It's a Dad's Life:December, 1981. My 10th birthday. My mother takes me and a bunch of school friends to see Rocky IIIin the Ambassador.
The Italian Stallion, smug, settled and rich, loses sight of that which made him strong. Clubber Lang, hungry like The Rock once was, takes away his title on the same night that Mickey, nail-spitting trainer, croaks. Old adversary Apollo Creed offers to get our champ back on his feet. After much overcoming of cultural challenges (ie training in a gym full of black athletes to a soul brother soundtrack), Rocky prevails. I pity the fool who thinks he can take Stallone twice.
Afterwards, having unearthed my first idol, I plot the steps towards my assault on the world heavyweight crown, disregarding the fact that my physique is more Mr Muscle ad guy than Evander Holyfield. My best friend agrees to train and manage me. Finally, I have a path.
School and a couple of playground humiliations woke me up to the fact that the Queensbury Rules were not suited to me. But Rocky kept my spirit alive.
For my 21st birthday, my sisters gave me the first five films on video. All my life, when faced with a tricky situation, I have wondered, "What would Rocky do?" If I couldn't fight, I could at least live my life like a gravel-voiced, face-lifted, aging action hero.
So, whenever I have achieved something, my inner narrator whispers it is because I have strived with every sinew and muscle in the face of overwhelming odds. On failure, the same narrator assures that those odds were insurmountable but there is probably an unlikely recovery and redemption on the path to glory just up ahead. Everything has a 1980s rock soundtrack. It is the real reason I don't have an iPod; who needs one when Eye of the Tigeris on a loop in your head? Hot on the heels of the realisation that I wouldn't make a living in the ring came the awareness that, if I were to be overt about my worship at the altar of Rock, I might spend my waking moments chained to a bed, doped to the gills in a psychiatric ward. The clincher came in a reply to a teacher who asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. "All I wanna do is go the distance. Nobody's ever gone the distance with Creed." Detention beckoned and I didn't enjoy the confinement.
I can still sneak them in when it counts. The Missus was proposed to with the words, "I was wonderin' if, uh, you wouldn't mind marryin' me very much." She said yes, and I knew The Rock had come through for me.
But involvement in the world of boxing has always seemed unlikely until recently, as the monsters have taken to beating the heads off each other.
They have contrasting styles but both can take one to the jaw and keep moving forward. The elder, as befits her status, attacks from the front. She leads with her right and likes to connect with a meaty thud. With the belief of an eldest child that she is the chosen one, her weakness is in her shock at retaliation. She still struggles with the idea that her position can be challenged. Like Tyson, she must overcome at the outset.
The younger, handicapped by size and reach, is more cunning and has the crucial fighter's characteristics of patience and a thirst for revenge. She has clear assassin's eyes. After a barrage in which the younger has clearly come out the worse, the elder will eyeball her to see if she has had enough.
Taking her adversary's expressionless visage as a sign to end the engagement, the elder may turn away in victory. The younger spies an exposed spot on the neck and attacks. It never ends.
My task is to channel their talents. Finally, they have a path.
