I’ve called this press conference for one reason and one reason only, to challenge Rocky Balboa to a rematch and to tell him that I must break him…AGAIN!!! What’s so funny? That’s two reasons? Shut up or I will break you, too.
Now I’ve heard that Balboa’s coming out of retirement. How pathetic is that? An aging boxer, his glory days waaaaaaay behind him, coming back for one more fight? I mean, give it up already! Which reminds me, I want to break Balboa as soon as possible.
I know what you’re thinking: why have I waited twenty years to challenge Balboa? Let me explain. The year was 1985 and the Cold War was in full swing. My match with Balboa was international news. You want to talk pressure? You try boxing with the Prime-friggin-Minister watching, knowing that if you lose, you’ll be sent to Siberia to spend your remaining days in a freezing cold barn, making love only to sheep!
So after the match – which, by the way, ended with an awfully fast 10 count – I went back to the locker room and made a life-changing decision: I renounced Mother Russia.
Can you blame me? You saw what happened in that fight! There I was, an Olympic hero, trying to break that little, so-called champion, when suddenly, out of nowhere, my own countrymen had the nerve to boo me and cheer for him! HIM! It was sickening. Russia had turned its back on me so I decided to turn my back on Russia.
Not surprisingly, my wife Ludmilla wasn’t happy when I told her I wanted to leave Russia. Come to think of it, there might've been something going on between her and my trainer Koloff. You see, Koloff had been giving me stero…er, I mean performance enhancers for years, but looking back, I don’t think they had anything to do with boxing. Let’s just say there was many a cold night where I wanted to get some from Lud and little Drago wasn’t up for the task.
Whatever. I wasn't about to let that floozy stop me from leaving. So I renounced my marriage and packed my bags. But as I packed, I realized that leaving Russia was only part of the answer to my problem. What I really needed was to leave behind the old Ivan Drago! So I stuffed a few pairs of socks and undies into my duffel and made another startling decision: I was finished with boxing.
After a lifetime of beating people senseless, I no longer had the famed “eye of the tiger.” The idea of brutalizing a man beyond recognition was no longer appealing, the thought of crushing in a man’s skull no longer gave me that proverbial rush, and the crunching sound that a man’s chest cavity makes when it collapses under your punch no longer made my loins ache and nipples tingle. So, right then and there, I vowed to give up everything that boxing represented. Well, almost everything — I kinda liked the chest waxings.
On January 1, 1986, I arrived in New York. I was finally on US soil but I didn’t know where to go from there. I wanted to live in a place where the people would not look at me like the “evil killer” the media portrayed me to be. I also wanted to move to a town where I could blend in easily with the locals. Believe you me, the last thing I wanted to do was stand out.
I moved to Lancaster, Pennsylvania where I adopted the lifestyle of an Amish farmer. It was perfect! The Amish had no idea about my background and welcomed me with open arms. They trusted me completely and showed no signs of suspicion — despite my robotic mannerisms and the fact that I only spoke about ten words of English.
I’ll be honest, Amish life was different than my Russian upbringing and took some getting used to. No TV or radio, the itchy black pants and suspenders, the beard without the moustache, you get the idea. On the other hand, there were some things that were just like Russian life, such as the long hours on the farm and women with hairy legs.
But I learned a lot from my Amish family. As you’ve heard by now, my English has improved dramatically since my last press conference. You can thank Brother Seamus for that! And that’s not all! I also learned how to change a buggy wheel and how to carve a seven-bedroom house from a single tree stump.
And at the risk of tooting my own horn, I was pretty darn impressive when it came to chores. I’ll give you an example. You see, the average Amish man can swing an axe with approximately 500 pounds of pressure. I, the great Ivan Drago, can swing the very same axe with 1,800 pounds! Hell, the trees practically jumped out of my way when I came near them.
All in all, I liked life in Lancaster. There was just one small problem. As the years went by, I began to miss boxing. Do you know that old saying, ‘you can take the boy out of Russian boxing, but you can’t take Russian boxing out of the boy’? (sigh) It’s true.
Slowly but surely, I’d start to think more and more about boxing. Brother Francis and Sister Gladys would already be halfway through our daily prayers when I’d realize I hadn’t heard a word they’d said. Instead of appreciating the message of the Good Book, I’d been daydreaming about punching my fist through another man’s eye socket.
I tried real hard but I just couldn’t suppress the fire that had started to burn inside me. So every two weeks or so, I’d sneak into town to check out the boxing magazines at the 7-Eleven. I might’ve been Amish on the outside, but on the inside, I was a KILLER. No wait, don’t print that! I meant Sportsman! I’m a Sportsman, not a killer! (clears throat)
Um…where was I? Swinging axes, Brother Francis, yadda yadda yadda, ah yes, 7-Eleven. So about three months ago, I’m drinking a Fanta Slurpee and reading a boxing magazine when I overheard a couple of guys talking about Rocky Balboa!
Something went off inside me. I dropped my Slurpee and it went crashing down to the floor — just like Apollo Creed in Vegas! What? Aw, c’mon, lighten up! Geez…talk about still living in the past! Anyway, back to my 20-year grudge.
So these guys were going on about Balboa and his comeback. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing…or what I was feeling. For the first time in twenty years, my nostrils flared, my loins ached, and yes, my nipples tingled. I knew what I had to do.
That brings me to today. I am officially challenging Rocky Balboa to a rematch. Mano-a-mano, to find out once and for all, who the real champion is. My training is well underway and I will be ready to break Balboa any time, any place he wants. I don’t care if it’s in the ring, on the street, or in the barn…I will break Balboa.
Sadly, my Amish family doesn’t approve of my actions. They think I’m focusing too much on kill—er, beating Balboa and not enough on my chores. They may not understand now, but they will when it’s over. Trust me, they will when it’s over. Besides, I’m not doing this for them anyway. I fight for me. For me!
I will now take your questions.
© 2006 robbloom.com.
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