appear in the Chevrolet Detroit Grand Prix presented by Lear display this weekend at Autorama inside the TCF Center in downtown Detroit. St. James will meet with fans and sign autographs in the display alongside the historic Camaro that she will race on the Belle Isle street circuit. The iconic Camaro was built and operated by the student-run race team at the University of Pittsburgh and was modeled after the 1969 Camaro driven by Team Penske’s Mark Donohue, who won the Trans-Am Series manufacturer’s title for Chevrolet that season. The 2020 Grand Prix IndyCar will also be featured in the display at Autorama throughout the weekend.

“I am so excited to be racing in Detroit this summer at the Chevrolet Detroit Grand Prix presented by Lear,” said St. James. “I’ve always loved the racing fans in the Motor City and I’m looking forward to seeing everyone at Autorama this weekend. The Historic Trans-Am Series is going to be a great addition to the racing lineup on Belle Isle this summer and I can’t wait to get behind the wheel of the University of Pittsburgh Camaro and put on a good show for the fans in Detroit.”

St. James became the first woman to win Rookie of the Year honors at the Indianapolis 500 in 1992 when she also broke the barrier as the first woman to race at over 200 mph on track. She is one of nine women to qualify for the Indianapolis 500 and she competed in the legendary race seven times. Over the course of her career, St. James also earned numerous IMSA sports car victories, including wins in two of the world’s most prestigious endurance races – the 24 Hours of Daytona and the 12 Hours of Sebring. St. James has also competed in the 24 Hours of Le Mans and she produced 21 international and national closed-course speed records over a 20-year period.

In addition to the two Historic Trans-Am Series races on the Belle Isle street circuit, the Grand Prix will once again host the only doubleheader weekend on the NTT IndyCar Series schedule – the Chevrolet Dual in Detroit – along with the exotic sports cars of the IMSA WeatherTech SportsCar Championship in the Chevrolet Sports Car Classic. The Trans-Am Series presented by Pirelli will also race twice during the Grand Prix weekend as fans will witness seven races from four different series competing on Belle Isle.

Toronto Maple Leafs defenseman Jake Muzzin is expected to miss approximately four weeks after suffering a broken right hand during Tuesday's game, according to the team.

Muzzin, 31, was injured when he took a puck off his hand late in the second period and did not play in the third of the 4-3 win over the Tampa Bay Lightning.

Prior to the injury, Muzzin scored a goal in the first period to extend a six-game scoring streak. He has six goals and 17 assists in 53 games this season.

On Monday, the Maple Leafs signed Muzzin to a four-year contract extension with an average annual value of $5.625 million.

Toronto is currently in third place in the Atlantic Division, two points ahead of the Florida Panthers.

Defenseman Calle Rosen was recalled from AHL Toronto. He was traded to the Maple Leafs on Monday from the Colorado Avalanche for goaltender Michael Hutchinson.

Information from The Associated Press was used in this report.

PALM BEACH GARDENS, Fla. – Follow the money?

That won’t be the motivating factor if Brooks Koepka is tempted to break from the PGA Tour to join the Premier Golf League.

“I am just going to play where the best players play,” Koepka said Wednesday after his Honda Classic pro-am round. “I want to play against the best. I think everyone wants to play against the best. Whatever comes of it, comes of it.”

After his pretournament news conference, Koepka was asked on the side if the huge amount of money being offered by the PGL could sway him.

“I can’t speak for everybody, but for me, money doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s not something that’s important.

“I just want to be happy. Money is not going to make me happy. I just want to play against the best, and at the same time, I just want to play golf.”

Koepka said he doesn’t take what the PGA Tour has done for him for granted.

“A lot of good things have come from it,” he said. “The Tour has been incredible to us, the way things have developed over the years. We have to see where things go. It’s all very new and it’s all very fast.”

But what if the PGL makes him an astronomical offer to be one of its new team owners?

“I know you’re going to write this the wrong way, but it doesn’t matter if somebody gave me $200 million tomorrow,” Koepka said. “It’s not going to change my life. What am I going to get out of it? I already have so much that I could retire right now, but I don’t want to. I just want to play golf. It’s not going to change anything. Maybe the only thing I do is buy a plane. That would be it. I don’t see anything that would change my life.”

Bayern Munich striker Robert Lewandowski is set to miss his side's Champions League round-of-16 second leg against Chelsea after sustaining a knee injury in the first leg.

Lewandowski rounded out the scoring as Bayern thumped Chelsea 3-0 at Stamford Bridge on Tuesday, but the Poland international is unlikely to feature when the teams meet again on March 18, with Bayern taking to Twitter to say he will miss up to four weeks of action as a result of the injury.

Lewandowski tapped in a cross from Alphonso Davies on Tuesday after former Arsenal winger Serge Gnabry netted a brace to leave Chelsea with an extremely difficult second leg.

Lewandowski will likely miss Bundesliga clashes with Hoffenheim, Schalke, Augsburg and Union Berlin before the home fixture against Chelsea, with the league match against Eintracht Frankfurt taking place around his expected return date.

The striker is the leading scorer in the Bundesliga this season with 25 goals. Bayern are top of the table on 49 points, one ahead of RB Leipzig and four ahead of third-placed Borussia Dortmund.

The marker for the prematch atmosphere ahead of Real Madrid hosting Manchester City on Wednesday at the Santiago Bernabeu was set last week. When Atletico Madrid's fans mobbed their team ahead of Liverpool's visit to the Wanda Metropolitano, spewing out love and desire for victory amid a vast cloud of red smoke from many dozens of incandescent flares, you can bet that Madrid's fans were taking note and promising: "We'll do it better next week!"

Ordinarily, the atmosphere before Los Blancos play at their ancestral home is genteel. The Bernabeu is in a well-to-do area of Spain's capital; the bars, cafes and restaurants are quite posh and the stadium becomes temporary home to an amazing mix of families, often three generations watching together, well-heeled, cigar-smoking fans, many thousands of tourists ... and Madrid's ultras.

But then along comes an important night-time match, like this. Particularly one in which the opposition is coached by someone the Bernabeu both fears and loathes: Pep Guardiola.

When the corporate-emblazoned coach carrying Zinedine Zidane & Co. heads along the Avenida Concha de Espina -- which borders the stadium's southern side -- toward the player entrance on Calle Padre Damian, it'll be at walking pace. Massed around them will be thousands of rabid, noisy, loyal, flare-wielding fans exhorting not just victory against upstart City but demanding undying, lung-busting effort from every last man onboard the vehicle. It's non-negotiable.

More, much more, than the stadium atmosphere, these magical, crazed, inspirational moments in any player's career can inject a core of adrenaline and steely determination that might just, on a given night, tip the balance from competitor to winner.

Inside Los Blancos' citadel, I hope the cacophony of noise -- a mixture of defiance and demand -- reaches the level of the night most seared on my mind: Tuesday, April 8, 2003, when Madrid tore Manchester United apart and won 3-1. Everyone seemed to temporarily lose their minds, or at least all inhibitions, that night -- kids, tourists, old men and women, everyone jumped up and down all night, the roaring and the bouncing literally seeming to make the Bernabeu rock to its foundations. It was truly amazing.

The stadium itself is undergoing reconstruction and modernisation right now. Certain areas are already restricted; development on this magnificent beast of an arena is well underway but huge tranches of work remain before the vast exterior of Madrid's stadium is transformed into what will look like a giant Wi-Fi router and the inside is fully covered by a roof.

It's a work in progress, metaphorically perfect for Madrid as a team. They, too, have grand designs on the future, but some wires are exposed, the foundations aren't fully laid and there are inspections to do.

When Zidane was training to be a coach, he was quite certain whom he had to visit -- and from whom he should learn. It was Guardiola, then coach at Bayern Munich.

The Frenchman called his Catalan counterpart "an inspiration" and led a delegation of French Football Federation coaches to go study at Bayern's Sabener Strasse training centre. There he got to know properly, for the first time, a guy who'd dedicated an entire chapter of his 2001 autobiography to his reverence for Zidane the player. That study visit happened in March 2015. Guardiola wasn't to win the Champions League while working in Bavaria, beaten in three semifinals and always by Spanish teams.

But 15 short months later, Zidane had won the Champions League as coach of Madrid. Then he retained that trophy for two consecutive years. The guy who was an apprentice at Sabener Strasse only five short years ago is now the only man to win three straight Champions Leagues and, if you count his medal as assistant to Carlo Ancelotti in 2014, he's actually coached his way to this trophy twice as many times as Guardiola.

City come into this test bristling with focus and motivation. Their dream of a hat trick of Premier League titles has been obliterated by the footballing Terminators from Liverpool and now UEFA have handed them a two-year ban from this competition. Talk about incentive to win.

Madrid, on the other hand, have become suddenly vulnerable. Humiliated at home in the Copa del Rey, league leadership lost in the space of eight days thanks to five dropped points in two matches and neither sufficiently sharp up front nor as miserly at the back as has been the case for weeks.

Right now, Zidane isn't brutally debilitated by injuries, but Eden Hazard was to be the locksmith who unpicked Fort Knox defences. The Belgian's horrible ankle injury means that subtlety is no longer an option -- Madrid will have to dynamite their way to fame and fortune.

Madrid's best available 11 is: Thibaut Courtois; Dani Carvajal, Raphael Varane, Sergio Ramos, Ferland Mendy; Luka Modric, Casemiro, Federico Valverde, Toni Kroos; Karim Benzema and Vinicius Jr. No question. Their most adventurous XI would be the same back five plus Kroos, Casemiro and Valverde, with Vinicius and Benzema plus either Gareth Bale or Isco in a 4-3-3 formation.

And Isco has skin in this game. When Zidane reprimanded Florentino Perez, as Madrid's director of football rather than their coach, and pretty much ordered Madrid's president to sign Isco, City had the midfielder's flight plan, welcome party and kit sizes all planned. Manuel Pellegrini was the coach, City were convinced that they were going to profit from Malaga's fire sale, but Zidane's huge regard for the Andalusian magician nipped that in the bud.

Almost 300 matches, 15 trophies and regular smatterings of magic on pitches around Europe later, Isco has repaid that faith. But whenever his place at the club has been in jeopardy and Perez has tried to cash in on him, Guardiola has made it crystal clear that City are no longer interested. Isco dwells on the ball too long, twists and turns habitually rather than Guardiola's pass-move-pass-move-score tempo. Is that enough to persuade Zidane that Isco should start instead of Modric or Bale with a mission to stick it to City and their Catalan coach?

As for Guardiola, what does it mean to take another side to the Bernabeu? It's a place that, in his early years, held nothing but disappointment and footballing horror for him. By the time he was 20, and a fixture in Barcelona's midfield, he'd only seen the Blaugrana win the title twice in his lifetime -- Madrid 11 times. During those two barren decades at the start of his life, Barca won just four times at the Bernabeu.

Guardiola's own debut at Real Madrid's palatial stadium was in October 1991, and that 1-1 draw sported many faces associated with this tie 29 years later. Madrid's match delegate, Chendo, was full-back that day. Los Blancos' head of institutional relations, Emilio Butragueno, was up front for Raddy Antic's team. Luis Enrique, the Spain manager who'll be in the main stand, was on Madrid's bench. Barcelona's winger that night, Txiki Begiristain, is City's director of football.

Guardiola and Zidane have perennially followed different paths.

As footballers, the Catalan was the ultimate system player, Zidane the swashbuckling individual. They never played against each other in a Clasico, the former leaving Spain pretty much as Zidane finally followed Guardiola's perpetual advice that he needed to play in La Liga. Once, for their clubs, they faced off at the Bernabeu, but Guardiola was in the red and gold of AS Roma. For 24 minutes, after he came on at half-time and before Madrid's No. 5 was rested in the 70th minute of a 3-0 thrashing imposed on Fabio Capello's Serie A side, the Catalan tried to put the clamps on this French footballing phenomenon he admires so much.

As coaches, their trajectories are divergent, too.

Guardiola, again, the man with a plan: systematic, Johan Cruyff football where nothing is ever more important than possessing the ball, using it strategically and then imposing superiority. Zidane is not a tactic-free zone, but he's someone for whom the ability to inspire men in training, to consistently draw out their best -- because he's been there and knows how they tick -- how to make them render their maximum, has become his trademark.

Which school will win here? Is it influential that, for City, this tie is everything and they're up against rivals who are a work in progress? All or nothing versus all over the place?

Can Madrid cast aside their sudden vulnerability and impose themselves, even 1-0 like the last time Guardiola took his team (Bayern) to this totemic European stadium in April 2014?

Please, promise me that you'll be watching for Part I of this magnificent contest that has so very much riding on it. Not to mention two majestic men of modern football jousting against each other for the first time as coaches.

Ireland head coach Graham Ford will miss his side's upcoming T20I series against Afghanistan in India after a "slip accident" at his home in Dublin led to a fractured vertebrae and three broken ribs.

Ford had to travel home from the Ireland Wolves (the 'A' side) tour of South Africa last week, after a Durban doctor told him he would be unable to participate in physical training with the squad.

Rob Cassell, who will leave the coaching staff to take up a bowling coach position with Rajasthan Royals immediately after the tour, will be acting head coach for the series, while another coach will be added to the staff in the interim.

Cricket Ireland also confirmed that it will "continue to monitor the situation" with regards to the ongoing coronavirus outbreak. The board said it was "concurrently taking advice from government, health and sporting bodies," and that "while a duty of care approach to players' health will be maintained, there is currently no advisory against travelling to northern India".

The series starts on March 6, with all three games being played in Greater Noida.

South Africa won the toss and chose to bowl first vs Australia

South Africa will chase in the deciding T20 against Australia in a bid to win a first series since March 2019 without a specialist opener.

Temba Bavuma has not recovered from the hamstring injury that has kept him out of this series so far and Reeza Hendricks, who was called up and played in Port Elizabeth has been benched, leaving Rassie van der Dussen to step up to partner Quinton de Kock at the top.

That has opened up a middle-order spot for Heinrich Klaasen, whose hip injury is no longer a concern, but did not create room for spinning allrounder Jon-Jon Smuts, despite conditions.

A week of hot, dry weather and a surface riddled with cracks should suit slower bowling but South Africa went in with Tabraiz Shamsi as their only spinner. Andile Phehlukwayo, the allrounder who specialises in slower balls at the death, was also left out with Dwaine Pretorius keeping his spot.

Australia have given themselves more options with an unchanged XI that includes Ashton Agar and Adam Zampa. The same XI won at the Wanderers and lost in Port Elizabeth which means D'Arcy Short, Sean Abbott and Jhye Richardson have not played at all in this series.

Although Australia have had a warm reception in their two matches so far, Newlands will be the litmus test for whether all is forgiven from two years ago. This was the scene of sandpapergate, where Cameron Bancroft was caught on camera trying to alter the condition of the match ball and where Steve Smith and later David Warner admitted their part in the incident. At the time of writing, the ground was just over half full but a bigger crowd is expected in the evening.

South Africa: 1 Quinton de Kock (capt, wk), 2 Rassie van der Dussen, 3 Faf du Plessis, 4 Heinrich Klaasen, 5 David Miller, 6 Pite van Biljon, 7 Dwaine Pretorius, 8 Kagiso Rabada, 9 Anrich Nortje, 10 Tabraiz Shamsi, 11 Lungi Ngidi

Australia: 1 David Warner, 2 Aaron Finch (capt), 3 Steven Smith, 4 Matthew Wade, 5 Mitchell Marsh, 6 Alex Carey (wk), 7 Ashton Agar, 8 Pat Cummins, 9 Mitchell Starc, 10 Adam Zampa, 11 Kane Richardson

Stuart Broad has committed to Nottinghamshire until 2022 at least, after signing a new two-year contract.

Broad, 33, is second behind James Anderson among England's leading Test wicket-takers with 485 scalps to his name, and is set to play his 13th and 14th seasons at Trent Bridge, the venue where his father Chris played the majority of his career.

"Every time I step out at Trent Bridge, it feels just as special as the first time I walked onto the turf at three or four years old," he said.

"I love Nottingham being my home, I love playing for the club, and I certainly can't envisage myself playing for any other county."

Broad enjoyed a fine year in Test cricket in 2019, claiming 30 Test wickets at 23 across England's home Tests against Ireland and Australia, where he tormented David Warner with seven dismissals in the course of the Ashes. He then added a further 14 wickets at 19.42 in South Africa, more than any of his countrymen.

He will be playing in the second division next summer, following Nottinghamshire's relegation from the top flight in 2019, but was keen to credit the club's coaching team for their role in his success.

"One of Mooresy's [Head Coach Peter Moores] great strengths as a coach is that he's always looking to improve players," Broad said.

"Him and Kunny [Performance Analyst Kunal Manek] showed me how my leave percentage was quite high, even though one of my strengths as a bowler is threatening the stumps.

"That was great information to take into the latter half of my season with Notts and into the Ashes."

Broad, who signed for Notts from Leicestershire in 2008, enjoyed a Testimonial Year in 2019 and was instrumental in trophy successes for his county in 2010, 2013 and 2017.

His 40 red-ball appearances for the club have yielded 147 wickets at an average of 24, with 17 of them coming from seven appearances in 2019.

Responding to the contract extension, Moores highlighted the importance of Broad's leadership qualities to a Notts squad that has undergone a period of transition in recent years.

"Whether it's by example with the way he prepares for games and goes about his cricket, or with words of advice for his fellow players, Stuart is a brilliant leader for us," Moores said.

"We were all really pleased for him with the way he performed in the Ashes. "He'd spent some time out of the side during the previous winter and responded in the best possible way, by working harder than ever and coming back stronger.

"Someone who can continue to do that - and to reinvent himself, in some ways, despite all his success - is a great example to everyone.

"His record for Notts when he's with us is outstanding and - knowing Stuart - he'll be as motivated as anyone for us to bounce back from last season by playing successful four-day cricket for the next couple of years."

The New York Giants have released linebacker Alec Ogletree, a team captain during his two seasons with the team.

The team also said it had cut linebacker Kareem Martin.

Ogletree, one of the league's highest-paid inside linebackers over the past two years at $10 million per season, became a liability in pass coverage and saw his playing time diminish.

Ogletree, who turns 29 in September, was one of general manager Dave Gettleman's first major acquisitions with the Giants. They thought Ogletree could be plugged into the middle of the defense and make a significant impact after being acquired from the Los Angeles Rams in 2018 for two draft picks.

He played in 13 games each of the past two seasons. He had 80 tackles, a sack and interception last year. He had 93 tackles, a sack and five interceptions in 2018.

The veteran was again slated to make $10 million in 2020 and was scheduled to be the fourth-highest-paid inside linebacker in the NFL, but none of the money was guaranteed. The Giants will take a dead money hit of $3.5 million by cutting Ogletree. They will save $8.25 million against the salary cap.

Ogletree played the first five years of his career with the Rams. He topped 100 tackles in three of his first four seasons. The second-team All Pro in 2016 has career totals of 674 tackles, 7.5 sacks, 12 forced fumbles and 12 interceptions. He also has four defensive touchdowns.

The Giants signed Martin to a three-year, $21 million contract one day after acquiring Ogletree in March 2018. Martin spent his first four seasons in the league with the Cardinals.

Martin played in all 16 games in his first season in New York and had a career-high 48 tackles. But a knee injury in the 2019 season opener limited him to only five games last season.

ESPN's Jordan Raanan contributed to this report.

SENATOR MANNY PACQUIAO is sitting in the second row of a black government Escalade, his left foot on the center console, a 9 mm handgun in the seatback in front of him. A security van hugging the back bumper is filled with Pacquiao's assistants and several members of the National Police, their fingers on the triggers of the M16s that lie across their laps. There are two police motorcycles in front, weaving around Manila traffic, their cartoonish horns burping out pleas for space that doesn't exist. Outside the windows, the alleys and side streets clog with people and motorbikes and bicycles. The city closes around us like a fist.

The Senate session has recessed for Christmas, and the holiday traffic has turned a 10-minute drive on Manila's main highway, the EDSA, into an hour. Pacquiao looks out the window at the endless scroll of tired faces peering down from dirty buses and up from tiny cars on this eternally congested beltway. They have no idea the country's most famous man is behind the darkened windows and chirping motorcycles. It's his 41st birthday, and preparations for tonight's massive and lavish party -- an annual exercise in opulence, idolatry and patronage -- have been in the works for weeks.

Pacquiao's birthday is only half-jokingly considered an unofficial national holiday. During the past week, I have seen him be serenaded with "Happy Birthday" an infinite number of times in a near-infinite number of places: a sporting goods store in a high-end Manila mall, his Senate office, the Senate floor, his home. Home is where this line of cars is eventually headed, where two makeup artists and two hairdressers are setting up shop. Three laundry-sized bags of boxing gloves sit in the entry, waiting for his signature. Ten cases of red wine are about to be hauled into the living room for the after-party.

Pacquiao's phone is ringing continually in the car, and each time the theme from "The Godfather" fills the sealed cabin. After a few notes, it's clear he's not going to answer the calls or stop the music. The song ends, then starts again. Each time, he looks at the phone to check the caller and places it back in his lap. The music continues, and by the time it becomes clear the Godfather theme is going to take this ride with us, Pacquiao's assistant, David Sisson, motions for me to begin asking questions. I have been waiting for the music to stop, or for the phone to be answered; Pacquiao, apparently, has been waiting for me.

I have come here to spend a week observing Pacquiao as a political entity and to see firsthand how his alliance with Philippines president Rodrigo Duterte has turned him into a front-runner to succeed Duterte when the country elects a new president in 2022. Mostly, I am here to see firsthand how the most popular man in the Philippines became one of the most powerful athletes in the world.

Pacquiao's life is like scripture in the Philippines. It is an argument against limits, a source of pride amid despair, and hope amid hopelessness. His story is so well-known, so ingrained in the minds of the Filipino people, that it long ago became a commodity. He is a vessel into which everyone, regardless of circumstance, can pour their visions of a country and its people. He is the first boxer to win 12 titles in eight weight classes and a man who has parlayed his reputation as the champion of his people into a political career that earned him Duterte's imprimatur as his chosen successor.

How did this happen? How did the boy who grew up in a homemade hut with a dirt floor and a coconut-leaf roof, who claims to have made his way through unimaginable deprivation by adhering to his mother's commandments -- don't beg; don't steal -- become this man, one of the Philippines' 24 senators, protected by heavy artillery as he is escorted across town to a glass-and-steel mansion? He is a symbol of the possible, and his utility is boundless. The rich and powerful, the poor and desperate -- they can all find what they want or need in this man and his story.

It is a tribute.

It is a warning.

THE PHILIPPINES IS a complicated place, and the country's problems are not hidden. The abject desperation in many areas of metro Manila is obvious. Near the airport along the EDSA, as motorcycles and bicycles split lanes with the barest possible clearance, the driver motions for me to look out at a 20-foot wall that fronts the road. There are three young men sitting atop the wall, swinging their feet and carrying on an energetic conversation over the pungent exhaust and endless noise of the world's worst traffic.

"How did they get up there?" I ask.

He chuckles (left unspoken: stupid American) and tells me about what I can't see on the other side of the wall. It's a cemetery, he says, and those three guys mounted the wall from that side because they live there. Still confused, I wait until we reach the next intersection, where I can see that the cemetery is a matrix of concrete walls with compartments on the side, probably eight high, like a condo for the afterlife. The slots that have yet to be filled by caskets house some of Manila's poorest families, the living awaiting eviction from the dead.

We pass over and around similar scenes as the Escalade makes its way from the Senate building to Pacquiao's home. Every vein in this metropolitan area of more than 13 million is clogged with people and vehicles and plasmic energy. These are his people, the ones who draw strength from his story, who stop their lives every time he fights, and the ones who will decide whether he is the country's next president. The global rise of populist strongmen like his ally Duterte, men who have weaponized the rhetoric of strength, is predicated on its supposed ability to elevate and protect these people. It is a phenomenon Jonathan Miller, in his book "Rodrigo Duterte: Fire and Fury in the Philippines," calls the Strongman Paradox. Citizens believe they are empowering themselves by electing such a leader, when in reality everything the strongman gains, the populace loses.

But when I ask Pacquiao whether he sees himself as an heir to Duterte's populist throne, he thinks for a moment and says, "Populist? I'm not thinking about that. What I'm thinking is to share my knowledge about humanity, relationship to God, about being fair to everyone and compassionate."

The answer is emblematic of Pacquiao's political platform: anodyne, with no discernible ideology. "Where I am right now is God's will," he says 10 minutes and three Godfather themes later. "I think it is a calling." He pauses and giggles as a prelude to a punchline: "We make this country great again."

Listen: Tim Keown discusses Manny Pacquiao's presidential campaign and his trip to the Philippines on the ESPN Daily podcast.

"Some people would say his political future is fate, or destiny," says Sen. Richard Gordon, a longtime power in Philippine politics and a former presidential candidate. "I think he has all the tools to prove he can handle it, but he has to be careful choosing his friends."

Is Pacquiao capable of governing a complex country of 100 million people? Is the presidency something he wants, or something he feels obliged to pursue as the country's most famous man? Those questions seem increasingly irrelevant. His ascendance feels preordained, as if the arc of his story demands it. His Senate term ends in '22, so he will either have to run for reelection to the Senate, run for vice president or run to succeed Duterte. There have been breadcrumbs; he earned a bachelor's degree in political science from Makati University in December through a fast-track alternative education program. He still pines for one more megafight payday -- Pacquiao-Mayweather 2? Conor McGregor? -- to cushion the demands of his expensive lifestyle and the ever-changing, endless menagerie of paid help. Still, he will be 43 by the time Filipinos elect their next president; it's difficult to imagine that he'll remain a credible boxer beyond that point.

His status as a national icon could easily carry him to the presidency. What comes next would be far from simple. "The country is very complicated," Gordon says. "It isn't easy to just come in and say 'I'm going to be president.' He's going to have to answer to the population." More than 20% of the Philippine population lives in extreme poverty, which means more than 20 million people are subsisting on $1.90 or less per day. Pacquiao's family was once part of that group; now he is worth an estimated $200 million. As the turn signal clicks endlessly at a traffic light, Pacquiao says, "The solution to this traffic is first more overpasses and skyways -- and discipline." His eyebrows bounce as he says the word; it's a gesture he employs often to punctuate a point or convey approval. "Yes -- discipline."

This is his story: the discipline to lift himself out of the grimmest circumstances to become this man, in this car, with this security detail, heading to that shining house. And see: It could be everybody's story. By my third day in Manila, the idea that Filipinos can lift themselves out of poverty -- and traffic -- through discipline begins to feel like bumper sticker politics. Duterte's policies -- cleaning up the streets, waging war on drug cartels, dealers and users -- were described by Pacquiao himself as proof that God "anointed" Duterte to discipline a country that had lost its soul, as if the lack of opportunity that leads to desperation and drug abuse is a moral failing and not a societal one.

"Anytime [Pacquiao] is in the ring, the entire nation is united," says professor Severo Madrona Jr., dean of the school of law at City University of Pasay and a city attorney for Pasay, a city inside metropolitan Manila. "But if he starts with his political -- and religious -- tirades, there goes the division."

A POLITICIAN WHO aligns himself with Duterte aligns himself with Duterte's drug war. It is the third rail of Philippine politics, and inside the country -- and especially inside the Pacquiao camp -- it is believed that nobody from the outside can comprehend the extent of the problem. Outsiders can't bend their minds around the vast number of shipping lanes and ports to offload shabu -- the regional term for meth -- that exist in a country of more than 7,000 islands. Nearly everyone I encountered during a week in metro Manila professed to be affected by the scourge of drugs. An airport policeman recounted the drugs he and his colleagues confiscated in the span of two weeks -- 15 kilograms of shabu this week, 8 kilos last week -- and says the problem is so bad for him and his family that he calls the police to intervene at his apartment complex because he fears retaliation against his children. "And I'm a police officer," he says.

The efficacy of the drug war has been called into question; Vice President Leni Robredo, who leads the opposition to Duterte and briefly headed an anti-drug committee, announced in January that Duterte's policies have not resulted in a reduction in drug trafficking. (The vice presidency in the Philippines is an independently elected office.) She estimated that just 1% of the local drug supply has been intercepted during Duterte's presidency. There is significant debate regarding the number of extrajudicial killings in the Philippines since the onset of Duterte's drug war. Over a year ago, the United Nations' Commissioner for Human Rights estimated more than 27,000 deaths.

"This is all unfair to the president," Pacquiao says when I mention the killings. It is all so obvious to him, and he has adopted the tone of someone who has explained this a thousand times and is willing to do it just once more. "This is reality: It's unfair to the president that he's criticized by other people and other countries. He's not doing everything they are claiming that he is doing -- the extrajudicial killings."

Of course, Duterte has boasted of killing drug dealers himself. During a meeting with business leaders in Manila in 2016, Duterte said, according to The Manila Times, "In Davao, I used to do it personally -- just to show to the guys that if I can do it, so can you." He claims to have ridden around in a motorcycle "looking for a confrontation so I could kill." When confronted with this fact, Pacquiao dismisses Duterte's rhetoric, saying, "Duterte is very smart, and because of that he is good at psychology. He talks like a warning. That's his style."

If it is a psychological tactic, it's hard to deny that it's working. Duterte -- who enjoys the nickname "Duterte Harry" -- had an approval rating of 87% in a Pulse Asia Research Inc. survey conducted in December. (While Duterte was mayor of Davao City, his favorables were even more Putinesque, leading many critics to believe they arose from fear of expressing dissent.) Hearing the support for Duterte's ruthless policies among Filipino citizens can be jarring. A journalist in Manila who has covered Pacquiao told me, "The people who are being killed are the people who deserve to be killed." But what about due process, I ask, and the potential for police or vigilantes to kill their enemies and justify their actions by claiming the victim was part of the drug trade? He just shrugs.

"People love him," Pacquiao says of Duterte, "because actually he's not doing all of those abuses. In fact, more than 1,000 policemen have been dismissed from the service. Duterte told them, 'Do not abuse, because I will not tolerate you.' Do not abuse your power -- this is what he said. If you're performing your duty and putting your life in danger, why let them kill you? You kill them."

Pacquiao is obsessed with chess. He plays every day, and often through the night, in his home office. He sits quietly, in a big chair behind a big desk, scrutinizing the board as if it's speaking to him. His opponent -- often his personal lawyer, Tom Falgui, known in these circles only as Attorney Tom -- sits on the other side surrounded by men of varying employment who would prefer he lose to their boss. As Pacquiao surveys the traffic and talks about Duterte, his friend of 15 years and a man he once credited for organizing one of his early fights, I begin to wonder whether these answers are a byproduct of seeing life through the prism of pieces moving on a board. Even if Pacquiao did disagree on policy, Duterte's popularity and stranglehold on power turns even the mildest dissent into political suicide.

"Certainly, Pacquiao's not the first one to deny the killings are happening," says Carlos Conde, a researcher for Human Rights Watch who specializes in the Philippines. "It's not even just denial -- it's a willingness to mislead people. I don't think he's that misinformed about what is happening. He's doing his bit to deflect criticism of the drug war. To deny this is happening is offensive to me as an advocate.

"Again, that tells you where he's headed when he becomes president. These issues are going to be around longer than Duterte."

Pacquiao's devotion to Duterte's authoritarian policies could seem to conflict with his image as a humble boxer and benevolent philanthropist, but there is almost nothing in his legislative record that prioritizes the poor or disenfranchised. His rhetoric on LGBTQ rights is shocking -- he once said homosexuals "are worse than animals" before issuing a qualified apology ("I'm just telling the truth of what the Bible says") -- and his reliance on his fundamentalist religious views as a guide to his political decisions is seen as problematic by the human rights community.

The words of a Filipino journalist who has documented the drug war in some of Manila's poorest neighborhoods bounce through my head. "With his background, Pacquiao could be the voice of the masses," he told me. "I live for the day when he stands up and says, 'Stop killing the poor.'"

ON A SATURDAY morning in December, word spread that Pacquiao planned to stand in his driveway and distribute money to the poor people of Manila. The line began forming before sunrise, starting at the house and snaking down street after street, past mansion after mansion, until it extended out past the development's security gates and beyond the neighborhood. The line grew, and grew, until it seemed impossible that a rich man -- even this rich man -- possessed the generosity and patience it would take to get to the end of it.

Pacquiao emerged from the house midmorning, surrounded by some of his employees, the most trusted -- and fearsome -- of whom held a bag filled with stacks of cash. Sean Gibbons, the manager of MP Promotions, stood off to the side, recording on his phone. The poor people were told the rules: The line was too long for photographs, handshakes or conversation. They were to approach, take the 1,000-peso bill (the equivalent of roughly $20) and move on. The procession was orderly -- the poor of Manila are accustomed to the indignities of waiting -- but many of the recipients took the opportunity to bow reverently as they accepted their money, as if approaching the altar to receive Holy Communion. For Pacquiao, this massive line of humanity was a penitential rite, a way to atone for his incomprehensible success and share it, as if the miracles he makes with his hands in the ring belong to everyone.

By the end of the day, more than 5,500 people had stood in Pacquiao's driveway. Eventually the line dwindled. After three hours of handing out bills to those who live as he once lived, it was gone, along with $110,000 of his money.

AS THE TRAFFIC comes to a dead stop and the officers in the motorcycles ahead give up their incessant chirping, Sisson pulls out his phone to show drone video of a housing development for the poor on property Pacquiao owns in Mindanao, near the city he grew up in, General Santos City. The overhead tour shows a large piece of land with rows of new homes, 150 of them, with the ocean in the distance. With so many poor, how does he choose? Pacquiao tells me he visits squatters areas in the city and pulls people out of the squalor. "I tell them, 'You are getting a new home,'" he says. "Pretty nice, huh?" He smiles. The eyebrows bounce. Sisson says there is a plan for another 300 homes on a parcel owned by Pacquiao in Cavite, a province outside of metro Manila.

"I don't think his generosity is just theater," Conde says. "I think it is the purest expression of his appreciation of where he came from. A lot of Filipinos who become rich and famous do that, and he does it more than most." Conde tells the story of Rolando Navarrete, a former WBC super featherweight champion also from what is colloquially known as GenSan. Navarrete was once known for similar generosity in the 1980s, but personal and legal problems -- he was convicted of rape in Hawaii -- left him destitute. He is now among those who line up to benefit from Pacquiao's largesse. "The irony is too rich," Conde says.

But when I ask Krista Gem Mercado, Pacquiao's chief of staff, for examples of legislation initiated by her boss that would help the poor, she cites the senator's disdain for bureaucracy as the reason he prefers to use his own resources. "I think the advantage I have is Jesus," Pacquiao tells me. "When you have God in your life, you're not playing to any material things in this world." But there is pending legislation, Mercado says, and she prints out a copy of a bill Pacquiao has introduced titled "An Act Imposing Death Penalty and Increased Penalties on Certain Heinous Crimes Which Involves Manufacturing and Trafficking of Dangerous Drugs." Perhaps sensing my confusion, she says, "It's for the big cartels and not for the users or the small-time dealers." The bill's compassion is found in its specific targeting; users are spared death.

The Philippines suspended the death penalty in 2006, but Duterte has made its reinstatement for drug traffickers one of his hallmark promises to impose order. Pacquiao has defended the death penalty on biblical grounds. "God allows governments to use capital punishment," he said to reporters in 2017. "Even Jesus Christ was sentenced to death because the government imposed the rule then."

In the Philippines, as Miller posits in his biography of Duterte, civil liberties are viewed as being reserved for those who can afford them. The same could be said for positive media coverage. Pacquiao's critics decry the lack of scrutiny Pacquiao has received for his political views; outside of a few outlets, mainly the Filipino news site The Rappler, much of the media coverage to which he is accustomed is not just favorable but slavish. His fame comes with a valuable perk: the means to purchase insulation. For years Pacquiao has paid airfare and accommodations for a squad of writers and photographers from the Philippine press to cover his fights in Las Vegas and around the world. Two sources within his camp told me Pacquiao purchased 2,400 tickets to his most recent fight, a win over Keith Thurman last July, for family, friends and various hangers-on. As we were leaving a ribbon-cutting ceremony that Pacquiao headlined at an Anta sporting goods store in a high-end mall, a sportswriter for a Manila newspaper unapologetically put several items of clothing on an MP Promotions credit card. "It's different here," he told me. Some of Pacquiao's employees joke about the holidays being "envelope season" for many of the local journalists who cover him.

"People are willing to look the other way because he's such a fabulous boxer and has wowed and entertained us for decades," Conde says. "Filipinos forget about their troubles when he has a fight, and that drives me crazy. I hope he uses that for good when he becomes president, but looking at it right now, I don't see it happening. It's a pity because this country needs heroes like Manny Pacquiao, but his entry into politics has turned him into a heel. We will wake up to see a Manny Pacquiao who is not the Manny Pacquiao of yore -- saddled by his incompetence and the political patronage he has embraced."

He is the people's champion, but are they his? "It's compassionate because you have to give them warnings," Pacquiao tells me of his justification for the drug policy. "First warning, second warning, third warning -- then you have to face the consequences. We are all bound to the governing authority. That's why there's a government. We submit to the authority of the government."

Duterte grew up privileged in the same province where Pacquiao grew up washing dishes in carinderias -- sidewalk food stalls -- in exchange for meals. Pacquiao's drug use as a young man is part of the lore of his story, the preface to his awakening as a disciplined fighter whose career has destroyed all probability.

"He grew up in these communities where a lot of people are dying in the drug war," Conde says. "Take away the boxing that gave him a lifeline and he's probably one of the dead bodies now. To his credit, he got out of that predicament using his boxing skills, but a zillion other Filipino youths don't have that privilege -- that's why the drug war is such a horrendous policy. It takes away the possibility of a life like Manny's."

HIS STORY IS one in a million, or 10 million, or whatever celestial number comes to mind. Its very existence proves its ludicrousness, and even though he is held up as the avatar for what can be achieved with dedication, work ethic and self-belief, in reality Pacquiao's story is more than an outlier; it's a near impossibility.

Over the final two Senate sessions of 2019, it is clear that Pacquiao is treated with utmost reverence everywhere but within these chambers. "There are always oohs and ahhs," Gordon says, "but you have to make sure you push the right buttons and communicate your ideas well." Pacquiao's first bill as a senator, calling for the formation of the Philippine Boxing and Combat Sports Commission, took two years to pass and caused the Senate minority leader to call out Pacquiao on process and "basic" elements of legislation. The Philippine government, which is modeled after the American bicameral system, is a monument to patronage and heredity -- Ferdinand Marcos' daughter is a prominent senator -- and Pacquiao is a relative newcomer after serving two terms in Congress. (For that reason, it's unsurprising that Pacquiao's strongest competition could come from Sara Duterte, Rodrigo's daughter. She is widely considered the only person whose candidacy could wrest her father's endorsement -- and, presumably, the presidency -- from Pacquiao.)

Despite his relative inexperience, Pacquiao is in the process of building his own dynastic political family. His brothers, Bobby and Ruel, are congressmen. His wife, Jinkee, is a former vice governor of the Sarangani province. His co-trainer, Buboy Fernandez, is the vice mayor of Polangui. It's hard not to see the similarities as he makes the gradual career shift from boxing to politics; those who rode the coattails of his boxing success are making the transition along with him.

"A lot of people think he's not serious about this job because he's doing boxing at the same time," says Mercado, Pacquiao's chief of staff. "But actually, his boxing is only during scheduled recess. When we're in session, he's in the office. He doesn't miss any work."

Pacquiao does schedule his fights during Senate recesses; his most recent fight, the July win over Thurman, took place two days before the Senate reconvened. Pacquiao missed the opening day but traveled back to Manila after the fight to report for duty. But his attendance record tells a different story. In 2019, Pacquiao had the worst attendance among the country's 24 senators, with 12 absences in 61 sessions.

After learning that I attended the Senate sessions, a close business associate of Pacquiao's pulled me aside while Pacquiao played chess. Knowing objectivity is in short supply in an ecosystem where Pacquiao is either The Champ or The Senator, he asked in a hushed tone, "Tell me: Is he credible? Is he respected?"

There's no easy answer. I asked Madrona, the Pasay city attorney, who said, "It depends on the economic/social class. For classes A and B [the wealthy and educated], Pacquiao is not credible and respected. However, for classes C, D, E, he is a popular leader."

The final two days of the session were dominated by a sin tax bill Pacquiao co-sponsored with Sen. Pia Cayetano. During much of the debate, Pacquiao stayed in his seat and out of the fray while Cayetano and her staff huddled to calculate numbers and answer questions from skeptical senators. Cayetano stood on a podium fielding questions for nearly 10 hours. Her staff scrambled to figure out the budget ramifications of proposed alterations to the bill while Pacquiao sat at his desk and watched. When the president of the Senate announced the "Pacquiao Amendment," there was a murmur amid the Pacquiao camp in the spectator section. "Here comes the senator," one said, inching to the edge of his seat as Pacquiao stood at the microphone and read a three-paragraph amendment that would prohibit the sale of cigarettes to nonsmokers. After a tie vote on the amendment, Senate President Tito Sotto cast the deciding vote in favor of Pacquiao's amendment despite saying he disagreed with it. He finished the night by lifting his gavel, nodding to Pacquiao and noting in his stentorian voice that "our champion" is mere minutes away from his birthday.

EARLIER THAT SAME morning, Lourdes and Michael Mesa left their home in Cavite and embarked on a four-hour journey on public transportation through the hellscape of Manila traffic to visit the Philippine Senate in Pasay City. Their destination was Pacquiao's fifth-floor office, and their goal was an audience with the champion.

This is where they come to wait, and hope. Michael is a 29-year-old blind masseur who holds a ukulele in one hand and a white cane in the other. Lourdes, his mother, is helping him navigate the lobby of the office, where one couch is the only conventional seating. They arrived at 11 a.m., roughly three hours before the Senate session and two before Pacquiao, with one goal: for Michael to play "O Come, All Ye Faithful" for Pacquiao.

Lourdes has one spot on the couch, Michael is on the arm closest to her. Others -- an emaciated young man wearing a sash of some kind, an older woman holding a photograph of an elderly man, a legless man in a motorized wheelchair holding a folder in his lap -- crowd the doorway or sit on the floor. Throughout the hall, there are carolers at the entrance of senators' offices; schoolchildren, mostly, but also a cadre of nuns whose voices sound so pure they might actually be the celestial chorus.

"Every day, people come here," says Mercado, Pacquiao's chief of staff. "He wanted to professionalize it, but it's really his heart for the poor. He always says he came from there, he knows what it's like to have no roof over the head and no food to eat, so he can relate."

Inside the office, two guys who won a volleyball gold medal in the SEA Games are waiting to see Pacquiao. John Riel Casimero, the WBO bantamweight champion who fights under Manny Pacquiao Promotions, is waiting. Word is Casimero, who defended his title three weeks earlier in England, is in line for a bonus check that only Pacquiao can approve and deliver. Casimero and his brother sit slumped in the staff area of Pacquiao's office under one of the many posters that read, "Mark 3:24-25: If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. If a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand."

Pacquiao, wearing a gray windowpane suit with a purple shirt and tie, is at his desk in his private office, surrounded by eight aides going through vote counts for the sin tax. Everyone knows it will be a long night. Lourdes and Michael are in the lobby when Pacquiao uses his private office exit to go downstairs for deliberations, and they're still there five hours later during a break. "If he sees them," says Mercado, the senator's chief of staff, "then he will give them what they need." The deliberations are long and tedious; at one point, Adam and the apple were invoked in relation to vaping. And at 11 p.m., 12 hours after they arrived at the Senate building, 16 hours after they started their journey, Michael and Lourdes are standing outside the Senate chamber. Michael's ukulele is still tucked under his left arm. "Is he almost finished?" Lourdes asks of Pacquiao.

More than an hour later, after the Senate president breaks the tie, the session ends and the Senate floor empties like a drain. Pacquiao heads for a private exit that leads down a flight of stairs to a Senate parking lot. Casimero didn't get his check; the volleyball players didn't get their handshake. Michael and Lourdes are somewhere inside the building, their quest into its 17th hour. Pacquiao hops into the running Escalade, two police motorcycle escorts out front, the security van in back, and leaves without ever knowing they were there.

THE MOOD IN the Escalade is definitely looking up. We're off the EDSA. We pass the Manila Polo Club and turn into Pacquiao's neighborhood, and the motorcycles veer off like fighter jets. The talk bounces from the enduring glow of last night's successful tax vote to the birthday party that's mere hours away.

The theme of the party, not surprisingly, is "The Godfather." Manny arrives in the grand ballroom at the Makati Shangri-La Hotel wearing a black tuxedo topped by a tiny black fedora. Quotes from the movie ("Among reasonable men, problems of business could always be solved") are cast on enormous electronic boards at the front of the room.

There is an open bar and a lavish seven-course meal, including chilled salmon tartare, beef tenderloin with foie gras, and mushroom cappuccino custard. The entrance to the ballroom has been transformed into an extravagant shrine to Pacquiao; a fountain filled with rose petals backed by "MANNY" in neon letters 2 feet tall. One of Pacquiao's business partners estimated that the cost of the flowers alone topped $50,000.

There's an entire table of international ambassadors, including the U.S. ambassador to the Philippines. Numerous senators either attended or passed through to pay their respects. Ronald Dela Rosa, one of Pacquiao's closest Senate confidants, is here. Nicknamed "Bato" -- Rock -- Dela Rosa was Duterte's chief of police in Davao City during the implementation of the drug war and became chief of the Philippine National Police after Duterte's election. (Roughly a month after the party, the United States revoked Dela Rosa's visa as part of a crackdown on human rights violators.) Everything about Dela Rosa is square -- a bald head, a body with the dimensions of a playing card. For many Filipinos, his ruthlessness is the embodiment of Duterte's authority.

Duterte himself is a regular guest at the party, but he stayed in Mindanao after a magnitude 6.9 earthquake struck during a weekend visit to his hometown of Davao City. It was two years earlier, at Pacquiao's 39th birthday party, when Duterte stood before a crowd nearly identical to this one and anointed Pacquiao as his chosen successor.

There are seven musical performers, including a philharmonic orchestra and a Christian singer who crooned "Jesus Paid It All," a song that includes the lines "Sin had left a crimson stain/He washed it white as snow." Two emcees banter back and forth like sitcom spouses. Nearly every media outlet in Manila is represented. A television reporter conducting an on-camera interview with Pacquiao's mother, Dionesia, ends the conversation by saying, "The greatest gift is your son Manny."

The highlight of the night -- and the highlight of every Pacquiao birthday party -- is the end-of-the-night raffle, where tickets are drawn, numbers are read and the winners receive cash -- anywhere from $2,000 to $5,000 a shot -- or a car. Three days earlier, Pacquiao had stood in his driveway handing out $20 apiece to the poorest of the poor, and here he is, in an opulent ballroom decorated to his wishes, handing out money to some of the richest people in the country. The wealthiest man in the Philippines, multibillionaire real estate mogul Manny Villar, a man commonly called an oligarch, sits at the head table with stacks of cash in front of him. Pacquiao raffles off two new cars. One of the winners is Lorelei Pacquiao, the wife of Manny's brother, Bobby.

There are speeches, so many speeches. There is a video tribute to Jinkee, Manny's wife, who sang a song to her husband. When she is finished, Manny thanks everyone for coming and says, "I hope this is just the beginning of my achievements in life. I have accomplished a lot with my imagination."

One of the final speeches is delivered by Congressman Enrico Pineda, Pacquiao's former manager and a longtime business partner. "Everything I have and everything I have ever done I owe to you," Pineda says, his voice cracking. He looks down at Pacquiao and takes a moment to compose himself. The room is unsettled; the attention span for speeches like this one seems to have expired, and Pineda's weepiness is becoming uncomfortable. Holding the microphone in his left hand, Pineda puts his right hand over his heart and says, "And come 2022, we will be there for you." As he taps his hand over his heart and Pacquiao nods in appreciation, the cheers begin slowly and rise to fill the building. That number -- 2022 -- and its many implications provide the jolt. Chairs are pushed away from tables. Half the room stands and cheers.

None of this could possibly surprise Pacquiao. Constant adulation is woven into the fabric of his daily life, yet he manages to retain the ability to look astonished. It is one of his many gifts. He sits and smiles, back in the familiar embrace of his people, his eyebrows bouncing beneath his gangster fedora, his head nodding as the cheers of the faithful -- sycophants and true believers alike -- wash through the room. He looks around, the intensity of his focus at odds with his smile, and it's impossible not to imagine that he's seeing pieces moving on a board. The possibilities are limitless, each carrying its own risk and reward. The cheers continue. He gives nothing away.