Million Dollar Baby: Stories from the Corner

Million Dollar Baby: Stories from the Corner

F. X. Toole

Language: English

Pages: 256

ISBN: 006081926X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


This hard-hitting collection of powerful and moving tales based on the experiences of the late, great fight manager and cut man Jerry Boyd, who wrote under the pen name F.X. Toole, is the basis for the Oscar-winning motion picture starring Hilary Swank and Morgan Freeman. Breathing life into vivid, compelling characters who radiate the fierce intensity of the worlds they inhabit, Million Dollar Baby "is not just fight fiction at its finest, it is excellent fiction, period" (Dan Rather).

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broke down. Her lungs filled with fluid and had to be pumped out when pneumonia struck. There were blood clots in her legs and problems with hemoglobin. To induce a daily bowel movement, she was placed on her side and pressure was applied to her lower abdomen until her waste was pushed out of her. She was humiliated every day of her life. It was late afternoon. Frankie was sitting by her bed when she woke up. “You okay, darlin?” he asked. She was still groggy. “Well, you know, they got tubes

strutted over to Mookie’s corner. “That’s enough of this movin-movin,” he said. “Work, hear me?, or I’ll stop it.” “We workin,” said Odell. “He’s movin too much.” “Who say?” said Odell, challenging him. “I say,” said the ref. “You say th-th-they a r-r-rule h-he g-g-got to stand an’ get h-h-hit?” Con saw that Odell was ready to deck the ref. If he did, they’d lose the fight and Odell could be banned from boxing in most states, so Con jumped in the ref’s face. Besides, Mookie needed Odell

because he was a fighter. Said if he couldn’t live in America he’d choose South Africa. Said he take me there next time, make sure they be two tickets. No next time. Still good-looking, Hymn, too bad about his dead eye, but his weight still same as his fighting weight, 160 pounds. Hymn be bad. Now, Danger, he another thing. Beside being blood simple, boy have this big head on him and this big neck, head and neck like a heavyweight on this small body. He about five-six, five-seven and

passed through, traffic backed up and drivers cursed. Latino street vendors loved the train and did a brisk business with cursing drivers, selling chilled coconut meat, half flats of strawberries, ripe papayas, and slices of watermelon. Crossing Alameda, Puddin rode flat out the rest of the way to the gym. Just before noon, he swung into the driveway of the 150-by-250-foot bleached asphalt parking area going so fast that he almost collided with an exiting truck. Still at full speed, he crossed

three of his next four fights, the last two by KO. Worse than KO, the last one. He turned his back to his opponent, which is to quit, which means he’s gone dog, and now the ref has to stop it automatic. Once Ernie found out it ain’t no fun when the rabbit’s got the gun, he saw he wasn’t as good as he thought he was. He didn’t want to fight no more—it’s a common thing. The Italians don’t take his calls no more. And now the bank comes for the car. He’s hurting for money, but the only guys who want

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