Ask my mom and she’ll tell you. She’ll tell you how frustrated I get by the little blurbs that people write about their loved ones when they die. I am always sending her screen shots of the ridiculously bad sentiments that accompany death. I think it all started when that University of Utah female student was murdered by her boyfriend—a 37 yr old bouncer she had no business associating with—and her parents, two professors, wrote about her recent GPA and athletic accomplishments. Give me a break. Like any of that has to do with who that young woman was.

Making the matter worse, I have also been dreading the oncoming harvest of all the Hollywood stars that I have loved for the last thirty years. Even as I sit here and type near my beloved Steinway, I look up and see my poster (purchased and framed some twenty years ago in college when I didn’t have any budget for such things) of Neil and Vincent, from Heat. “A Tale of Crime and Obsession.”

But it was Rocky III and Top Gun that defined my childhood. Family legend goes that I broke our family’s VHS tape that had Rocky III recorded on it by rewinding it so much. That is the film that had Apollo as Rocky’s trainer, not nemesis. I probably should credit Rocky III with my ability to go where whites otherwise do not go—among blacks. And I have Apollo to thank for that.

The scene when they go to Apollo’s gym and see all the scary, serious looking black boxers surely scared me when I was young boy. But as I watched, I learned from Apollo that they just had the “eye of the tiger” and then I saw them crack up and loosen up when Apollo let them know he was there because of them, not to fight them. Lesson learned: when it’s time to get serious about boxing—go to the dirtiest, meanest gym possible.

An odd tribute is in many comments about Carl Weather’s death. “There is no tomorrow!” the famous and perfectly delivered line from the very same Rocky film is all over the web. Why? It’s a Freudian Slip, surely. Or it must be, to my mind. It’s inconceivable that anyone could think it applies to death. I am not motivated to try hard or train hard now that Apollo has died. Mr. Weathers’ death does not inspire, it saddens and depresses.

That stated, here is my official eulogy.

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Apollo Creed had the most perfect physique of any fighters in the Rocky Saga. He did not have the most perfect physique ever formed, and other men still hold the crown within their particular group (MJ is the most perfectly formed basketball player, for example). But when it came to casting a character to oppose Rocky, and then train Rocky, the casting was perfect.

When I watched the new Creed films, I kept thinking, “Are humans just smaller these days?” And, “Why is Michael B. Jordan being cast as if he is strong like Rocky and Apollo were?” Even the new Russian didn’t hold water compared to Apollo Creed, let alone Ivan Drago.

I have since watched Rocky III while trying to imagine that Mr. Weathers wasn’t Apollo Creed in an effort to determine what his size was in reality—you know, using background props and other actors and actresses he appeared next to to more accurately assess his size—but I have so far been unable to downsize him. Those shoulders, those traps, those arms, his chest, his six pack, and his back. His legs, and his hair and mustache—all simply iconic. Man, those shoulders!

How many pushups have I done while he trained me? How many situations have I not shy’d away from while he encouraged me? How many friendly faces, inside and outside of gyms, have I encountered because of Apollo Creed? The number, like his size, is immeasurable.

Apollo, you were always more, more than I thought possible in more ways than you would ever guess. You aren’t in my heart—you formed my heart. Thank you.