Donaire tabs Conte, for better or worse

And quite candidly, Donaire isn't likely to get to the level enjoyed by Pacquiao, regarded in his nation as an athlete/humanitarian unlike any the world has known. At 28-1 with 18 KOs, Donaire will need to stamp on the gas to propel himself into the financial range of Pacquiao, who will make $20 million to fight Juan Manuel Marquez on Nov. 12. (By contrast, Donaire will take home $750,000 for the Narvaez fight.)

In speaking to Donaire, who can disarm with his humility and a heckuva Robert DeNiro-in-"Taxi Driver" impression, you get the sense that he's aiming for Pacquiao-type achievement in the ring, if not the purse department. Donaire, who has previously snagged titles at flyweight and super fly, talks about a potential progression in weight classes similar to that of his countryman, one that could lead him all the way to 140 pounds.

It's clear that the stakes here are immense, and Donaire's ambition level is on par with Pacquiao's. So it's no surprise that he seeks out methods and people whom he believes will help him to join and perhaps surpass Pacquiao on the top rungs of the pound-for-pound ladder. Perhaps, then, it shouldn't come as a surprise that he has retained the services of the man once known as the bad boy of BALCO, the Notorious VIC, Victor Conte.

It's possible that Victor Conte dropped off your radar these past few years. In October 2005, he was sentenced to four months in prison and four months of home confinement after pleading guilty to money laundering and steroid distribution. His sentence complete, the man who helped introduce us to a panoply of lengthy chemical compounds -- which he had helped introduce to a bevy of world-class athletes such as Olympians Marion Jones and Tim Montgomery, major league slugger Jason Giambi and NFL linebacker Bill Romanowski -- needed to choose a way to make a living.

An accomplished bass guitar player who gigged with the esteemed Tower of Power in the '70s, Conte didn't re-enter the music world. Instead, he went back to concocting nutritional supplements and finding ways for athletes to maximize their bodily potential. Only this time, the man who felt that prosecutors and the media built him into "the Adolf Hitler of sport," an evil agent who sought to create a master race of athletes, promised he would do it by the book. No cheating, no shortcuts, no administering of banned substances with tongue-twister names.

That was all well and good. But the public wondered who would do business with Conte. He's a pariah, it was whispered, a convicted concocter of odious creams and salves, a mad scientist who helped inflate the muscles and bank accounts of countless athletes, a man who deflated the quaint notions of fair play and ethical conduct among athletes that some squares still hung on to.

But the athletes found Conte, slowly, then more steadily. Some hesitated, worried that Conte -- who seemed repentant -- still railed against what he saw as a double-standard employed by zealous prosecutors whom he said fabricated material to bolster their case against him.

Donaire hooked up with Conte by coincidence. They both used a bank in San Mateo, and in May 2010, Donaire was there, talking to someone about the May 1 Floyd Mayweather Jr.-Shane Mosley fight. He overheard Conte talking about rest and recovery, and was impressed by his knowledge base. It didn't click that this was the Notorious VIC. Outside, Conte saw Donaire's van, which features his likeness. They chatted, discovered they knew people in common and a relationship was born -- or almost born. Well-meaning pals warned Donaire about making a "deal with the devil."

If this guy is the devil, Donaire thought to himself, he sure has some fascinating insights into different training techniques. So they met, and Donaire signed on, shortly before "The Filipino Flash" TKO'd Hernan Marquez in Puerto Rico in July 2010.

Skeptics -- and there were and are plenty still -- couldn't figure out what the repentant mad scientist could bring to the table. Only the most brazen of sociopaths would get back into the game and dispense designer steroids and growth hormones, so most figured Conte's potions were not verboten (and therefore particularly effective). But Donaire, and super middleweight champion Andre Ward, and welterweight champion Andre Berto, who all have consulted with Conte in the past few years, have been impressed with his theories on workout and recovery intervals.

Conte himself explains what he brings to the table: "I think it's new-school training. In boxing, I'm a relative newcomer, but I saw a real tendency and history of overtraining. They typically train twice a day, six days a week. They don't allow for a real recovery. They just fail to understand, not every day is a green-light day. You have to have recovery workouts and recovery days off."

After three fights with Conte, all knockout victories, Donaire is an enthusiastic booster of the once-radioactive nutritionist. "I wasn't really uncomfortable when we met," Donaire said. "He was very smart.

"Now he's a great part of my team. He's made me focus on recovery so I can work hard the next day."

And you don't worry about the guilt-by-association angle?

"My conscience is clean," Donaire said. "I've been clean, I'm a clean guy."

Conte, along with his sidekick, 79-year-old sprinting coach Remi Korchemny, have Donaire doing sprint-interval training, and doing away with the five- and six-mile a.m. jogs. The boxer swears by the hypoxic regimen Conte prescribes, which the latter says boosts red blood cell levels because it mimics high-altitude training.

So with Conte in his corner, Donaire has scored wins over Marquez, Vlad Sydorenko and Fernando Montiel. The fighter doesn't talk about any downside to the Conte connection. But while Conte may appear to have been humbled by his prison term, he hasn't been muzzled. His outspoken nature has put Donaire in a bit of a pickle.