Cue the Rocky Music

By Mike Kunda

Cue the Rocky Music is a memoir for anyone whos ever dared to follow their dreams or told they couldnt. Mike Kunda wanted to be Rocky Balboa. What he didnt know, was that in thirty years he would be.

You wont know whether to wince or smile as young Mike wears costumes and faces bullies with a lack of physical prowess. Mike goes toe-to-toe with life and finds the courage to fail on his terms.

After a series of connections with Sylvester Stallone, Mikes life goes from movie reel to real, as he takes another step toward his ideal job as a Rocky Balboa impersonator in Philadelphia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 5, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453530184

Mike Kunda

Mike Kunda is a writer, painter, and Rocky Balboa impersonator. He is best known for wining the first ever Rocky and Adrian look-alike contest in Philadelphia, and setting every phone ringer and doorbell chime in his house to the Rocky theme. He lives with his wife, Sue, and their German Shepherd, Mason, in Pennsylvania.

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Cue the Rocky Music

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Mike Kunda

Copyright © 2010 by Mike Kunda.

Library of Congress Control Number:              2010909588

ISBN:                              Hardcover               978-1-4535-3017-7

                                      Softcover                 978-1-4535-3016-0

                                      Ebook                     978-1-4535-3018-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Acknowledgment

Love Park

Rocky

Make-Believe

All Heart and No Tools

Boxes in the Attic

We Are the Best from East to West

Covey Leader Calling Raven

Me Against Me

Takin’ A Break

Drive All Night

Snowflakes in the Headlights

First Time at the Rocky Sites

Planet Hollywood

Kunda, Party of Eight

Kiesha

Tough Gym

Yo, Butkus!

On Location with Southpaw Rocky Balboa

Who is Steve Merlot?

Luca Brasi and Sly

Action . . . Cut!

A Night at the Victors

Still Standing at the End of the Day

The March of Dimes

A Chance of a Lifetime

His Majesty, Sir Butkus

It’s A Colorful Life

Write A Book? Who, Me?

Ding, Ding – 

Final Thought

Dedication

To all the people that helped me climb the steps, hopefully I can get others to go the distance as well.

To Verto Cable, thank you for losing power one night in December 1967. If not for that, I might not be here. To my parents, thanks for being the sunlight on my garden when I was a boy, and reminding me no man is an island. To Granpa, I hope you have all the Camels you want and never see another lump of coal. For those who knew me and always had my back, thank you. And for my wife, who, when I doubted myself, would hold my hand, look into my eyes, and remind me with a brick to the head that I could do anything, as long as I believed in it.

Thank you to Debbie Kunda, and Cheryl Mugford, my first editors. Thank you Chris Wiseman for being as crazy as I am about all things Stallone and taking a chance on me. To my brother Jason, and my good friend Bob Brommer, thanks for explaining that computer files are not actually paper based.

And all my love to Tiff, Courty, Lauren, Timmy, and Evan.

Special thanks to my niece, Lauren Hahn, who’s art was the inspiration for the book’s cover.

Acknowledgment

Sylvester Stallone – you’ve reminded me since I was eleven years old that there is never a choice but to try. I learned more about myself in two hours watching Rocky than I ever did in school. For years, I struggled to find poetic thanks. The best I can do is to write this book. I hope someone continues doing for you what you have done for me and the universe.

Inspiration has been respelled S-T-A-L-L-O-N-E.

Standing in the converted basement of Small World Daycare, it’s 1973, and I’m four and half years old. Reaching for another color from my finger-paint set, I’m intrigued by what I’ve already painted. Children around me laugh and play, ignoring me, not out of cruelty but due to my own world of fantasy. I glance over at the teacher, who seems lost in thought.

Mrs. Chick, the administrator of Small World, writes out reports and updates to the parents with heartfelt awareness. Nearly completing a report to my parents, she takes an extra moment of careful reflection when the preprinted question asks about my dramatic expression. Sure of her thoughts, she begins to write.

Dramatic expression: Michael’s vivid imagination plays an active role in his play. He often goes off into his own world of fantasy.

Mrs. A. M. Chick

Administrator

Small World Day Care

Pat Hackett: Not many people know that you went by the name Mike Stallone until you were twenty-seven. You do look like a Mike. Was it your middle name?

Sylvester Stallone: No. It was just that growing up Sylvester was a real task. Tweety-birds. A real task. And I just wanted to – blend in. I didn’t want to cause waves. I wanted to just sound neutral. When I went in as Sylvester, right away it was going against me.

 – Interview Magazine, September 1985

Love Park

I’m not a competitive person by nature. My feeble attempts at wrestling and high school football showed that. Unseen, sitting on both my shoulders, were two separate voices whispering, Try, while the other said, Don’t. I wanted to play sports – not compete, as competition seemed to get in the way of having fun. I employed a useful tool, self-deprecation, to lower the expectations people had of me, but I’ll talk about that later. If only a competition existed for make-believe, I might have a shot at being champ.

By the time September 7, 2006, the day of the Rocky and Adrian look-alike contest in Philadelphia, pounded on my front door, I thought my life hit all the high points it was ever going to reach. I was married, owned a home, and had a solid job. I also completed a twenty-seven-year journey when I met Sly Stallone. However, opportunity was about to grab my left wrist while reality grabbed my right. One of the things I learned about life is this: I couldn’t change the course laid out for me.

I was standing in the basement of Philadelphia’s Visitor Center in Love Park alongside three other men with square jaws and dark hair. A forty-five-watt bulb with a pull chain hung above our heads, keeping the dark at bay. Zigzagging across the low ceiling was a mass of copper tubing, leaking rust, and filth.

Some men wore similar clothes to mine, a black fedora and matching leather coat resting across broad shoulders. Two other men wore gray sweats, navy skullcaps, complete with black Chuck Taylor sneakers, all of us contenders in the Rocky look-alike contest. We each wore a name tag, labeled Rocky 1 through 5, signifying the order we would perform. I was listed as Rocky 2. Standing in the middle of the room like a sack of potatoes was a tour guide with a Larry Fine hairstyle. He was dressed in baggy khakis and collared shirt that never had the pleasure of meeting an iron. He was assigned to answer our questions, keep us hydrated, and when the time was right, show us the way to the outdoor stage where a respectable crowd of five hundred people were watching the first part of the contest, four women competing as Adrian. We couldn’t see the stage, but we heard much of what was going on from loudspeakers that were set to the side.

The crowd was quiet as the emcee explained the competition into a microphone. "Judges, you can have the contestants do an impression or answer a trivia – whatever you need to gauge how worthy our Rocky and Adrian contestants are of winning the title Best Look-Alike. Okay? Here we go, whenever you’re ready, judges!" As the emcee called Adrian 1 to the stage, the first judge introduced himself.

"David Aldrich, meteorologist, Fox 29. Where were you working in Rocky when you first met him?"

A pet store.

Works for me, David said.

What was the name of the two turtles he bought? the second judge, Tom Lamaine, a local personality, asked.

Shrugging, turning to the crowd, she spoke. I don’t – 

Cuff and Link! yelled a dozen fans.

Um, I’m not –  Adrian 1 said, sounding confused.

Okay, what was Rocky’s dog’s name? Tom asked.

Butkus! the crowd shouted.

Well, the crowd sure knows the answers, said the emcee. Just listen, they’ll tell ya, he added.

Tom pressed further with a smirk. What was his trainer’s name?

Mickey! yelled the crowd.

What was Rocky’s name? His last name? judge 3, Vince DeMentri, news anchor for channel 10 news in Philadelphia, asked.

Balboa! replied an embarrassed but hopeful Adrian as all five judges gave a round of applause.

An air of question drifted through the basement. Rocky 4 was missing. Unsure of the reason for the absent number, I began throwing lazy uppercut punches in the air like a real boxer, rolling my neck left and right. Hearing it crack, I glanced up. I saw exposed ceiling beams with broken spiderwebs partially attached, drifting in the breeze like silent wind chimes from a broken windowpane set high in the wall.

A twenty-something contestant wearing a hard face entered the basement, taking short strides on shorter legs. He was empty-handed, yet looked as though he carried a sleeping bag under both arms. If he was a medium, his leather jacket was an ill-fitted large. Owning the space where he stood, we weren’t sure if he was talking to himself or us. Stupid parking. Never a spot when – raising his head, looking at us for the first time, he announced, yo! I got this thing won! What are yous like fifty or something? He stood near the basement door.

Uh, hey, bub, listen, ain’t you a little short for – 

Short fer what? I’m a South Philly fighter! What do you bring? The other two Rockys leaned against the exposed patches of fieldstone and brick foundation, shaking their heads as they looked away.

I ain’t bringing no attitude, that’s for sure, said Rocky 5, who looked like a middle-aged Italian Art Carney, an inch or maybe two above six foot.

I stepped forward, nodding toward his name tag. Hey, Rocky 4, how ya doin’? What’s ya name?

Don.

Extending my hand, I asked in a perfect Stallone voice, You a real fighter? Raising his head, he pushed back his fedora, pointing to what used to be a nose, and frowned. A crooked smile played across my face as I gave a gentle shrug.

Sorry about going through the basement, guys. It’s, uh, the only back door behind the stage we have to make a dramatic entrance, the soft-speaking tour guide moaned. His words seemed to come from a source of physical pain; possibly his shoes were too tight, or something he ate didn’t agree with him. Rubbing the back of his neck, he searched the air above his head for the remains of what he had to say. "Uh, after the ladies get finished, they’ll cue the Rocky music and out yas go. Head over to the chairs behind the Adrians. Anybody need an ice water? Oh God, I do." Shaking our heads no, a retired version of the movie icon, labeled Rocky 3, wearing a gray sweat suit with Italian Stallion written on his back, put a hand on my shoulder.

Hey, ya nervous? he asked in a thick voice. I noticed his prominent Roman nose as he finished his thought before I could answer. I do this for charity, and I always get goose bumps. Nodding toward the door, he raised his arms, showing me his trembling hands despite sounding calm. What about you?

Oh, I’m in retail. I was sorta pushed, I said, lifting my chin toward the door, into this contest. Everybody I know says I’m s’pose ta be here. I curled my lower lip and sniffled. I never did nuthin’ like this.

Ya know, from the right angle you look like him. I mean, your mannerisms, your stance. Can’t be the first time ya heard that. What’s your story? As I looked past the steps, into the daylight, I chuckled at how ironic it was to be asked this by a man dressed as Rocky.

What’s my story? I said, sniffling like I had a sinus infection, Luck.

By now the other contestants gathered around me. As I spoke, I stepped back in time.

Rocky

My name is Mike Kunda. I was born on August 18, 1968, in a northeastern Pennsylvania town called Scranton, or as the locals say, Scran’in. Primarily known as a large anthracite coal mining town, it was dubbed the Electric City for having the first electric streetcar. Reminiscent of New York City, its side-alley bars and neighboring hangouts ran off-Broadway productions playing host to famous entertainers stopping by for dinner and a show. The likes of Jack Benny and Will Rogers awed Scrantonians as The Three Stooges stopped by the town hall for slapstick hijinks. Everybody knew who went to their show the next morning by the way people held their sides.

With its brick row homes, melting pot culture, and a working mentality that never surrenders, Scran’in is broken into four major sections – North, South, the Hill Section, and my home, West Scran’in.

Once coal ran its course, the city nosedived for years; then in the late 1980s, it began its emphasis on revitalization. The parks and downtown area are now better than ever, but even at their worst, they played a prominent role in my Walter Mitty-styled life. For me, Scran’in is a member of the family, cast from concrete and brick.

Growing up in the 1970s, I had no idea whether I was coming or going. I found some direction with drawing comic book characters, but mostly I ran in ten directions at once. I left a path of destruction, knocking my Planet of the Apes play set over, spilling the contents in the center of the TV room. Three feet away, my Six Million Dollar Man action figure was missing a leg, and my Evil Knevil doll lay in a twisted heap, the helmet lost, possibly underneath a chair. After ten minutes with all three toys, I moved, building a fort from the cushions of our couch and my mother’s best afghans.

My things-to-do compass was always out of whack. Television was a North Star that helped me pass the time between school and Ma’s list of chores. I considered The Three Stooges and Abbott and Costello my closest friends.

Growing older, I realized, when people laugh, everything in their lives is perfect for ten or fifteen seconds. Just imagine if we could go around laughing all day. It’s a spur-of-the-moment reaction. To me, laughter should be a mandatory subject taught in high school, like English or geometry. I took three years of Latin and never used it. Finding humor in the darkest of moments has been a saving grace.

Michael, please keep it down. Your father and brother are still asleep, Ma said with a smile, preparing breakfast. You guys were up late last night watching Stooge shorts. Why are you up so early?

Sorry, Ma, they’d be laughin’ too if they were up, I said, nodding toward the screen as I watched Curly explain to Moe why he’s the general of Moronica.

Bud Abbott and Lou Costello’s famous argument, Who’s on First?, was something Dad and I repeated often. Yep, some of my fondest memories are centered on a laugh, but they turned to inspiration one Sunday in 1979.

"That boxing movie, Rocky, Dad said, grabbing a bowl from the kitchen cabinet, is on tonight. Think you wanna see it?" He nearly dropped an egg on the floor.

Ma, an avid Agatha Christie fan, smiled, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. Yeah, I’m sure I’ll be reading anyway. She was laughing at Dad’s attempt to save the egg.

It must have been the eagerness in Dad’s voice that made me listen up. We were middle class but didn’t have a VCR, so I recorded shows on audiotape. The neat thing about my particular recorder was its appearance and sound. My recorder was fifteen inches tall by fifteen inches wide and four inches thick. The controls were on top, with a large orange button labeled Play. The entire recorder was black, with the front having a plastic honeycomb pattern protecting a huge speaker that kicked out an amazing amount of bass and a volume control that turned forever. With a shoulder strap attached, I carried it everywhere I went.

During the many highs and lows in my life, one constant name stayed with me, a celluloid fighter named Rocky Balboa. He’s the positive whisper in my ear when I’m in doubt. He would be the last player on the bench with me when I didn’t get called into a football game, and he reminded me that it’s okay to be afraid of the dark; all I had to do was reach along the wall for the switch, and I would see the light.

I can’t imagine anyone on this planet not familiar with this name. But should someone who’s recently come out of a coma or lived in a cave for the last thirty years read this story, he’s a fictitious character created by actor/writer/director Sylvester Stallone for the movie Rocky. The movie opened in 1976 and made its debut on American television, CBS, February 4, 1979.

Ma, this is the best meat loaf so far! Can I have more mashed potatoes? I said as I finished my dinner.

Mashed potatoes? I didn’t think you liked them, Ma said, winking at Dad, waiting for my resistance.

Pulling my chin up, reaching for the dish in the center of the table, I said with sarcasm, Yeah, right. That’s green beans. Keep ’em away from me.

After cleaning up, my younger brother, Jason, and I sat in the TV room on a thick gold carpet that ran from room to room of our Victorian-styled home. I covered under a blanket, wearing my pj’s, with my tape recorder, and watched a Golden Grahams cereal commercial waiting for the show to begin. Ma made popcorn, and Dad cracked open a Schlitz. At the time, none of us had a clue how the movie would affect me.

I can tell you without a shred of doubt that I’ve seen Rocky well over six hundred times, and when I needed it most, it would be my one true ground wire. When I forgot what was right and good in the world or myself, I would play the Rocky music, and it would always take me back: home.

Music in a well-made motion picture can make my heart soar, add an extra jump at a scary moment, or set in motion the tears as two ill-fated lovers say good-bye for a final time.

As soon as those huge white letters, R-O-C-K-Y, moved across the screen, Bill Conti’s score started, and I was mesmerized. For the next two hours, the hair on the back of my neck stood. Nothing made me think like this before. When I wanted to live life to its fullest, when everything told me to stay back, this movie told me to move forward. The composition was a concerto of courage and love, muscle and dignity. The music made me want to achieve something, anything. Inspiration replaced the blood in my veins. It was the first thing I heard in the morning and the last before bed. The Rocky music is the purest form of passion I ever heard.

I was captivated as I watched this simple broken-down fighter walk around in a black hat and leather coat, bouncing a stick ball, wearing fingerless gloves, smoking, and giving advice to kids on the corner. It had absolutely nothing to do with my situation in life, yet it felt right. I realized Rocky’s hat and coat formed his suit of armor, protecting a giving heart. He was always pulling up the coat’s collar and adjusting his hat so it rested at unique angles. The world saw a hardened shell on the outside, but underneath he was every-nobody who needed somebody.

The opening of the movie has Rocky in a small seedy sports hall resembling the inside of a half-filled Dumpster fighting Spider Rico, a local fighter who should have retired years ago. Halfway during the fight we see through the ropes of the boxing ring as Spider head-butts Rocky. The ensuing crack of violence Rocky unleashes from this unfair blow makes us look away, but we can’t. It’s one of our basic instincts.

Rocky’s life is simple, but lonely. He gave great care to two pet turtles, Cuff and Link, talking to them as friends, and a gold fish, Moby Dick. At first, these pets are the only creatures that will listen to him ramble and not judge him. As he sniffles during pauses in his conversations with them, he constantly shrugs and throws lazy punches, even when no one is watching. There’s nothing of value in his one-room apartment. It’s soiled and old.

Rocky has one friend, Paulie, a man filled with bitterness and envy that we wonder if he’s Rocky’s friend out of loyalty or because they seem to have both achieved little in life. Rocky’s other acquaintance is a loan shark named Gazzo, who Rocky makes collections for to subsequent his boxing income. The only problem here is that Rocky is kindhearted and tends to bend the rules for those who can’t pay up.

When given the chance to speak, Rocky doesn’t stop. Filled with humor and funny stories, he accepted his lot in life, until Paulie’s sister, Adrian, a shy pet shop worker, came along. Separately, they saw themselves as losers, but together they both awakened in each other something more. She fills gaps, as Rocky later describes. Adrian didn’t come empty-handed either; she had a present for Rocky, a piece of furry breathing furniture in the form of a one-hundred-and-forty-pound bullmastiff dog named Butkus. In real life, it was Stallone’s dog, but in the movie, we see Rocky running alongside this four-legged couch. It all seemed to fit. I felt as though I was there, in the movie, just out of camera sight. I was brought back to reality with a commercial break.

Ma! I love that dog! We gotta get one!

Michael, we live on a busy street, with a small yard, and you know who’ll get stuck cleaning up after him. Looking at my father, she smiled. Besides, you know how your father is with dogs. As a kid, Dad had a dog, Prince. It got bit by a rabid rat, and after they put him down, he never got over it. Whatever, all I know is I want a Butkus.

After the commercial, we returned to the movie. Through freak, luck we watch Rocky being asked, as he sat uncomfortably in a chair of the boxing promoter’s office, if he wanted a shot at the Champ, Apollo Creed. Thinking about his lack of skills, he accepts, but is made into a joke. Rocky trains with passion. He’s growing stronger, faster, more focused. He has what we would later learn in future sequels the Eye of the Tiger. Mickey, his manager, is like vintage leather and inspires with the use of colorful talk, slang terminology many would find off-putting: You’re gonna eat lightnin’, you’re gonna crap thunder, you’ve become a very dangerous person! I asked myself more than once, When Stallone wrote this line, was it after eating refried beans and tacos?

Watching his final run up the Museum of Art steps in that tattered old gray jogging suit and those black Chuck Taylors, aged sneakers from miles of running, he reminded us nothing is impossible if we only try. Conti’s song Gonna Fly Now blasting, trumpets reaching a feverish pitch, Rocky, running with everything in his heart, seems to fly. Pumping his arms above his head and punching the air with his fist, he knows he’s given his best in preparation. He’s at his peak, the ultimate moment in his training. Could this scene possibly be as inspirational were it set to another piece of music? I say absolutely no! As far as I was concerned, it was fifty-fifty, Stallone’s acting and Conti’s music.

After another commercial break, we learn Rocky’s true goal. We listen with our hearts as he soberly confesses to Adrian the night before the fight, I can’t beat him. I ain’t even in the guy’s league. All I wanna do is go the distance. If I can go that distance and see that bell ring and I’m still standin’, I’m gonna know for the first time in my life, ya see, that I just weren’t another bum from the neighborhood. These words were written by Sylvester Stallone and capture the essence of Rocky. Without this scene, the movie was meaningless. Without that scene, I may have ended up parking cars for the rest of my life.

As the second round started, I watched an out-classed Rocky mug the champ like an out-of-town tourist. Creed, in a case of severe underestimation, gave Rocky a chance. At the closing bell of the second round, Bill Conti’s Going the Distance plays as Rocky and Apollo battle. I was in awe; my emotions were hit from all directions. I felt the inspiration and energy at my fingertips.

Both fighters gave as well as they got, but by the fourteenth round, Rocky gets knocked down hard. The ref’s count was nearing eight. Dad! He’s gotta get up! He can’t lose! I said as I whipped off my blanket, jamming my fist in the air.

Rocky is totally beaten and knows it. Getting knocked down in his corner, Mickey pleads with Rocky, eye to eye as the ref counts to ten. Down, down, stay down! He can’t bear to see his fighter, whom he has come to see as a son, hurt anymore. However, deep inside, Rocky has something left in the basement of his heart. He knows he’ll never get a shot like this again. He pushes himself off the canvas. Beating the count, he waves the champ in, breaking his ribs. Taking a pounding like never before, Balboa stands for the final bell.

This is Rocky’s reward, not beating the champ or earning money, but going the distance, believing in himself when few others did. He was given a chance to fail on his own terms.

This message stayed with me for thirty years.

The next morning I got up and hit that orange button. Listing to Rocky, I sat at the edge of my bed, my dresser in front of me. A shoehorn and hairbrush alongside a twelve-inch piece of coal, cut to the shape of a miner, sat motionless. Spinning the shoehorn, I spoke, How ya doin’, Cuff? Reaching for the brush, sniffling, I said, Hey, Link. How’d you guys sleep last night? Uh? Did my snorin’ keep yas up? Looking at my clock, I leaned over, pulled up the window shade, revealing the outside world, releasing a deep sigh. Time to go to school.

002 At the steps in West Side.JPG

Over the next couple of years, I thought about how much I could accomplish with my own band following me around, constantly playing Rocky’s theme song. As the weather grew colder, I started my morning with five raw eggs and dressed in a similar gray sweat suit, complete with a navy skullcap, Chuck Taylors, and boxing hand wraps. I ran through the streets of Scran’in, avoiding potholes, 5:00 a.m. traffic, and uninterested onlookers.

I was Rocky.

The music in my head was flowing from the movie. Belief pushed me past shin splints, cramps, and the freezing early-January mornings. There was no other twelve-year-old dressed like me. They didn’t know the secret. If you wanted to be Rocky, it started with training like him; excuse the fact that I was built like a pretzel rod.

My three-mile run took me through West Side, along Main Avenue cutting down Tenth Street to Lackawanna Avenue. The smoking chimneys and rooftops of the many Scran’in homes were judging me, betting on whether I would finish or quit and walk the rest of the way. I ran over the bridge, zigzagging through downtown and headed back across the train tracks to the Oxford plot where a set of seventy-four steps nearly identical to Philadelphia’s Museum of Art steps rose along a hill overlooking a baseball field and the entire skyline of Scran’in. My legs tired, inhaling deep, I ran to the bottom of the steps, taking them two at a time. Nearing the top, cramps in my side, I took deep gasps of air, slowing my pace to a crawl. It was here I learned to Rocky, a phrase latter coined by Mike Vitez in the book Rocky Stories. These steps were noble stand-ins for the real steps. Facing east, I watched the sun rise. In time, I built my endurance, always ending at the top step, dancing in a circle, throwing quick jabs, shuffling my feet, and believing someday I would do it for real.

For years I continue to promote the wisdom Rocky taught me. I was known to gather small groups of five or six people to sit and watch the movie when it repeated on TV. True to my heart, I would stand in front of the television explaining the rules for watching the movie. So if ya sit there, quiet, don’t blink, listen to the words, yous are gonna find what ya need to feel good. But ya gotta focus and listen to what Rocky is sayin’ and doin’.

I remember giving this speech when I was fourteen or fifteen at the local Boys Club. Every Thursday, they would show a movie, and the first one was Rocky. Everybody knew I was a fanatic. Halfway through the movie, I was thrown into the hallway by several older boys because I delivered lines before they were spoken on screen. Yeah, well, good luck if yas got any questions. Try guessin’ how many punches Rocky throws in the second round! I got all the answers right here! I said, tapping the side of my head while they slammed the door in my face. I dusted myself off and walked out the front entrance.

Rocky kept me from the evils of the world. I stayed away from drugs and never went to drinking parties. Okay, I wasn’t invited to any, but if I was, I wouldn’t have gone, and I never smoked, a far more reaching lesson I learned from my grandfather. But what I did develop was a misunderstanding about people, something that would take me twenty years to unravel.

You see, if someone wasn’t inspired, or as inspired as I was, after seeing Rocky, I began to write him or her off. I didn’t want to be surrounded by anyone who didn’t understand the message Rocky delivered. I wasn’t mean or rude, but if you wanted to hang with me, you better be a Rocky fan.

In hindsight, this attitude may have accounted for the fact that I had no friends for years. I thought I didn’t need them. But growing older, I found the wisdom of friendship and the mark it left on me. In time, I learned heroes were more about what they did and not what they looked like. But like most guys, visual communication is everything. Learning to use Rocky as a guide through life instead of a crutch was going to be the tough part.

Make-Believe

Back in the basement, we heard the emcee thank the first Adrian as she took her seat. The second Adrian took the stage as the crowd clapped.

Rocky 3 stood on the uneven concrete floor of the cellar with his hands on his hips shaking his head. "Your entire life as a kid you chased