Troubled Champion
“W-w-why do ya want me to do that?” the boy asked as he looked up at the face of the tall, beat-up, sweating man from a few feet away.
“Becau-because you’re a pain in the ass! That’s why!” said the man. ”Because I can’t do nothin’ without you naggin’ at me all the time—‘Champ this’ and ‘Champ that’,” he said. The man continued. “I go to have a drink, you say ‘No, Champ! Don’t!’ I go to play cards, you say ‘No, don’t do that!’ You tug at my belt!”
The boy’s face started turning red as it appeared to inflate, and his eyes began to fill with tears. Still, the man continued to yell at the boy, listing grievance after grievance.
“I’m sick of ya tuggin’ at me! I’m sick of feedin’ ya! I’m sick of takin’ care of ya! I’m sick of ya hangin’ around!” he said. Then, he balled his fists up tightly, and while forcing a large, brief exhale, he whaled, “You’re a big pain in the ass!”
The boy crept over over to the man, his tiny feet not making much of a sound along the way, with his face now wet with tears. He looked at the man’s face and said, “Please, Champ, I’ll do whatever you say!” The urgency in the boy’s voice started to pick up. ”I-I won’t eat that much!” he said. “I won’t—” He began to choke on his saliva. “I’ll let you play cards as much as you want, I promise!”
“No, no, no! You’re goin’! That’s it!” the man replied.
“Please, Champ! All I want is to be with you! Please, Champ!” the boy yelled. “I’ll be somebody when I grow up! Somebody like you!”
“Don’t talk like that!” the man said. “Look, you’re goin’! That’s it! I want you to go!”
“Please, Champ! I’ll do whatever you say as long as I’m with you!” cried the boy.
And scene.
Of course, that’s not where the scene ended in Franco Zeffirilli’s depressing 1979 film, “The Champ,” but the little boy’s final plea marked the pinnacle notion under which I have been suffering as of late.
In a recent entry, I wrote a bit about a girl I had fallen and longed for. I hate to beat a dead horse, but I that’s all my mind’s been doing for the last week-and-a-half or so. What sucks about this whole situation is that I truly screwed up two nights ago, and I regret every moment of it.
If you haven’t already guessed, I finally met with the girl again after having avoided physical contact with her for some time. Although the thought of seeing her caused my body to fill with the energy of colossal elation, I played it cool and acted like seeing her was no big deal.
That didn’t last long after submitting to my urge to talk to her.
I wanted to talk to her so much, but I wasn’t brave enough to approach her in the sober state I was in while spotting her. To my misfortune, we were at a birthday party—and you know what that means when you’re in college… Mr. Alcoholic Beverage was calling my name.
Now — after kissing the lips of a fucked up experience with alcohol a while ago, I’ve let my temptation to socially drink subside. The party atmosphere called for the creation of an exception, somehow. I decided, idiotically, that I should use alcohol to build up enough courage to approach the girl, hopefully persuading her to become my friend at least.
That was a wonderful idea.
I went to a nearby store and purchased Joose, a popular alcoholic beverage considered a 4Loko (another spiked drink) replacement. I hastily gargled that down in under 10 minutes (since it tasted a little like Kool Aid). That was absolutely stupid—especially considering I hadn’t eaten anything but some peaches that day. After that, not feeling courageous enough—even feeling a bit depressed about missing the girl—I felt the need to go down to the store once again and buy yet another alcoholic beverage - this time, it was a 4Loko.
Absolutely genius.
The way I acted after drinking most of the 4Loko (a friend knocked the can out of my hand) is pretty predictable: I was stumbling everywhere, my speech was slewed, swearing became the parlance of choice, etc… I was a mess. What’s worse is that I poured my heart out all over the girl. I could feel her embarrassment on top of mine, even in the fortuitous drunken state of mind I was in.
Even as I type this, my arms and back develop goosebumps from the thought of how irresponsible I was. I’m usually the first one to tell someone to do something with caution. I don’t know what came over me other than the strength of the love I have for her; I was eager to show her that I really do miss her, want her with me, and hate that I chose reason and high standards over my own seamless emotional submission to the bliss we shared. I know, I know - that last part sounded a bit pompous (high standards and all), but it’s true! I stuck to some rigid guidelines as I evaluated her, forgetting that she’s a woman (I’ve failed you, Prince Niccolò!). I guess even that sounds bad! I know… Blah!
We had a discussion with each other at the party, alone. Part of me felt right at home as I sat next to her even though I was intoxicated. She was cold, though… So cold. She was as cold as I am towards her while I’m not drunk. That’s understandable, and I expected nothing else before I decided to call upon the Powers of Numbskull. What’s good is that I got her to express a bit of emotion after asking her “Do you still have feelings for me?” and saying “I love you” at least 30 times. Of course, each time I said “I love you so much,” she replied with, “No, you don’t.” The outward denial was obviously a facade, but I’m drawing that conclusion from a number of outstanding factors I took note of during our conversation. If my curiosity wasn’t habitual at this point—to the point of at which I excessively note things—I probably wouldn’t have conceived anything hopeful from that fiasco of a discussion.
I keep any conclusion I’ve drawn at arms length near the body of my human tendency to err, naturally. I can’t say I’m above what wishful thinking has to offer the a posteriori.
It doesn’t appear that she’s gone for good because history has taught me better. What I can say, however, is that I’ve made a fool out of myself by succumbing to love, that I didn’t mean to embarrass or hurt the girl at any point, that alcohol his one hell of a substance, and most of all, that intelligence is skin-deep, vulnerable to wounds, and should be managed as such—if it isn’t, you find yourself confined to inspection-induced pretentiousness, which is always a bad thing; too much pride is a bitch, in other words.
Fuck!
Original Post: “Troubled Champion,” The Brain of the Unintelligent