“The Money Fight”: A Bastardized Rocky Story Born of Its Time

For decades, Sylvester Stallone’s mythic cinematic everyman fight opus Rocky has served as arguably the definitive ‘dragonslayer’ tale of modern times — and rightly so — but lo and behold, unfolding right before our very eyes in splendid real-time (hyper)reality is a pugilistic parable we may not have desired or demanded, but indeed deserve.
Consider for a moment the scene that unfolded on the first leg of the fight’s whirlwind four-city hype train as it steamed its way into locomotive Los Angeles in July. There on the stage was a strutting, vacuous Floyd adorned in a dark ‘The Money Team’ hoodie emblazoned with the stars & stripes. A postmodern Apollo Creed, all flashy and nationalistic but complete with requisite Yeezy-sized chip on his shoulder. And opposite the best pound-for-pound practitioner of the sweet science on the planet (a defensive warlock who has been legitimately hit all of what, maybe eight times — in forty-nine fights, none of which he’s lost — which of course adds yet another mythological layer to a contest seemingly concocted in equal parts by Dionysus, the ghost of Bruce Lee, and Chuck Barris and puts Mayweather one mere victory away from the all-time undefeated record of, yes, Rocky Marciano) is the cocky Rocky Balboa of our times: a brash, Law of Attraction-practicing Irish Icarus who, courtesy in large part to a vicious laser-guided straight left, left the dole in the dust on his way from obscurity to superstardom.
While on the surface, Conor (who in LA was himself dressed to the nines in a hand-tailored suit that included an instantly legendary only-Conor custom ‘Fuck You’ pinstripe embroidery) has as much in common with A$AP Rocky as the Italian Stallion, consider as well: whereas the iconic cinematic sports hero of the 1970’s was a beef-bruising back alley bumpkin and hunk of humility, in the short attention span age of reality star Mussolinis and naked reptilian ego worshipped above all else our brash hero is a ‘heel’ Balboa by way of the Shark Tank.
Make no mistake — far from his pedigreed opponent, Conor McGregor is indeed a working class hero. A bullied kid from Crumlin who took up martial arts as a means to defend himself in its scrappy clover streets, but one with a deft understanding and appreciation of business tactics and the dynamics of self-promotion necessary to rise above the chaff in an era of media and celebrity and content over-saturation that would likely have McLuhan’s head spinning. With little prospects afforded him, the boy grew in time to serve as a plumber’s apprentice, grinding away on the dole while daily honing his body and mental focus and dedicating his every it-factored fiber to blazing a cometic path to worldwide glory by way of blasting bodies with bones and engaging in a special, spectacular brand of ego-mauling proprietary wordplay punctuated with mad leprechaunic cackles that has an uncanny ability — rivaled perhaps only by his ability to locate a moving chin with his fist — to find the most hardened, lethal fighter’s inner child and rattle its cage in a way not seen since Ali himself. And, to be honest, as this is a story about the evolution of the public’s want of humble hero to raconteur antihero it can be argued that Conor’s meaner, more serrated tongue and ability to preemptively psychically cripple an opponent bests even that of Muhammad himself.
So whereas Stallone and Carl Weathers and Avildsen gave us the cocky, fast-twitch thoroughbred champion vs the lurching lunchpail lug upstart, we are now as a spectator species well beyond such a trite David vs Goliath trope. We demand more of our heroes. You’re humble, you work hard, you love someone… we get it. But give us Deadpool. Give us that R-rated, samurai tiger-tattooed, shittalking chin stalker. Give us “Red Panty Night!” Give us not some schlub who’s just happy to attend the dance… give us that sly bandit barracuda who sneaks in the back door with a near gone flask of rye and his eye on the homecoming queen. Give us “We’re not here to take part, we’re here to take over!!”
These days are darker, more sinister and cynical. Thanks to the internet and Tesla’s cellular dreams realized, Pandora’s Box is spread eagle and we The Audience will not go back. Humility in defeat, yes — as Conor displayed in his lone UFC loss to Nate Diaz at UFC 196 before digging deep and strategically menacing Diaz with leg kicks and straight lefts on the road to victory in the epic narrowly-won five-round decision rematch at 202 — but prior to the contest, there is no room for humility. This is the age of visualization, of the flow-state. We have no time for doubt, only execution and executioners.
Well, ladies and gentlemen, on Saturday night at the T-Mobile Area in Las Vegas two pea-cocking executioners will face off. One a shoulder-rolling, sidestepping forty year-old pedigreed pitter-patter boxing demon with an unblemished record and the advantage of the narrow discipline he’s perfected dictating the terms of the fight. The other a fire-eyed wild child evocative of Braveheart’s madman Irishman Stephen (though he can harp all he wants about how it’s “his island,” we can all surely agree it now belongs to The Notorious), bred on Bruce Lee and Biggie with a penchant for predicting just how and when he’s going to slay the latest unslayable beast before him.
For all the castigation the fight has garnered on social and sports media and in barbershops and bars, compelling questions abound. Considering the cards stacked against him — like Rocky—if Conor can merely make it to a decision he and his sport still win in very real way. Has Floyd committed the same hubris as Apollo? Is this a stunt that might backfire on him, even in victory? Or can Conor rewrite the script, forgo the bittersweet ending and subsequent sequel and just knock this motherfucker out in four as he predicts?
In forty-eight hours we’ll have our answer. The world will be watching.