Whenever I tell people I like the "Rocky" movies, the assumption is that I am being ironic. I have never understood this logic: Why on earth would I claim to like something I actually hate? Where is the upside? The basic premise behind lying, as I have come to understand it, is creating a better version of yourself for mass consumption.

Liking the "Rocky" movies does not make me a better person: In these perilous times, un-ironically enjoying anything from the Stallone oeuvre actually makes you a worse person. If I wanted to lie about my own personal tastes in order to impress others, I'd claim to like a David Lynch movie or maintain that I understand the principles of Bo Ryan's swing offense. Because I am not a liar, I do not say these things. Instead, I just say I like "Rocky" movies.

More often than not, saying this gets me into hot water with people who simply do not understand the appeal of watching an Italian guy try and beat the hell out of a variety of increasingly terrifying challengers.

I actually have a story to tell which I think perfectly illustrates the social phenomenon I have termed "The Balboa Dyslexicon," the basic premise of which states that the world can be neatly divided up into two groups: people who like "Rocky" movies and those who do not.

This past week, I found myself in a situation where I was forced to explain my passion for the second most successful Pennsylvania-born boxer in history (the first of course being Sammy Angott, Washington, Pa., native and 1940 Lightweight Champion of the World). This situation came about when I was out to dinner recently with the friends and family of a female acquaintance. The evening was moderately uncomfortable, not least of all because it required me to wear a hound's-tooth blazer that, depending on who you ask, makes me look like Eric Stoltz in "Mr. Jealousy" or former Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara.

Eventually, the conversation boomerangs around to me. The natural progression of the dinner table conversation takes me by surprise, primarily because I have spent the last 30 minutes of the evening playing the movie "Cool Hand Luke" in my head. My friend's father — a man who looks and sounds exactly like George Plimpton in "Good Will Hunting" (he will later warn me about the dangers of shenanigans, tomfoolery and ballyhoo) — asks me which movies I am looking forward to seeing this fall.

I realize immediately I would be well served by simply lying to this man. I've always viewed myself as a populist, but there are certain situations where populism can simply be misconstrued as stupidity. This is one of those moments. It does not help that earlier in the evening he mentioned reading an article I wrote earlier in the year in which I devoted 1,500 words to explaining why Michael Mann's "Miami Vice" — a $150 million movie where nothing happens — is an "existential masterpiece," an argument that I would now characterize as "probably stupid."

There are so many non-offensive answers to this question. I could say "Volver," the new Pedro Almodovar movie that is being eagerly awaited by the people who will simply refer to the director as "Almodovar" (This is a phenomenon I have never truly understood). I even could have said "Blood Diamond," which is sure to start controversy not just about how the West exploits conflict diamonds for profit, but also about whether or not Leo DiCaprio's South African accent is worse than the one Tim Robbins work-shopped earlier this year in "Catch a Fire." These are both passable responses, and they would allow me to show my knowledge of the exploitation of the Common Market and Spanish filmmakers who specialize in whimsical stories about alcoholic, bisexual prostitutes.

Instead though, I blurt out the truth: "'Rocky Balboa.' I'm looking forward to 'Rocky Balboa.'" The table greets this with a kind of stunned look I'm unfortunately familiar with. I've only experienced this kind of silence once before, and that was in my sophomore year of high school when I told my mom that I drove my car into the garage door and then asked where we kept the duct tape.

Everyone at the table — from my friend's Plimpton-esque father to her three intimidatingly gorgeous sisters who remind me of every girl I know who attends the University of Virginia — is looking at me with a mixture of pity and bewilderment.

And at this moment, it hits me. Over the last 10 or so years, we've managed to convince ourselves that American society can be broken down into two easily digestible categories, depending on the problem we are facing. We've spent so much time talking about Republicans versus Democrats, Shaq versus Kobe, Wilco fans versus Radiohead fans, that we've forgotten perhaps the most important and potentially useful paradigm of modern thought — Rocky fans versus non-Rocky fans.

To the people who understand Rocky movies, the character of Rocky Balboa embodies the ultimate underdog appeal that we as Americans find so endearing. Here is a man who rose up out of the South Philly numbers racket to become heavyweight champion of the world and owner of a remote-control robot. The fact that we get to see Rocky come from nothing is what makes the series so powerful. He wasn't born with any special gifts, yet he is able to ascend through luck, hard work and determination.

These are the things that people who don't like "Rocky" can never really understand. Admittedly, there is a certain disconnect between Rocky's inherent vulnerability and the fact that Sly Stallone — probably the single most corrosive force on American movies during the 1980s — is the one playing this character. How could somebody like this embody a character that is synonymous with redemption and hope?

I don't really have an answer to that, but I still feel like it's important to try and figure out why "Rocky" matters to an entire generation in the way that Superman, Batman and James Bond never could.

What makes Rocky unique is that he is the underdog and probably always will be. No other superheroes have that on him. He is us, and we are him. How you feel about that is up to you. But I know which corner I'm going to be in.

Ray Gustini is a sophomore majoring in English and journalism. Are you with Rocky Balboa or against him? Let Ray know at [email protected].