“You’re a bum!”, the gym owner jabs. Rocky has no one to take care of. No one is caring for him. His fights are mediocre at best. He gets by, doing just what he must. All better forms of pride have been marked absent from life’s pathetic ballot. He’s lusting a single key component. Purpose.
One of my all-time favorite movie scenes appears in Rocky 1. Too old to be young and too young to be old, Rocky finds himself on a lonely road traveling nowhere. Residing in the slums of Philadelphia, he attends a local, boxing gym chocked with underdogs, most desperate to one day “make it”.
The scene acts out in Rocky’s ram shack and slight, studio apartment. Slapped across an outskirt of his drab, dresser mirror holds an uncomplicated picture of himself as a young boy, possibly ten years of age. Rocky gazes forcefully at the pic, struggling to make sense of the now vs then. The man vs the boy. Not a single word is spoken. None are needed.
The scene tarries. A lingering stare holds us hostage to this heftily, solemn moment. We are taxed to either embrace it, allowing the emotions to lay hold of what Rocky is experiencing, or permit our hearts to flee as though it were just meaningless fill per our casual entertainment. I prefer the former.
Recently watched “Sly” on Netflix. It’s a documentary about Sylvester Stallone, starring Sylvester Stallone. He walks us through his life of humble beginnings, fame, and current fortune. It’s advantageous to realize he wrote and directed the Rocky films. It’s valuable we understand how it symbolizes much of what was stirring inside of him.
“Sly” reveals how Stallone was uncared for as a child. As he grew, these elements began to materialize in their various effects upon him. The documentary doesn’t state it as so, though it seems to me the apartment scene is a direct reflection of his past with grievance toward his current situation. Ever been there? I certainly have.
A twist of fate and Rocky’s luck would soon transform. First, he gets the girl. Following is a canceled bout between the current boxing champion ‘Apollo Creed’ and his challenger, making way for a new name to enter the promotion. Apollo wants something big. He wants something avant-garde. He wants a man who goes by the name ‘Italian Stallion’. He wants… Rocky Balboa.
Residing the nobody, Rocky accepts his invitation. He’s not hoping to win, only to go the distance. It’s a date with destiny. It’s an opportunity to see for himself exactly what he is made of. It’s a shot at… purpose. Let the training begin!
Rising long before dawn, he chokes down a glass of raw eggs before racing the cold, and blistering streets of Philly. Hanging meat at the local packing plant makes the perfect punching bag. And the man who once called him a “bum” has suddenly become his now, cherished manager. Rocky engages this fight as though his life depends upon it. After all. In a sense. It probably does.
Fast forward to fight night - the battle is on! Apollo appears nonchalant, betting the challenger to be child’s play. Waging wrong, the champ is rocked and knocked down early. It appears the Italian Stallion has come prepared for a brawl!
Rounds add up and Creed slugs ahead for the upper hand. Rocky’s eye is visibly swoll, to the point he cannot see. Vital to visualize what’s coming at him and dire to prevent a doctor’s stoppage, Rocky shouts to his manager “Cut me! Cut me, Mick! Cut me!” Discerning the damage he’s taken and fearing for Rocky’s well-being, the manager hesitates. Apprehension overwhelms his old, eager face. But in a gamble against better judgment, Mick lends the nod as the assistant reaches for the blade, raises it to Rocky’s eye, and strikes a slice across the inflammation, gifting the challenger a chance to see, or rather live once again.