Rocky 7: The Rocky Road to Dementia

Rocky 7?  Really?  Say it isn’t so!

What once was considered one of the greatest stories of sport and spirit has truly (well, for the 3rd or 4th time actually) spit in its own aging face.  Now, without having read or viewed anything except this nebulous trailer, I can only assume that Rocky only plays the role of manager/trainer in this film to some young spawn that wants to enter the fight game (appears to be of the Apollo Creed lineage).

I really don’t want to know the sure-to-be pathetic plot.  Rather I want to imagine this next installment in the storied series with Rocky, circa age 70, actually entering the ring to do battle.  More so, I would like to see the Southpaw battle the demons of growing old.

Rocky with early onset Alzheimer’s…

Picture the Champ running up those infamous City of Brotherly Love stairs wearing only his ugly wool cap, taped up hands and his championship belt. I imagine all those kids would be running in the opposite direction as Philadelphia’s finest receive the call over the radio, “We have a naked and confused old man running toward City Hall.  Please proceed with caution.”

Rocky with a prostate issue…

Round 1.  Ding ding.

“As the Medicaid-elible former champion makes his way to the center of the ring, he is met by a challenger 50 years his junior.  A stiff jab to Rocky’s face followed by a left hook to the body and, oh my goodness, Stu, what has happened?”

“It appears as if Rocky has lost control of his bodily functions and urinated all over the ring.  127 year old referee Lou Phillipo is going to have to stop this one before somebody slips in this tremendous puddle of Italian piss.”

Rocky with Type 1 diabetes…

149 year old Trainer Mickey Goldmill has miraculously risen from the dead (why not, right?) after being murdered more than 30 years ago by Mr. T.  He is back in the Tough Gym training the aging Italian Stallion.  A rigorous session ensues when the Champ faces the ultimate adversity; keep training or get his insulin.  His no-quit attitude, and incredibly low IQ, inspire Rocky to fight through the pain and delusions.  After a grueling 6 minutes of the workout, Balboa hits the canvass and sends longtime gym gofer, Mike, to get his medicine from his locker.  A newly-alive Mickey reminds Rock that he gave his locker away to contender, Dipper, since Rocky is a no good lousy bum.  Rocky goes in to diabetic shock and enters the hospital in a coma.  In an ironic twist, he is assigned to the same room where Adrian delivered that monkey baby 40 years before.

Rocky with osteoporosis…

Rocky has lost everything.  His beloved trainer, wife and son.  He has lost his money, his wits, his cognition.  Yeah, like I said, everything.  Everything EXCEPT his will to box.  In a truly unimaginable scenario, he is challenged by the heavy weight world champion.  Rocky decides resting his old bones (wait for it) is the best training strategy and forgoes the gym.  Come fight day, he laces up the gloves, dusts off those red, white and blue Larry Bird -esque boxing trunks and slaps on (the now defunct business) Shamrock Meats robe.

Enters the ring full of confidence to do battle with the new champ.  The bells sounds and Rocky charges the across the ring.  Throws a right jab – breaks his hand.  Throws the famous left hook – breaks the other hand.  In a sad and pathetic twist, Rocky tries to the kick his opponent and breaks his leg.  The fight is stopped and they put Rocky out of his misery like any true stallion; by a gunshot to the head in the middle of Madison Square Garden (strangely they asked Father Carmine to do the honors)

Now, those are some story lines I could get on board with.  Otherwise, I am afraid I will continue to consider Clubber Lang your “final” fight, Rock….and simply look the other way.

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