The Greatest Sham on Earth
Roger J. Burke
August 14, 2011
Hey, you see the big fight?
Huh? I pull my eyes off the script and look at my buddy.
You know the Big One. At the stadium, few weeks back.
Oh, that One? Nah, gotta deadline with this turkey. I hold up the pages. This is a doozey.
Here´s a better one, my buddy says, pulling out a video tape. He goes to the player, shoves it in, sits back. Watch this you gonna love it. I took this as I got there and kept it going He grins at me, hits the remote.
I roll my eyes as the video opens to show the humongous huggermugger horde outside the stadium, seething like a swarm of locusts. We follow the camera as Security makes a path through the ruckus and we´re in. I see the small crowd inside shifting nervously, all eyes on the white square called a ring where the two haggard, sweaty boxers sit in opposing corners, seconds whispering instructions. I hear somebody saying the fight´s nearly over. At the ropes, the referee stands aloof, his blackness strongly contrasting with the crispness of his short-sleeved white shirt and blue-red bow tie.
I get a light elbow nudge. Sorry I got in late, bro.
I grimace. Whatever. I look back to the video. So, what's with the guys outside in blue coats, hand-held computers, notebooks, pencils, the works? I saw some climbing up the walls already.
Shrugging, he says: Just a bunch of lousy sharks waiting to make a killing, is all. He looks at me. This is The Fight of the Century, y´know. Trillions riding on this one, bucko.
I scan the minuscule audience of what looks like every nationality on the planet; they sit, eyes wide, barely breathing. Hey, there´s less than two hundred there. How come such a tiny glee club for this trillion dollar trick?
They´re all the marks who paid the billions to get in, dontcha know? He grins as the bell rings.
I didn´t bother to ask how buddy got in but, while the boxers stagger to the center, I do ask: So, who are the fighters? What´s the prize?
He looks at me. Brothers R. Washington and D. Washington. Everybody´s forgotten what their first names are, or what they mean, even. He chuckles. The prize? Heavyweight Chump of The World, man, what else?
I shrug, look back to the action.
The referee obviously impatient circles around, waves the fighters in closer. They shuffle in, fists feinting, torsos twisting, feet weaving, dancing, in and out, circling, huffing, puffing but never once hitting each other. Not even close, I can see. This goes on for a minute. I turn to my friend: This is some sick joke, buddy!
He spreads his hands wide, shrugs.
Again, I watch the fighters still monkeying around each other, swinging and missing. This? This is the fight of the century? I shake my head. They been doing this for how long?
Too long, everybody says, yeah, but it´s the final round, bro, only a coupla minutes to go.
It´s also a time-waster, buddy. I tap him on the shoulder. And you want me t´bankroll a movie about this? I stand up. I need a drink, go to the bar to mix a Manhattan.
Wait, wait for the big finish! He´s still looking at the video. Oh, wow, nearly a hit there...
I shake my head, take down a slug and feel the warmth. Big what? The Greatest Show on Earth, this ain´t, buddy. I go back to my seat, tap my buddy on his arm. Hey, look at me - I can almost see Cecil B. puking in his grave at this one.
He glances at me, then back to the farce. Lookit, he says, it´s still a great story, and a great fight. We just gotta get the right director, make it right.
Yeah? Who you got?
Well, what about Cameron?
Possible, yeah he´s done a lotta fantasy. Who else?
Eastwood? He did that million dollar thing a few years back. And this is trillions, man...
C´mon, puleese! The good, the bad and the ugly? Again? No way, buddy.
Well, he did good with The Unforgiven.
I look back to the video. Huh, nobody´s gonna forgive this fight, that´s for sure. I stop and sigh. This one´s The Joke of the Century, man. I check the wall clock. You got one more minute
Okay, then what about the guy who did Fight Club, what´sisname? Oh, yeah, Fincher. Anyway, about a psycho-neurotic fighting himself allatime, y´know. And everything got blown up at the end, big finish and all...
Oh Fight Club Redux, huh? Close but no cigar, buddy. Sorry. I go back to my script and drink.
Okay, okay, I got it: Scorsese! Now he puts a finger-digging, vice-grip on me.
I had to stop reading again; but not because of the grip. You gotta be kidding!
Hey, remember Raging Bull?
I laugh out loud. More like Raging Bullshit in that stadium, man.
But, but there´s a great rematch coming up, man, with a six-man tag team for each side. A real knock-down, drag out extravaganza!
I stare at my buddy, impassively. I hear the final bell and now watch as the fighters shamble back to their corners. The referee is in the center, arms wide, pointing to each. As a deathly silence descends, the camera pulls back up the aisle, out the door and through Security beating back the killer mob.
Alright, then! Who the hell d´you want?
I bring my gaze back. It´s a tragicomedy, buddy and a black one at that, no pun intended. I grin, mirthlessly. Call Woody Allen.
On the video, the stadium erupts while the guys in blue coats scuttle away like cockroaches.
Copyright August, 2011, Roger J. Burke. All rights reserved.
Huh? I pull my eyes off the script and look at my buddy.
You know the Big One. At the stadium, few weeks back.
Oh, that One? Nah, gotta deadline with this turkey. I hold up the pages. This is a doozey.
Here´s a better one, my buddy says, pulling out a video tape. He goes to the player, shoves it in, sits back. Watch this you gonna love it. I took this as I got there and kept it going He grins at me, hits the remote.
I roll my eyes as the video opens to show the humongous huggermugger horde outside the stadium, seething like a swarm of locusts. We follow the camera as Security makes a path through the ruckus and we´re in. I see the small crowd inside shifting nervously, all eyes on the white square called a ring where the two haggard, sweaty boxers sit in opposing corners, seconds whispering instructions. I hear somebody saying the fight´s nearly over. At the ropes, the referee stands aloof, his blackness strongly contrasting with the crispness of his short-sleeved white shirt and blue-red bow tie.
I get a light elbow nudge. Sorry I got in late, bro.
I grimace. Whatever. I look back to the video. So, what's with the guys outside in blue coats, hand-held computers, notebooks, pencils, the works? I saw some climbing up the walls already.
Shrugging, he says: Just a bunch of lousy sharks waiting to make a killing, is all. He looks at me. This is The Fight of the Century, y´know. Trillions riding on this one, bucko.
I scan the minuscule audience of what looks like every nationality on the planet; they sit, eyes wide, barely breathing. Hey, there´s less than two hundred there. How come such a tiny glee club for this trillion dollar trick?
They´re all the marks who paid the billions to get in, dontcha know? He grins as the bell rings.
I didn´t bother to ask how buddy got in but, while the boxers stagger to the center, I do ask: So, who are the fighters? What´s the prize?
He looks at me. Brothers R. Washington and D. Washington. Everybody´s forgotten what their first names are, or what they mean, even. He chuckles. The prize? Heavyweight Chump of The World, man, what else?
I shrug, look back to the action.
The referee obviously impatient circles around, waves the fighters in closer. They shuffle in, fists feinting, torsos twisting, feet weaving, dancing, in and out, circling, huffing, puffing but never once hitting each other. Not even close, I can see. This goes on for a minute. I turn to my friend: This is some sick joke, buddy!
He spreads his hands wide, shrugs.
Again, I watch the fighters still monkeying around each other, swinging and missing. This? This is the fight of the century? I shake my head. They been doing this for how long?
Too long, everybody says, yeah, but it´s the final round, bro, only a coupla minutes to go.
It´s also a time-waster, buddy. I tap him on the shoulder. And you want me t´bankroll a movie about this? I stand up. I need a drink, go to the bar to mix a Manhattan.
Wait, wait for the big finish! He´s still looking at the video. Oh, wow, nearly a hit there...
I shake my head, take down a slug and feel the warmth. Big what? The Greatest Show on Earth, this ain´t, buddy. I go back to my seat, tap my buddy on his arm. Hey, look at me - I can almost see Cecil B. puking in his grave at this one.
He glances at me, then back to the farce. Lookit, he says, it´s still a great story, and a great fight. We just gotta get the right director, make it right.
Yeah? Who you got?
Well, what about Cameron?
Possible, yeah he´s done a lotta fantasy. Who else?
Eastwood? He did that million dollar thing a few years back. And this is trillions, man...
C´mon, puleese! The good, the bad and the ugly? Again? No way, buddy.
Well, he did good with The Unforgiven.
I look back to the video. Huh, nobody´s gonna forgive this fight, that´s for sure. I stop and sigh. This one´s The Joke of the Century, man. I check the wall clock. You got one more minute
Okay, then what about the guy who did Fight Club, what´sisname? Oh, yeah, Fincher. Anyway, about a psycho-neurotic fighting himself allatime, y´know. And everything got blown up at the end, big finish and all...
Oh Fight Club Redux, huh? Close but no cigar, buddy. Sorry. I go back to my script and drink.
Okay, okay, I got it: Scorsese! Now he puts a finger-digging, vice-grip on me.
I had to stop reading again; but not because of the grip. You gotta be kidding!
Hey, remember Raging Bull?
I laugh out loud. More like Raging Bullshit in that stadium, man.
But, but there´s a great rematch coming up, man, with a six-man tag team for each side. A real knock-down, drag out extravaganza!
I stare at my buddy, impassively. I hear the final bell and now watch as the fighters shamble back to their corners. The referee is in the center, arms wide, pointing to each. As a deathly silence descends, the camera pulls back up the aisle, out the door and through Security beating back the killer mob.
Alright, then! Who the hell d´you want?
I bring my gaze back. It´s a tragicomedy, buddy and a black one at that, no pun intended. I grin, mirthlessly. Call Woody Allen.
On the video, the stadium erupts while the guys in blue coats scuttle away like cockroaches.
Copyright August, 2011, Roger J. Burke. All rights reserved.
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