Why are great men always so short?

I WOULD TRUST ROCKY NATALE with my life, my fortune, and my sacred honor. Other than that I got no time for the guy.

He enjoys busting my balls too much. And the day he stops doing that is the day I'll worry.

Rocky Natale, my friend, is almost too Rocky to be true. A native son of South Philadelphia, born before the legend of Marciano, or Balboa, he fits his nickname like a dictionary definition: "ROCKY -- tough guy with a heart of gold; muscular, Italian-American, dark curly hair." Add to that description "ham-sized right arm biceps tattooed with 'Big Red 1' insignia. Vietnam. 1969."

In my life's journey, through no fault of his own, Rocky Natale has emerged as one of my heroes. I expect he's a hero to many people who Rocky looks up to. And by that I don't mean out of respect. I mean "looks up to" because Rocky is not a tall man. To call Rocky short is to call Italy boot-shaped.

But let's not deal in stereotypes.

"So this cannibal walks into a cannibal restaurant . ." (this is me trying to tell an ice-breaking ethnic joke to my hero Rocky's family members during his retirement party Friday night in Grays Ferry). . . "The menu reads, 'Boiled Irishman: $2.50, Sauteed Frenchman: $3.50. Marinated Italian: $11.50.' The cannibal calls over the waiter, 'Boiled Irishman two-fifty! Sauteed Frenchman, three-fifty! Marinated Italian. . . ELEVEN dollars and FIFTY cents.!' What's up with that?"

With great dignity, the cannibal waiter says, "Sir, have you ever tried to CLEAN an Italian?"

Rocky's people laugh and give me high fives. Clearly, they've cleaned Italians, not to mention the clocks of a few non-Italians, ifyaknowwhadImean? In the 1950's and '60's, Rocky grew up a greaseball among shamrocks in an Irish neighborhood in South Philly. His spirit, brawn and size made him ideal to crawl into Viet Cong tunnels alone with a flashlight. On the night Rocky slipped home from Vietnam an American soldier flipped out and blew the head off another American soldier sitting next to Rocky in the mess hall.

Try making sense of that forever image earned by coming home from a foreign war. But what Rocky refused to lose in Vietnam or South Philly or in 60 years of living on planet earth is the remarkable engine of human decency that beats like a bass drum inside his chest. He's almost too Rocky to be real. And he actually does say "Yo!"

But don't tell him I told you so.