The Press Conference
"Ready, champ?"
It used to be a question: is this enough? Enough money, enough fame, enough respect?
Yes, it was enough. But no, it also wasn't. That answer kept Apollo amused and perplexed when he woke up this morning and every morning since he retired from boxing.
But like a tired sun that must drag itself out of the night's bed, so did he—going and going until nothing was left to burn.
"Apollo? You ready?" Tony repeated.
Apollo broke from his thoughts. "Yeah, just give me a sec. Gotta warm up a bit."
Tony chuckled. "They already think you're old. Don't need them thinking your wit has aged, too."
"Yeah, yeah," Apollo retorted with a sigh. "I might too old for this."
"You ARE too old for this." Tony spat a little too honestly and quickly for Apollo's taste. Tony noticed and softened. "Not too late, champ. We can turn around right now. Won't even be in the headlines."
Apollo took a deep breath and patted Tony's shoulder. "You're right. Always have been." Apollo playfully jabbed him on the chin. "But the sun only goes in one direction."
Apollo shouldered open the doors wide, turned on his magnificent smile, and strode into the conference room. The horde of reporters and photographers applauded as cameras flashed. He waved and pointed to a few familiar faces.
"All right," his voice boomed, sitting at the table with Tony beside him. "Thank you for coming. Hopefully, you all know why you're here, because I sure as hell don't– forgot my prune juice this morning."
Everyone chuckled.
"Apollo, since you mentioned it," one reporter began. "Why now? Can 44 be 34?"
"Hey, hey now, it's been awhile. Let's start with some easy questions before we get into philosophical and moral debates." Again, the crowd chuckled, the gleam of glee in their eyes, and Apollo remembered how much he missed the attention.
"But all right, you came for the show, so let's start the show. I'm back because boxing needs Apollo Creed. When Apollo Creed was champ, boxing was royalty. We were kings and knights ruling over our vast lands. But all is not right in the kingdom of boxing."
"You mean since you retired or Balboa?" a balding reporter asked.
"No, no, no. Balboa was a fine champion – a real champion. The way he had to retire took us all by surprise, and I'm wishing him a speedy recovery. But in his absence, I see squires and servants but no real contenders to the crown."
"Union Cane isn't a contender?" a portly reporter interjected, raising his finger.
"Cane is…good. But I think I'm better. I know 44 ain't 34. But I still got enough to get the job done. You all trying to find eight different ways of calling me old but how about calling me vintage. Apollo Creed is fine like wine."
"Would you have come back if it was Drago or Lane?" a female reporter replied.
Apollo bobbed his head in silence for a few heartbeats.
"Like I said before, boxing needs Apollo Creed. Lane is on the mend. Drago is serving his suspension. Balboa retired. When I was champ, the kids idolized us, idolized boxing. Now they're all saying they want to Be Like Mike and how Bo Knows." Apollo raised his index finger up and jabbed them towards the reporters for emphasis. "This is not about Apollo Creed. I have nothing left to prove. This right here is about giving back to boxing and inspiring millions of boys and girls around the world to have–"
"How right he is! How admirable he is!" a preachy voice slithered from behind the reporters. All turned to stare at the boxing promoter dressed in a clean tailored suit and his encourage: a red-hair beauty, a chubby business partner, and current #1 contender Union Cane. They began to stroll to the front.
"Apollo Creed is the greatest of all time. Apollo Creed is the alpha of alphas. Apollo Creed is a living legend three times over. Hence it is my pleasure to provide this once-in-a-lifetime event courtesy of George Washington Duke. The living legend vs the new wave. Old lion vs young lion. The king who still is vs the king who will be."
Duke reached out his hand to shake Apollo's, which he ignored. Duke grinned and turned to the reporters. "This isn't boxing. This isn't an event. This is history. Come this summer, it'll be sizzling in the land of the rising sun." Duke raised his right hand in a fist. "Apollo Creed." Then he raised his left fist. "Versus Union Cane." Then he clashed both fists. "The Big Show in To-ky-o."
Duke grinned as the cameras flashed. He turned to Apollo, winked, and whispered, "Takes two to tango, right?"
Apollo rolled as eyes.
Duke was a necessary poison, a well-connected, premiere boxing promoter who brought big bread to the table but often had his generous taste first before the boxers. That would have been ok with Apollo if the man didn't like promoting himself so much.
George Washington Duke presents this. George Washington Duke presents that. Boxing was about the boxers. It was their bodies, their bruises–all the broken things they had to carry for life. Duke spoke with the bravado of one despite never paying the blood price.
Duke turned sideways, half-facing to Apollo, the other half to the reporters. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope.
"Right here in my hand is the single biggest contract for any athlete for any event in the history of the world– one worthy of Apollo Creed." He handed the envelope to Apollo. Again Apollo didn't look at Duke.. Tony took the envelope, opened the papers, and raised an eyebrow. He floated the paper within Apollo's field of vision, and Apollo took a sideways glance that lasted longer than necessary.
Duke grinned and leaned in again with a loud whisper, "So many zeroes, you'd think Einstein was figuring out an equation."
Duke glared at Union Cane and nodded his head. Cane immediately moved towards Apollo. Apollo stood up and stared eye-to-eye with the young challenger. As the cameras flashed, Apollo took a few steps back, which Cane mistook as fear, and began nodding his head in triumph.
"Get over here, fool," Apollo whispered to him. Apollo, ever the promoter, too, wanted to make sure the backdrop of his image and the large 55-0 record emblazoned over it would be featured in the newspapers. Cane, slightly dumbfounded, lumbered over, and resumed his staredown.
Definitely can't teach youth, Apollo thought, studying Cane's mountainous shoulders. But I am the show. Apollo reached for the papers, pulled out a pen from his breast pocket, and wrote a number over another. He jabbed the papers towards Duke.
Duke looked at the new numbers and laughed in disbelief. "Now, now, what you're asking for, we should be calling you Apollo Greed. Heh heh." Duke smirked for the reporters.
Apollo glared at Duke. "Looks like I solved Einstein's equation."
Both men kept their stare, fire & bloodlust narrowing between them-the immovable vs the unstoppable.
"You know, I made an unknown boxer one of the greatest of all time," Apollo reminisced. "Maybe I give Tommy Gunn or someone else a chance and make them a legend, too."
Duke huffed and puffed. "Apollo's golden touch," he sighed.
"Only in America," Apollo shined.