Geelastic
The Venerable Writings of Gavin Shulman: Updated Every Tuesday-ish (gavinshulman@gmail.com)

You know what sports star is getting off way too easy with this whole steroid thing, Rocky. Rocky was just busted bringing 48 vials of HGH illegally into the borders of Australia. He had them in his suit-case. That’s more proof than we have on anyone except Shawn Merriman. Rocky was caught red-handed, and he didn’t even have his gloves on.

Rocky, the greatest under-dog of all time. The Horatio Algiers of the ring. The Number 7 hero ever, according to the American Film Institute. The man who meant more to Philadelphia than Ben Franklin. The winner of multiple Academy Awards. The Italian Stallion is nothing more than a cheating, steroid-swigging fraud.

Of course he went fifteen rounds with Apollo Creed–he was raging on roids. Who couldn’t? He should’ve knocked him out in the first one. Forget some art museum, with enough artificial adrenaline pumping through my veins I could run up the steps of Machu Picchu. I could have beat that meat into flank steak.

Clubber Lang should be given back the belt that rightfully belongs to him. Of course he was winded by the third round. He was fighting against a chemically enhanced super-human. It’s not that hard to take a beating when it’s not even your real body getting busted up.

And the balls on this guy. To vilify Ivan Drago for shooting up with anabolic steroids while over in a parallel scene on the cutting room floor he’s got Adrian spreading the cream and the clear all over his body. No wonder Rocky directed his own movies.

Rocky’s records should be erased from the film library. His statue should be stricken from its Philadelphia perch. All DVD’s should be re-released with asterisks.

We ougtta run Rocky up the steps of Congress. We oughtta sit him down in front of a council. Make him answer a few questions. “Yo, I’m notta hee to talk abou da pass.”

Rocky has tarnished the legitimacy of every great sports movie ever made. Did the boys from Cool Running grease up their bobsled? Did the kids from Mighty Ducks doctor their birth certificates? Did Hickory really have a few black guys on the team? How can we believe anything we’ve seen?

In an age where suspicion hangs over the head of every great athlete, am I to believe I can no longer even trust the fictional ones? Maybe The Natural wasn’t so natural after all. Maybe The Rookie was, in fact, a veteran. Maybe the Charleston Chiefs were actually a big bunch of pussies. And maybe there weren’t actually any Angels in the Outfield. Look what you’ve done to us Rock.

The things we admired about Rocky were exactly what we hate about the steroid era. Rocky was the underdog relying on inner strength, toughness, endurance, and perseverance in the face of a much larger and unconquerable foe. He used guts and determination to accomplish the impossible, not needles and narcotics. He had the eye of tiger, not a dropper.

Why is there not more outrage? Shouldn’t our fictional heroes be held to the same standards as our real ones? If anything, they should be held to higher. Precisely, because they don’t have to deal with reality. Rocky would’ve won without the roids. It was in the script. Rocky didn’t do the drugs to achieve greatness, stay competitive or have a career year in a contract season; he did it out of vanity. Because he wanted to look good doing it.

Damn you Rocky. Why must all our heroes be flawed? Can’t we just have one true, honest-to-God perfect hero to look up to anymore? Everyone’s got to have some dirty little secret. Everyone’s got to let us down eventually. It’s unbelievable.

It’s just so strange that in an industry like movies, where everyone wants to move from the minor to the major roles, where the competition is so cut-throat, where you either swim or sink straight to DVD, that there would be actors who feel the need to use illegal drugs to bulk up their performances.

Shame on you Rocky. Shame on you, and Paulie, and the producers, and the director, and the inventor of the Steadicam, and the whole cast and crew. We came to you for inspiration, and you just fed us lies. What escape is there in that? When we can’t trust our icons, Rocky Balboa*, who can we trust?