by Seth McLaughlin

“He might win a few fights, but a Rocky Balboa he'll never be.”

My cousin, Aiden, has learned to take his wristwatch off before he gets into street scraps. It’s like a hooker in Vegas learning that it’s a good idea to play the girlfriend role and cuddle an arm in public. Both my cousin and most Vegas hookers have experience.

And as Aiden, who weighs about 160 pounds, paced around a road in Portland that was backed up with slow-moving vacation traffic and stripped his watch off to box a hulk in a yellow STAFF T-shirt, I thought he must be down on his luck and I knew he carried the heart of a lion.

There aren’t a lot of people with these characteristics. One of the few was “The Italian Stallion,” Rocky Balboa. But, I’m getting ahead of myself…

Before we dive into infamous boxing trainer Mickey Goldmill, let’s smell some of the ingredients that went into this keyboard belch. Several months ago I decided that I would write about how heavyweight boxing, which remains stuck in the claws of scumbags like Don King, is in dire need of a white pugilist.

But, during my extensive research—which included heavy cocktail draining, heavy computer screen staring, heavy amounts of masturbating, heavy cigarette pounding and a partridge and a pear tree—I changed course.

Still, I must share a passage I found on a dog breeders Web site to the good brethren that read past the Mickey Goldmill reference.

A white Boxer is as loving as any other, lives as long and eats the same sort of foods as all others. Occasionally they may get skin cancers or sunburn caused by being out in strong sunlight without any shade. A white Boxer does not develop deafness overnight, he is born with it and with the correct training can be as obedient as a hearing dog.—

And here are some facts I discovered on white boxers.

* White boxers are not rare.
* Approximately 25 percent of all boxers born are white.
* White boxers are not albinos.
* White boxers can sunburn easy.
* White boxers can be deaf and sometimes blind.
* White boxers should be spayed/neutered.
* White boxers have the same temperament and personality as colored boxers.

It’s easy to see that there are similarities between four-legged and two-legged white skinned animals.

HOLD ON…..the good gynecologist Neil Shea just quoted a Mr. T key-chain, saying, “Quit your jibba-jabba.”

DING, DING…Where AM I? Cut Me, I can’t see.

I didn’t want just any white champion, so the previous dog breeder’s quote had to be spliced in where it didn’t belong. Plus, I realized I could easily be seen as some white supremacy nut. And as quasi-vegetarian African-American, I was wondering if Boca Burgers were making me crazy. So I switched course, and soon after learned I was indeed a white man ...

Aiden, my cousin, the street fighter, kept saying the No. 1 Rocky line of all time and chuckling as I edged him down the sidewalk and away from the muscle bound bouncer.

“Get up you son of a bitch!,” he said. “ ‘Cause Mickey loves you!”

I was a bit concerned that if the tussle went down I might end up floating through space in a piece of glass with the maniac crew around me—a drunk recovering alcoholic fat chick, another drunk recovering alcoholic skinny chick and Aiden’s brother, another cousin, Riley.

“I was gonna box ‘em,” Aiden repeated several times. The comment was usually followed by a stiff jab at what seemed to be a ghost man, then a smile, then a wild-eyed schizoid look and the laugh of a happy child. “I’m Rocky Balboa,” he said.

Vin Diesel, who rides in the black car, not the pink car, may be Rocky reincarnate

Rocky may not be Raging Bull, because topping Robert DeNiro’s portrayal of Jake Lamotta, the Bronx Bull, and Martin Scorsese’s movie-making ability is like me simultaneously topping Angelina Jolie, Jessica Simpson and Jamie from the Real World San Diego. It simply isn’t going to happen.

However, ROCKY has something Raging Bull does not: SLY. Name a better B movie actor than Sylvester Stallone. Two words: John Rambo. Six more words: Big rig arm wrestler Lincoln Hawk, from Over the Top.

I recently had a drunken, Atkins-diet-crazed, 60-year old fat reporter say, “Going to Las Vegas is like going to your first Rambo movie: You have to.” I think Stallone deserves credit for this.

I believe Stallone will hand his B-boy acting torch to half African, half Italian actor Vin Diesel. Who is a better young B movie actor than Diesel? Is Webster or Tom Hanks? Diesel showed signs in A Man Apart when his character Sean Vetter avenges his wife’s death, beating her killer to death. And in The Fast and the Furious when Dominic Toretto (Diesel), the head of a street racing hijacking crew, makes the front tires of his father’s black big-block 1970 Dodge Charger 500 lift off at the beginning of a race. Two hyphenated words and one swear for you, the reader: top-notch, B-movie, shit. It’s simply a level above C-movie stars like Steven Segal and Claude Van Douche Bag.

Where was I?

For me, the full-body tingles that should come with watching boxing have collected dust. The tingles are stored away for replays of real fights like the ones in the 1970’s between Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier, the 1974 Rumble in the Jungle in Zaire bout between Ali and George Foreman or the first 1976 15-round blood bath between Apollo Creed and Rocky, in which the mash-faced Stallion tells Mickey “I’m not going down no more.”

Sadly, when that flick came out, my parents had not made me yet.

Only Rocky flicks or fluke boxing matches like the one in 1993 between Riddick Bowe, who recently was released from jail for kidnapping his kids, and Evander Holyfield, who says he is religious as they come but has 48 kids with 98 other women, provides a glimpse into the awesome specter of good pugilism. (Side note: athletes saying that they praise God and then turning around and doing dumb shit may be a subject this atheist author could touch on in the future. There is some ugly beauty to it.)

Anyhow, Bowe and Holyfield went toe-to-toe in the 7th round of their 1993 fight. Pure magic. Nothing like seeing true modern day gladiators defend their souls in the ring. Mickey Ward and Arturo Gatti have teased us in the last few years with great bouts, but they aren’t fighting in the heavyweight division.

Unfortunately, no matter what age, all the gladiators have eroded.

Now, Ali is in the late stages of Parkinson’s disease. Foreman, who did come back after the Rumble in the Jungle to win a heavyweight belt in 1990, only gives people the tingles through Lean Grilling Machine jokes. Mike Tyson is a schizoid and is fighting this month against another joker in Louisville. And Holyfield just had his 99th child.

My cousin, Aiden, also seems to be eroding. But, still, in the midst of a child-custody fracas, drug and depression problems, and hurt pride, Mickey Goldmill gave him the tingles that Fourth of July evening.

That was until some guy wearing a Yankees hat jokingly called him Donny Brasco. Then he clobbered the table with an open hand, started ranting about rats and took off his watch. He’s got a lion’s heart like Balboa, which is more than the heavy weight boxing division can say. Mickey Goldmill would have liked him.