Ampliatio (am’-pli-a’-ti-o): Using the name of something or someone before it has obtained that name or after the reason for that name has ceased. A form of epitheton.
“Champ.” It pissed me off when people called me “Champ.” These were people I went to high school with 20 years ago. I never left town and I never will. I’ve been folding pizza boxes at Palermo Pizza since 2005. It was my part time job during high school and Sal kept me on full time after I graduated. I sat at a little table folding boxes. When the pile got 2 feet high, I carried them to the back and stacked them up.
When I was in high school I was the state champion wrestler all four years, and one year, I won the nationals. The trophy still sits in a showcase outside the gym. I was so good at wrestling because I have severe Dermaslide. My Dermaslide is an extremely oily skin condition. It enabled me to wiggle out of any hold my opponents could put me in. Numerous complaints were registered against me because of my skin condition. The complaints were dismissed because Dermanslide is a natural condition, like the size of your feet or the color of your eyes and can’t be used as grounds for discrimination. It was a landmark case. I went on Tv a couple of times and illustrated my “Slippery Wiggle.” More people watched the episode of the “The Tonight Show” when I wrestled Jay Leno than in the history of the show. I was famous for about a week. That’s when everybody started calling me Champ. But now, in 2025, it doesn’t fit any more.
When somebody calls me “Champ,” I get a heavy feeling in my stomach and I almost start crying. It reminds me that I’m a has-been, doomed to fold pizza boxes until I die in my little corner of Palermo Pizza. I go home at night smelling like tomato paste and mozzarella, have my free pizza for dinner with cheap Chianti, and go to bed. But that was about to change.
When I showed up for work a little while ago, Sal excitedly told me he had been contacted about placing an employee in the “The World Championship Pizza Box Folding Competition” in Naples, Italy. Sal’s brother Anthony who was “connected,” got us the slot after one of his “clients” on the Championship Board became “so inclined” to invite us. He had called us from his hospital bed.
I started training immediately. My skin condition would be an advantage—I could slide my thumb and index finger down a box’s crease lightening fast, lubricate a tab, and slide it into its slot almost invisibly!
I arrived in Naples the day of the competition, still a little jet lagged. Each competitor had to fold five boxes and carry them to a table across the stage. I was proudly wearing my Palermo Pizza t-shirt and was feeling great. It was like my old wrestling days again. Maybe I could earn the title of “Champ” once more.
Finally, I was called out of the green room and took my position on stage, sitting at the table with five flat pizza boxes. The whistle blew, and I started folding—folding like a God of tabs and slots and creases. My hands were a blur. I finished folding. The crowd went silent. I ran with my five boxes to the table at the other side of the stage, set them down and raised my arms, clasping my hands. The crowd went wild, cheering for ten minutes before I left the stage. It didn’t take the judges long to unanimously declare me “World Champion Pizza Box Folder.” I was a Champ again!
When I got back to Palermo Pizza Sal had installed a throne for me to sit on while I folded pizza boxes. He had a crown made out of a pizza box that I wore, and the trophy was parked in the pizzeria’s front window. Although the boxes had nothing to do with the quality of Sal’s pizza, nobody thought about that. Sal’s business grew. I started a sideline having patrons’ pictures taken with “Champ,” the pizza box king, on his throne. I charged $25 per picture without my autograph, and $50 with my autograph. I had a website too.
I bought a Cadillac and went to the track with Sal every Saturday. We were riding high. Between the track and selling pictures, I was becoming wealthy. I was a real champ again. I thought maybe I could meet a woman and get married. I heard there were a lot of beautiful women in Slovenia who didn’t care what kind of person you were as long as you’re American and have a lot of money. So, I took off for Slovenia.
When I got to Ljubljana Airport, after going through customs and passport control, when I emerged I saw the concourse was jammed with beautiful women holding signs reading things like “I love you now,” “Let’s have a date,” “I went to art school,” “I know Melania.”
I pushed through the crowd and boarded a cab. When I got to my hotel, it was just like the airport. When I got to my room there was a catalogue by my bed. It had hundreds of pictures of beautiful women with contact information. I opened the catalogue randomly and put my finger down. Her name was “Ema.” We got married in my hotel room two days later.
We’ve been back in the US for a year now. Ema is pregnant with twins, and I am exceedingly grateful.
Just call me “Champ!”
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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