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Little Elliott was six years old. He couldn’t drive or spend money or even cook for himself, but these temporary restrictions didn’t bother him. He understood that as long as he showed up, worked hard and followed the rules, all the privileges of adulthood would eventually be bestowed upon him.
This exact thought wasn’t at the front of his mind at the moment. On the YMCA basketball court a few hours into his first day of summer camp, Elliott tried desperately to remember how to play basketball. He’d played other games before like dodgeball, four square and even H-O-R-S-E but, in this very moment, he realized he’d never physically played an actual game of basketball.
Everyone in his family was an incredible athlete. His parents, his cousins, even his goofy Uncle Gordy were physically gifted. When he visited his cousins’ house, there was a seemingly endless array of championship posters, bobble-heads and game-winning balls; all the typical signifiers of a formidable sports dynasty.
But as Elliott struggled to keep up with other kids on the court, things just didn’t seem to click. He was smaller than the other boys and less coordinated too. When the ball sometimes found its way into his hands, he choked. Basketball seemed a lot easier when playing it on Sega.
It’s my first day, he thought. I’m sure by the end of the week I’ll be caught up to everyone else.
He wasn’t. And after the second and third weeks, things hadn’t gotten any better either.
Elliott’s dad had the day off work that third Friday and picked Elliott up from the YMCA himself. Elliott got in the car, red-faced, fists clenched and silent.
“Is something wrong?” his dad asked.
“Everyone else in our family is great at sports. But I suck!”
“Where’d you get that idea?”
“I can’t even play basketball! I’m terrible!”
“No… I mean, who told you we’re good at sports?”
“What? Everyone knows. We’re all great at sports. We’re all great at basketball.”
“I think you’re confused. We’re all great at watching sports. Not playing.”
“That’s not true!” Elliott protested.
“Elliott, I’m 5’5. And we’re white.”
“I’ve seen you play basketball before.”
“You’ve seen me shoot hoops in our driveway. You’ve never seen me play against anyone else. Because I don’t. Because I’m awful.”
“But what about golf? I know you play golf.”
“You’ve never seen me play golf. I’m awful at that too.”
The horrible truth became crystal clear.
“So… we’re all losers.”
“No, no. Don’t say that. Everyone is great at something. I’m a whiz with math. That’s why I’m a great accountant. Your mom has a knack for making plants grow. So she’s a great gardener.”
Elliott didn’t quite follow. In all of his life he’d never heard anyone speak passionately about gardening or math.
“And what about Uncle Gordy? He’s not a loser either?”
“Well, sure,” Elliott’s dad conceded. “But we’re only related to him by marriage!”
Elliott began to cry. From what he’d observed throughout his entire six years on Earth, the only thing anyone really seemed to care about was sports. And if you weren’t good at sports, you were a loser.
“Actually, now that I think of it, Uncle Gordy is a great, great talker. He can talk almost anyone in or out of anything. He’s talked himself out of so many drunk driving arrests, you’d think he’d have a trophy for it,” Elliott’s dad explained with newfound certitude. “So like I said. Everyone is great at something. And when you find out what that is, whether it’s math or gardening or sweet-talking cops, you just keep doing that, especially if people are willing to pay you for it.”
Elliott was at that age where boys still see their fathers as all-knowing superhumans. What his dad had explained to him in this particular moment, however, seemed dumb. For the first time in his life, it occurred to little Elliott that some of the lessons adults had been feeding him might be complete horseshit. Nevertheless, he wanted to believe.
Elliott continued to try other sports, thinking maybe there was one in there somewhere where there was a benefit to being tiny and uncoordinated. No luck. He went to school and was somewhat more successful in his academic pursuits. While he was competent at math, science and history, at the end of the day, he was a B+ student at best. He tried out for the quick recall and debate teams, but was stuck as an alternate. Elliott turned to music and art, and although his teachers were encouraging, his output garnered little outside praise.
Unable to concede defeat, Elliott turned his attention back to sports. Why not go back to the thing that people actually care about, he thought, and do whatever it takes to succeed? At this point, Elliott was halfway through high school, puberty had kicked in and while he wasn’t exactly Hercules, he had caught up to many of his schoolmates in size and strength. Having already missed the boat when it came to traditional routes of athletic accomplishment, Elliott needed to be more strategic in his new path. Instead of the obvious choices, why not pick something obscure enough that he might have a fighting chance?
Elliott combed through the internet for weeks before settling on what appeared to be his best shot — Lithuanian Finger Boxing, a little known offshoot of martial arts invented by rural Jews to defend their shtetls during World War II. And although it was no match for gun-wielding Nazis, in hand-to-hand combat it was also not very effective. After the Allied liberation, this obscure fighting style might have been relegated to the landfills of history had it not been featured in a pivotal scene from the classic 1958 war film, Legends Never Die. During its brief but intense resurgence, Lithuanian Finger Boxing managed to nab a spot in the Olympics, and while its practice greatly diminished from its peak in the early 60s, a few thousand fighters still competed around the world.
This is my ticket to the top. I just know it, Elliott thought to himself. The rules were fairly simple. No kicking, no closed fists and no eye-gouging. Everything else was fair game. Elliott found a gym in a nearby town and trained there every single day for a year, eventually becoming the number one fighter in the county. But who really cares about the title of #1 Lithuanian Finger Boxer in Northern Ohio, Elliott thought. It was a decent start, but not enough.
Elliott pleaded with his parents to let him drop out of high school so he could devote himself fully to his true calling, but they weren’t supportive. “We’re really proud of you,” his mother told him, “but you have to finish school, so you can go to college and then you’ll have so many options for a nice career.”
“Who knows,” his father added, “one day you could even become an accountant just like me!”
These clowns just didn’t get it.
At the next tournament Elliott competed in, an elderly man named Yitzhak Finkel introduced himself. Finkel, who immigrated to America with nothing but a gold tooth and a box of matzah, built the largest network of port-a-potty rental companies in the entire midwestern United States. His business acumen and choice of industry — one that most would have avoided — turned him into a billionaire. In old age, however, Yitzhak pondered his legacy and the rich heritage he had left behind in the old country.
“If Lithuanian Finger Boxing dies, the history of my people will die with it,” Yitzhak explained to Elliott that day. “History must be passed down from generation to generation from the old to the young or else it will be lost forever.”
Elliott remembered this conversation after his parents told him for the tenth time that there was no way they’d let him drop out of school. He picked up the phone and called Finkel with a proposal. “You sponsor me and I will do everything in my power to win the gold medal in Lithuanian Finger Boxing. Together we can bring the sport back to its former glory,” he explained.
Yitzhak was skeptical at first, but then thought of his own children. Amongst his two daughters and son, none of them had ever shown any interest in Lithuanian Finger Boxing. They preferred goat yoga and rock climbing; athletic endeavors with no connection to their past and no pathway to glory. Yitzhak agreed to a sponsorship, and Elliott had himself legally emancipated from his parents.
Elliott devoted himself to his fighting fulltime and rose up the ranks to become one of the top fighters in the country. Upon his selection to represent the United States in the Olympics, Elliott let his trainer go. “I’m sorry, Craig,” Elliott said coldly, “You’ve done an admirable job. But this is as far as I can go with you as my coach. It’s nothing personal.” Craig said he understood, but later went home and cried in front of his wife and children, who subsequently lost all respect for him.
While Craig was a humble man who held good sportsmanship in the highest regard, Elliott’s new coach, Yuri Geldov, was cut from a different cloth. Only winning mattered to him. After training six gold medalists in a row, he retired at the peak of his career.
Yitzhak tried to convince him to come back for months, but was turned down seven times. Eventually, the offer became so high, even he could not resist. Fiercely protective of his record, Yuri demanded that Elliott submit to an even more rigorous training regimen than before. Seventy hours a week, and no social distractions allowed.
The supercharged training seemed to go well, but Yuri was still nervous. He sat Elliott down for a chat one morning and handed him a small vial of liquid. “Amoxoline Tripethylate?” Elliott stammered. “Yuri, if I test positive for performance-enhancing drugs everything I’ve been working for will be ruined!”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Yuri replied with a smile. “It’s not performance-enhancing. So it’s not illegal.”
Yuri was telling the truth. Invented by a recently bankrupted pharmaceutical company in Zurich, Amoxoline Tripethylate was designed to cure acne, but turned out to be a complete dud. The drug trial was quickly canceled and its results swept under the rug. Few people outside the company knew of its existence, but one of Yuri’s cousins happened to be a chemist at the firm. There truly was nothing in this drug that would enhance one’s athletic ability.
“I ended my career with six gold medals in a row. Do you think I would come back only to see my record tarnished?” Yuri patiently explained.
“But why this?” Elliott asked.
“Do you want to win?”
“Yes.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Of course.”
“I leave nothing to chance. This is the surefire path to victory.”
The syringe plunged into Elliott’s arm. He hopped on a plane the next morning.
Upon arrival at the Olympic Village, Elliott didn’t notice anything different. He showed up to his first match and narrowly beat his opponent. Then the next. And the next. Each time he was victorious but just barely. Yuri gave Elliott the second dose, but nothing felt different. His abilities didn’t seem any greater than before.
After twelve matches, Elliott was exhausted and increasingly nervous about the last fight. His final opponent, Alexei Bemnatov was the most fearsome Lithuanian Finger Boxer alive, having struck one opponent so hard in the nose that his olfactory gland can now only process farts.
In the morning, Yuri administered the third and final injection. Elliott still hadn’t noticed any difference. Was he giving him a placebo and simply inferring that the drug had magic powers to induce some psychological effect? Was Yuri fooling himself? Was someone else fooling him? Elliott couldn’t tell. It was too late for him to do anything about it at this point anyway.
Elliott climbed into the ring. He stared Alexei in the face. And then it happened. First, just a twitch in his shoulders. Then a tightness in his shorts. Beads of sweat poured down Elliott’s face as he looked around the room. Did anyone else seem to notice? The bones in his body expanded in all different directions at once. His skin transformed into a sickening, scaly green. His eyes nearly bulged out of his skull. He looked like something out of a 1960’s creature feature.
DING!
Elliott and Alexei approached each other in the center of the ring. Elliott’s jaw lowered and he expelled a deafening “Grawwwwwwwww!!!!!!”
Alexei stood there helpless for a moment, before vomiting all over himself and collapsing back onto the mat. Yuri smiled. His record remained intact. The judges looked at each other in shock. Their hands were tied.
At the press conference immediately after, the reporters gathered to ask questions but struggled to make eye contact. Finally, the bravest amongst them stood up and addressed Elliott.
“You’re officially the greatest Lithuanian Finger Boxer in the world. But I have to ask, ‘Was it worth it?’”
Elliott took a moment to contemplate the question. He thought about everything he’d sacrificed and worked hard for in the pursuit of greatness. He thought about the people he’d abandoned along the way. Finally, he took a deep breath and offered the most articulate response he could muster:
“Grawwwwwwwww!!!!!!”
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