The Hospital
Apollo Creed, heavyweight champion of the world, the greatest of all time-bedridden, broken, and belittled.
Was he still champion? Yes. 47-0. 45 by KO. But those last two wins… for the first time, no knockout victories, 15 rounds each. Not only to go the distance in each fight but also barely standing and barely alive, pushed beyond his limits.
That he could kinda accept if the challenger was the next Apollo Creed. But against a fluke like Rocky Balboa? Hell no.
Was this how people would remember him?
The images of Apollo-a god of boxing-clinching Balboa those last few seconds of the final round as his breath faded into the darkness, his insides leaking, and in that brief moment-fear.
No, that was no Italian Stallion. That was the devil in boxing trunks. No matter how much Apollo unleashed the fury, that man had demon in those bones. He kept rising and coming.
No-Balboa was no fluke. He was...the real deal. But he wasn't that much of the real deal.
He wasn't toe-to-toe with the champion real deal. He wasn't 15 rounds with Apollo Creed real deal.
Then how?
Now what?
Didn't Apollo take him seriously this time? Didn't he do everything right? Didn't he train harder than before?
Was Apollo Creed mortal?
A knock came at the door. It slowly opened.
Duke peeked his head in.
"How you doing champ?"
Apollo grunted.
He wanted to hate Duke. He did. That last round-he wanted to lay Balboa out, break every bone and tooth in his jaw. But Duke did what he had to do as his trainer.
One hard veteran slap on Apollo's chest that reverberated to the first few rows, even the announcers had commented on it.
"Dammit, you had 14 rounds to knock his ass out," Duke had said as Apollo labored in the corner. "14 rounds your way. Now for once, dammit, you do it my way. You got me? You got me!"
He had jabbed his finger below Apollo's chest, above his ribs and to the side where everything felt like fire and death.
"Stick and move, you hear me? Stick and move. If it gets heavy, you hold him. Shut up and listen. You win. That's all that matters now. You win. Apollo, look at me, pride. Pride. Pride comes before the fall. God opposes the proud..."
But gives grace to the humble, Apollo had remembered.
And Apollo for once in his boxing career fought humbled and was humbled.
He won the fight, sticking and moving. When Balboa switched to southpaw and start bulldozing away, things indeed got heavy as Duke had predicted. Apollo felt the pressure, took the sharp hits, and clung onto Balboa and desperately waited for the bell to ring.
He won on points, but he lost the right to be the greatest of all time.
Couldn't even watch the TV since it was all about Balboa and his journeyman career.
Damn that man.
Duke edged closer and studied Apollo's bandages soaked full of blood. Apollo looked away and out the window. The morning rays creeping through the curtains.
"You're still the champ," Duke said pulling a chair beside him.
"And I'm supposed to thank you?" Apollo spat through his clenched teeth.
Duke's eyes took the verbal jab then rebounded.
"Then you're welcome, I did my job because you're still the champ. And that's all that matters."
The silence stood between them for awhile.
"I would have knocked him out. He would have been a ghost."
"And what ghost were you chasing, champ? Whatever praise or glory you were expecting wasn't going to be there, you dig? 15 rounds, Apollo. Even if you put that man in a coffin, he went 15 rounds against all that you gave him. And you gave him plenty-enough to send him to hell three times over. But he withstood... people gonna root for David whenever they can."
"Yeah, but this Goliath won."
"He did, he did."
Apollo sunk a little even on the bed. He didn't pay attention to the doctor in detail the night before, but he picked up enough: broken ribs, internal bleeding, lacerated organs, months of recovery, etc.
Everything felt like it was breaking down, physically, spiritually, mentally. The great colosseum eroding into sand. Weren't things supposed to slowly break down, age gracefully, why bottom out so quickly?
"Am I done, Tony?"
Duke looked down, sighed, and stood up from the chair. He paced around.
"Am I done, Tony?" Apollo said half in angry, half in tears.
"No, champ. You're not done. We're not done. But starting today, there are more yesterdays than tomorrows."
The tears in Apollo's eyes welled. He was 33 still in his prime or so he thought. What happens to a gladiator when they take away his sword and sandals?
Next Chapter: The Boardroom