I am a man. I think I crossed the line somewhere between boy and man sometime around the first time I forked out a huge portion of my bank account to buy my first car. I bought a 1977 Chevy Camarro and drove that thing like crazy. I even drilled holes in the muffler to make it sound meaner and louder. Of course the person who I sold it to probably had a real hard time passing inspection, but while I had it nothing could stop me. Not even the tree that had fallen into the middle of the road and caused me to do a three sixty and knock it in the ditch. My car drove away without a scratch.
Anyways, I watched Rocky IV tonight and I think the only reason I enjoy it so much is because I am a man. Why do I enjoy following the stubble growth of Sylvester Stalone as he dead lifts a wagon with his trainer and wife encouraging him inside? Why do I feel chills down my spine whenever Rocky tackles the Russian post bell ring in the final match? Why do I mourn the death of Apollo Creed as if he was my father? Why do I yell at the television and jump off my couch when Rocky’s trainer is yelling “NO PAIN” at a bloody, tired, beaten down Rock? Why? Why? Why?
Let us just say htpothetically there would have been a girl in the room. Apollo goes down in a blaze of glory she does not feel an ounce of sadness. She might even say, “Well he is putting himself in the position to get hit really really hard. I think he had it comin.”
Rocky scales the what appears to be a very large snowy mountain and yells at the Russian. I say, “Go Rock. Beat his %$&.” A girl says, “Oh look at the pretty mountains.”
I suggest to all go out and see this movie. Even if your grandmother tells you Rocky is illiterate and senseless. Even if your Father claims Rocky Balboa (the sixth Rocky movie. Stalone is at least 65 years old) to be the biggest flop since the Leo Dicaprio remade Shakespear’s Romeo and Juliet. Fight the odds. Follow your heart. I promise you that you won’t go wrong.
The Rocky movies make me man. I AM MAN.