After reading previews for "Cinderella Man" something woke up inside me and decided to write this. Some of it is based on the Simon and Garfunkel song "The Boxer"
I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told. When I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy, Asking only workman's wages I come lookin' for a job, And the years are rollin' by me. Then I'm laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone, In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade,
I have squandered my resistance,
For a pocketful of mumbles, such are promises.
All lies and jest,
Still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.
In the company of strangers,
In the quiet of a railway station, runnin' scared.
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters,
Where the ragged people go.
Lookin' for the places, only they would know.
But I get no offers,
Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue.
I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome,
I took some comfort there.
They are rockin' evenly.
I am older than I once was, and younger than I'll be.
That's not unusual.
It isn't strange,
After changes upon changes, we are more or less the same.
After changes, we are more or less the same.
Going home, where the New York City winters aren't bleedin' me.
Leadin' me, to goin' home.
And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down,
Or cut him 'til he cried out in his anger and his shame,
"I am leaving, I am leaving."
But the fighter still remains.
Joe dumped the day's mail on the table, flipping a letter at Jim. "Looks like it's personal." He said indifferently.
Jim opened the letter, unfolding the slip of paper that looked like it had been taken carefully from some student's copybook.
Dear Mr. Braddock,
The letter began, in the childish hand of a girl not quite matured to womanhood, the letters proud and strong but still lacking the finesse of a woman's developed curves.
I suppose you get letters like this all the time from your fans, and you probably won't read this any way, but I wanted to write you to thank you.
My father's a big fan of yours, and he used to take me to see all your fights when I was little. He'd hold me on his shoulders above the crowd and say, " Angie, watch him. He knows what he's fighting far. Look how he never gives up. And I'll never forget it- your face, a cut on your cheek streaming blood, the sweat on your forehead catching the lights above the ring. You had this look in your eyes, a determined look, a look that told me you were the kind of man who never gave up. "Never give up, Angie," My father would say, "Never stop fighting."
My father lost his job and his foot in an accident at the factory where he worked a year or so ago, and money's pretty thin at our house, so he doesn't go to the fights as often as he used to. But at least once everyday he tells me "Never give up, Angie, never stop fighting. So thank you, Mr. Braddock, for giving my father and I a glimpse of what courage is like.
Sincerely,
Angie O'Connell
Jim sat for a while, the letter in his hands, wondering what he could do for the O'Connells.
"Hey, Joe, can you get me two press passes for my next fight?"
His manager looked oddly at him. "What for?"
"I'm giving someone a second chance." Jim replied. Joe shrugged, and went for the tickets, coming back and setting them down on the table. Jim reached for a sheet of paper and an envelope, and flipping the already opened on over, copied down the return address.
Then he began to compose his letter.
"Dear Miss O'Connell…"
After the fight, Jim took the towel and wrapped it around his neck after wiping his face, searching the crowds. Then he saw what he was looking for- a girl, about fifteen, leading her father through the crowds. He was a giant of a man who Jim could see from here walked with a limp, and though she wasn't much smaller than the rest of the crowd, she seemed to struggle a little, her face a mask of perseverance. But when she saw the boxer, her face lit up in a smile, and she let go of something to wave.
Once the two had made their way to where Jim was sitting, he saw it- the metallic sparkle of leg braces. Angie had polio.
Jim nearly cried, watching that girl hobble over to him, her legs assisted by two canes. Here was a girl, suffering in her childhood as no child should suffer, and never once in her letter had she ever mentioned her pain.
Her father took off his cap, the faded, threadbare cloth twisting easily in his huge hand, laying the other hand on his daughter's shoulder.
After stuffing the cap in the pocket of his wellworn workcoat, he shook hands with Jim, and the boxer could feel the grip of a laborer, a man who has earned his life's bread by his own sweat and toil, in his calloused hand.
"thank you for letting us come tonight, Mr. Braddock." Mr. O'Connell said, a trace of an Irish brogue in his voice.
"My pleasure. I used to take my boys to the fights all the time, before my wife made me stop, and I know what it feels like to not be able to give your children something special once in a while."
Angie's father seemed a little embarrassed, but his daughter hugged him, and he patted her shoulder with a smile.
"Angie here used to come to all the fights with me when she was a wee one." Mr. O'Connell said, holding her close to him. "We always said she had a voice for yelling in this ruckus."
Jim laughed. "So, Angie, how did you like the fight?"
Angie smiled broadly. "Oh, I liked it fine, Mr. Braddock. You never gave up, like you always do."
"Would you like to see the rest of the ring? I'm sure Mr. Gould would be happy to give you a tour." He glanced at his manager, who had a funny look in his eyes, which quickly went away as Angie glanced at him and morphed into a smile.
"Thanks, Mr. Braddock, that'd be swell!" She hobbled off to Joe, who introduced himself and lead her away.
Mr. O'Connell looked fondly after his daughter. "You know, when she was born, things really started looking up for my wife and I. That's why we named her Angeline. She's our little angel."
Jim looked thoughtfully after the teenager, peering intently at whatever it was his manager was describing, her leg braces dull in the cold light. "She is an angel, Mr. O'Connell. You should be very proud of her." He took a deep breath, the thought of a tear in his eye. "She's an example of courage for us all."
This is not a true story.
While thousands of children across the nation were stricken with polio at this time in history (or a little later) Angie is a fictional character.
There is no documentation that Mr. Braddock ever did such a thing, though if he did, there is some little soul in heaven thankful for it.
I created Angie to teach us all a few lessons. No matter how bad things get, there's probably someone somewhere else who has it worse. Count your blessings, meager though they sometimes are. Big courage comes in small packages.
And most importantly, never stop fighting.
In the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade,
And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down,
Or cut him 'til he cried out in his anger and his shame,
"I am leaving, I am leaving."
But the fighter still remains.