Rocky Balboa Blues: A Fighters Farewell

The Rock is tired.

Slumped half asleep in his faded chair he watches the cartoon network flicker threw the shadows of his darkening living room.

The cartoons seem like ghosts of another era: lost mad, lying, and pin balling round and round the bare room. They are muted silent shades because their jibber jabber gives the old balding fighter bad headaches.

These days most noises and most people give the old boxer bad headaches. His hands shakes slowly, quietly horrible, as he reaches for a stained glass of water perched on a plate filled with half eaten fast food.

He mumbles. Curses incoherently as the glass crashes to the stained carpet, betrayed by his faithless hands. Old friends gone bad betraying him at last, his broken body given out like all the rest of them did.

But he will get used to it. Yes he certainly will. He's found in life you can get used to just about anything that doesn't kill you.

But the broken places don't get better; no that old man lied before he died, the broken places stay broken and if they heal, even a bit, they heal badly and stay forever fragile.

They lay in wait, evil hobgoblins of the mind ready to hop and howl, ripping a fresh piece of your soul from your brain, your body, or what ever part, if any, the soul hides in.

He remembered that old movie he liked the one with the Harpies torturing that old man on some island. Every night the bird witch women came and tore away his food, shit on him, and drove him mad. Every night they came cackling and swooping and shitting.

Then the heroes came and saved the old man. But Rocky knew no heroes were coming for him. No heros in tall talking ships were coming to drive away the harpies in his mind.

The vile ones driving him mad, making off with his memories.

No heroes were coming. His Harpies were here to stay. No he was supposed to be the hero.

He sure as hell didn't feel like a damn hero.

"The hell with the hobgoblins. The hell with harpies. The hell with them all." He mutters to his only companions: his three fat cats, Ali, Frazier, And Foremen, perched silently staring at the cartoons madly fighting and smashing each other on the screen.  

The old man wasn't that old. But his his body was and his mind was weakening. More and more slipped away each day. The fighter actually didn't even remember himself how old he was. Sometimes he didn't remember who he was. Or where he was.

Or why his body ached and his brain sometimes screamed so terribly he flailed and smashed everything in his small apartment in a blind fury. Rage filling him as he flailed throwing lamps, smashing plaster, breaking glasses, howling in mad confusion and savage fear at being lost.

Howling until he collapsed in a exhausted huffing heap short of breath and loudly sobbing.

Lost, at long last, even to himself. Everything was so hard to remember. Sometimes it seemed like a dream, mostly it seemed like a nightmare. More memories danced away and died each day. Jabbing, jabbing, jabbing, stabbing, stabbing, him in his dark dreams at night.

Night dreams of old fights, torn faces, cheers, sweat, screams, throbbing, and hitting always hitting him harder, and harder and harder.

The cat on his lap wakened him to sunshine. The cartoon sirens still sang. A crazed coyote trickster insanely laughing was being smashed flat into a rock in a scorched desert. A big mad eyed bird turned and silently howled with delight.

"Hold on Big George. I'll feed you." He pulled himself up and limped to the barren kitchen. Pulling down a half opened can of tuna he tore off the lid and dropped on the floor. "God damn it George, share don't hog it all down. Your to damn fat already."

Groaning he filled the felines dishes with water and scraps of old chicken nuggets pulled from the empty fridge: "Here ye go boys...here ya. Come on Smoking Joe be nice. Be a cool cat. Don't be so damn mean all the time. Come on Ali you don't need all the attention all the time...be nice to Joe."

Today was a good day. His mind seemed a bit clearer. He would go to Victors Bar. See the boys, talk some shit, take a walk. He grabbed a can of coke and drank it down. He consider a Keystone light but instead grabbed a second coke and a hard donut then threw on some cloths from the floor.

Where were his damn smokes?

And his old frayed leather coat. Can't forget that. Or the hat. Pull it low, play it cool. Nod. Smile. Shake hands. Pretend every thing cool. Be cool.There the cigarettes where in his coat.

Don't feed the fear stalking your soul.

Stopping he stared a long time at an old picture of black hand women smiling with him. He tried hard to remember. That's right...His girl. Gone. Long time gone.

Forever gone. Sometimes Rock wished he was gone to. Even stared at the ledge, that abyss, beyond the roof top pigeon pens some times and felt the urge to leap. One quick dark leap then....no more pain. No more nothing.

Blessed Nothingness. The painless void.

Slowly he labored down the steps. His gut was growing. Damn it how did he let that happen? The Doctor man said bad food, bad living, and bad beatings had left him unhealthy.

The Doctor man said high blood pressure, diabetes, gout, heart disease, neurological damages damn he had it all.

Too much sugar one doctor said. Too much booze said another. Stop the smoking and the fast food a particularly grim one snapped. Come on Champ you can do it.

Another pair of white coats whispered to his boy about bad brain injuries. More whispers of long ago beatings leaving a life time of damages: "These thing happen to men of your trade..." One said. "But you were great champ. You were my hero growing up." Then he patted him on his back and asked for an autograph.

Rocky's hand shook so badly he had a hard time even signing his name anymore. the day his son glared at the Doctor as the old man fumbled with the paper.

The boy. His boy. Where was he? Seattle. That's right Seattle. He wanted his old man with him but Rock told him he never leave the neighborhood. Never. South Philly was him home.

"Seattle?" Rocky said "What the Hell would I do in Seattle?"

So the boy left. He called but Rock hated talking on the phone. He hated computers even more, he smashed the only one he ever had on his living room wall.

Sometimes on Christmas the boy came home with his boys. The little boys were nervous round their grumpy Grand Pa. The Rock seemed an angry old man to them but they didn't know how much his head hurt. How much his blessed body had betrayed him. How much he had lost.

And the boys wife didn't like him, Rocky knew that. Especially since the money dried up. Drifted away like a dying fires ashes on a wind swept day.

First Rocky's Restaurant went bad. The government men said his partner stole and the Rock owed. The lawyers took more.  The government took even more. Autograph money owed. Signed boxing gloves, signed posters, sold and owed. Owed, owed, owed. More, more, more.

Finally Rock raged at his lawyers take it all take everything. And they did. Then they left. They took more with pens then any South Philadelphia gangster ever took with a gun.

Damn he hated lawyers, accountants, government men, financial advisers and shit weasel eyed bankers more then he ever hated any boxer he ever fought. One time, just once, he wanted to get one of them in the ring.

What money was left the market crash devoured. His safe investments. His stash. His rainy day fund. The scraps devoured by the doctors and there damn pills. Pills and bills. Pills and bills. Pills and bills. Well damn them he was done with all that. Goodbye to all that quackery.

And when his money went so did most of the big named doctors. Sure he made a few bucks shaking hands, nodding about fights and foes he barely remembered if he remembered at all.

"I fought a Russian? He once said at a card show and they all laughed and slapped his back but it was true. He didn't remember fighting any damn Russian.

Victor helped out too, with beers and a burger now and then, but Victor had just had another bypass and he said his joint was about ready to close: "Time" Victor said rubbing his jowls sadly. "To call it a day. Time Rock, time makes fools of us all Rock. Even the best of us, Rock even the best." Then Victor pulled a bottle of Johnny Walker Red from a brown bag and poured to shots.

Victor raised the scotch toasted the Rock: "The hell with it Rock. No one ever had a run like you. No one. Not Ali. Not Demspey. Not Marciano. Here's to a helluva run and as the old cowboys once said Here's to the sunny slops of long ago."

They drank deep. They had another. And another.

Last year when his heat was cut off Victor had paid the bill out of his pocket. The sad eyed bar keep had stopped by asking the Rock if he needed groceries, worried he hadn't seen him in awhile and found the old box shaking on his chair covered in blankets.

"Jesus Rock.. No heat" the old man said looking round the cluttered apartment. "You need a maid Rock."

"No heat, no maid..I ain't no millionaire Vic. But I'll make it." Rock was staring hard at his silent cartoons rubbing Ali's back while the big cat purred.

"Not in this cold you won't..Neither will them damn cats. They'll end up eating your carcass like in them old Poe stories. I know I guy that happened to. He died and had like eighty cats and they picked his bones clean. All the relatives found was a grinning damn skeleton. that what you want Rock?." Victor said dropping a loaf of bread and a bottle bourbon on the counter. "Your Italian not a damn polar bear."

The Rock just grunted said there was worse ways to go then being eaten by his cats and Victor left saying have it your way Champ enjoying becoming kitty litter.

But the next day the heat was back on.

All Victor said the next day while sliding him a beer was pay me when you can champ I owe you for the memories. So the Rock tried to struggle down the block to Victors each day but the walk was getting harder, and harder.

A few years back after the Rocky Restaurant fiasco he had tried a another comeback. Three fights the last two ending, very violently bad.  His hands were slow, reflexes shot, still he thought he could beat these young guys. These soft spoiled guys.

They weren't soft that's for sure and when the Rock was brutalized, still standing taking a terrible beating, in Atlantic City on the under-card boxing fans begged him to quit.

Its hard for a generation to see its legends age before their eyes. In boxing the legends die young and often brutally with a lot of life out ahead of them. But a lot of emptiness inside them.

He tried one more in Oklahoma against a big white boy he would have whipped in one and was stopped, pants stuck on the rope, skull slightly cracked in three.

After that no state would sanction. His speech slurred. His hands shook. His memory, bad in recent years, faded. Some friends, embarrassed by his appearance, avoided him.

Victor smoking in the locker room later said "Enough is enough Rock it ain't worth it. they don't care they just want blood. rock, your blood. they want your blood. Don't die for them Rock. Live for you."

Then the money went. His Hollywood friends left him but Philadelphia still mostly loved him.

There was that rat eyed young gangster punk who mocked him in a bar a few years back. Calling him Gramps. Saying get Gramps a drink. Even throwing a fifty cent piece at him which skipped and landed in his soup.

Inside Rock boiled but he saw the bulge in the punks jacket. And bulges in his friends jackets. And he remembered don't touch the gangsters with guns.

So he smiled and said thanks. They all hissed goblin laughter.

The punk grinned like a snake saying sure Champ with a spiteful smile. All his friends laughed until an older man at a table snapped at them to "knock that shit off", to "knock it off now", "that man earned your respect".

The punk looked at the old man with hateful eyes and said sure old man. Anything you say old man. The old man eyes black and hard said "Now you buy the champ a steak. You understand me? You buy the man at steak and you do it now."

The punk threw a fifty on the bar and stormed out glaring at the old man and Rock.

"Im sorry champ. These kids they don't respect nothing, they don't remember nothing. They don't know what you did for this city...this country." The old man was short and fat and he breathed heavy lighting a cigar as he pulled up beside Rocky and handed him a bundle of bills.

"here you go Champ...a good day at the track. And hell me and the Irishman Sheeran we won so much money on you when you fought Creed that we stayed drunk in Vegas for three damn weeks. Whores and whiskey to high heaven. Hell I owe you this."

"No..no I don't need it." Rocky mumbled. Creed he thought who was this Creed and why did he fight him?

"Hell Champ we all need it. The country is going to hell in a hand basket. And Philly went years ago. When they killed Bruno everything went bad...Everything. No respect for nothing. Rats everywhere. Dope. Killings every damn day. I tell ya it ain't like it used to be."

The old man patted him on the back and left the money bundle on the bar. Rocky palmed the cash. Three weeks later the old man was found dead, rotting a bullet in his brain, in a car trunk down at the sea shore.

So long ago..the sea shore. Rocky missed the ocean. He missed Victors more. Maybe Victor would spot him a steak if he stacked some beer cases in the back for him.

People passing by Rocky said Hi ya Champ but didn't bother him much as they were so used to seeing him. Still he kept his eyes averted.

His chest hurt when he arrived at Victors. And he cursed when he saw it locked up. A well dressed man by the bus stop talking loudly in a phone looked at him funny.

"Champ its been closed for months. Champ, Victor died last year. Hanging a picture you remember, his heart. Champ, you okay?"

"Sure" The Rock mumbled stumbling a bit. "Sure". The man went back to his phone shouting something about stocks.

Victor was dead? How did he forget that?

Tears of rage rolled down his cheeks as he turned back to his apartment. Stopping only to stare at a pretty raven haired girl feeding a pack of pigeons in the park. The sun was setting behind her as she turned and slowly smiled her bright blues eyes beaming.

Did he know her? Did she know him? Rocky wondered walking fast back to his apartments eyes on the pavement. He bumped a man and mumbled sorry and kept going.

But where was he going?

He couldn't remember? Where did he live?

He stepped in a dive bar and ordered few beers more frightened then he ever been in the ring. His hand shook badly.

"You okay?" The bar man looked up from washing a glass. "You okay man? Hey I know you? Ain't you that fighter guy? Ain't that you? I saw you on ESPN Classic fighting the Clubber dude. Dude that was war back in the day."

Rocky looked at him and said nothing. Jumping up he dashed from the bar,

"Dude..wait" The man yelled after him. "Dude you owe me for the beers!"

It was night. Cars rushed by. People passed by enraptured in their cell phones and messages.

Once he had been mugged near here. Or almost mugged he remembered that. A pipe a crack on the head. One crazy eyed man with a blade. Another skinny crew cut boy with a big black gun. And the pipe man cursing at him, swinging that thing, cursing, circling, face contorted with fear and hate.

It happened so fast and they were mad he had no money. A crack with the pipe. Another wild swing. A sharp blow to the head staggered him, he tasted blood, he blazed with rage, and in reflex he struck felt bones break. crumble under his big hand. The pipe clatter on concrete, the pipe man down, jaw shattered teeth on the cement.

The knife man nervous, running. The gun guy running firing, once, twice, three times wild missing. Rocky rolling, panting. Hear racing his rage still running. After that people told him stay in. Stay in especially at night. The neighborhood isn't what it used to be they said.

But where was he now? Who was he? Had he ever really been? How did he get here?

The razor moon seemed to smiling at him.

Was this all a dreamed he dreamed long ago?

But he knew this place. This park. Was that his park?

Their park. His and his girls park. Their bench...Was it?

It was their park.

He sat down exhausted. Cold....Old....Worn out....Run down, He closed his eyes.

Tired, so very, very tired....Somewhere he heard cartoons laughing. Somewhere he heard cheers. Somewhere he heard birds. Somewhere he heard a girl.

His girl.

Was she calling his name....?

He tried to yell...her name. What was it?

Adrian.

That's right.

Adrian.

Somehow he smiled at the old magic. She smiled too. Somewhere he heard cheers....and he thought a voice yelling.

"Rocky."

Somewhere....over there... behind the moon.

"CNN has learned that legendary heavy weight boxing champ Rocky Balboa died today in Philadelphia. Early reports say he died of apparently natural causes on a park bench in South Philadelphia. Balboa became a living legend through a series of fights over the last several decades but lately had fallen on hard times....

His son, reached in Seattle, said his father, who was just sixty four, had been in very poor health in recent years and suffered a series of severe financial setbacks which, along with his deteriorating health left him depressed. But his son said he never stopped loving Philadelphia."

"Doctor Sanja Gupta will be on in a moment to discuss Dementia pugilistica and its effects on aging boxers lacking both a pension and medical insurance..."